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running-with-kn1ves · 21 days ago

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⋆˙⟡Webbed Infatuation⟡˙⋆

A/N: My submission for monstermag summer '25! I encourage yall to submit soon!

Summary: On a summer abroad trip in Italy, you find yourself getting flustered by your happy-go-lucky program guide. Little do you know, he's hiding more than just his feelings for you.

Warnings: Mercreature transformation, scratching, needy merboy

Your eyes melted at the sight of the computer screen before you. Again, you had stayed up far too late scrolling in the dark. Pinterest, TripAdvisor, pricey travel agents-- your retinas aching while looking at pictures of avant-garde French cities and Greek coastal villages.

It was all so enchanting, so foreign from the urban, dead-end life you were beginning to loathe. You had fantasized so often of an escape that it was beginning to grow into an obsessive form in every area of your life. That night you dreamt of opaline cathedrals and tasting hand-crafted delicacies, a faux afternoon of pure self-indulgent bliss.

It was only a matter of time until you caved, taking the leap and signing up for a summer exchange program with a private university in Italy. Maybe it was a cliché destination to choose as a university student with no future financial plan and far too little self preservation; but nothing was as enticing as the crystal blue skies of Milan and a suave Italian accent that whipped you into butter.

When you finally landed in the sweltering, overcrowded airport, you were quick to latch on to other students and your program’s native guides. Amongst bumbling foreigners like yourself were the sunny, pearly-toothed Italians who had the boldness and vocal cords necessary to lead you through seas of tourists. Before you could find someone to clutch at for safety in the winding streets, someone had already latched onto you.

He was a peculiarly handsy guide who called himself Amadeo, kissing you on both cheeks and pulling you with an arm around your shoulder. He was rumored to be studying a masters in architecture at your host university, not that it mattered. He rarely answered any questions about the school or its courses, instead opting to finger feed you sweets and steal your wrist to lay an entwined bracelet upon it.

If he wasn't leading you to new horizons he was trailing close behind, berating locals who had no problem ripping you off, swindling shop owners who seemed to melt after he said something along the lines of “l'amore della mi vita,” with a quick kiss pressed to your cheek. If you didn't know any better, you might've thought he was flirting with you. But the not-so-subtle sensuality of Italians that you'd seen in dozens of young, loitering couples made you doubt any genuine romantic affection. For heaven's sake he kissed everyone on the cheek, often bumping shoulders with other students; it was in his nature to be a flirt. Why would his hand snaking to interlock with yours mean anything?

It all seemed so cut and dry, even if you laid at night pressing your fingertips to where his soft lips once kissed, fumbling with the keychain of an Italian flag he bought you. So, you ignored the beating of your heart, letting him string you along another field trip for the weekend, even with your gut telling you to turn around and crawl back home.

A small town of limestone resting on the breast of the ocean was your main source of exploration this time, Amadeo’s soft, tanned hands pulling at yours from rocky beaches to wineries. He was noticeably more eager in the past evening than normal for him, capricious in his decisions and erratic tugs at you. There was a nervous look as he watched the sea, almost as a child would appear when gazing from afar at the deep end of a pool.

Amadeo arranged for your group to stay in a local inn, the inside just as dingy as you'd witnessed from the outside. But your guide promised it'd be worth it, that it had the best view of a shiny canal opening to the Adriatic, propped against the west of the inn’s cracking bricks. Like a fool, you yielded to trust him, smitten by his smile and silly auburn glasses that made his ocean eyes sparkle.

While your fellow exchange students shared rooms with balconies adorned by woven flower baskets, you stayed on the tiny bottom floor with Amadeo, your low beds right next to a floor-to-ceiling open gap that was once a window, measly pale curtains protecting you from a ledge leading to the bottomless water. Even with bright shops sparkling from across the canal, the unlit areas of dark green sea were deep with lurking creatures, occasional blips flicking up to create torn ripples.

Amadeo had gone quiet once the lights were shut out, not a word released from him as the innkeepers and students went off to their rooms. The small town quieted besides for gentle laps of water against stone. A part of you wished you could ask him what was wrong, why he spent the entirety of dinner locked in your shared room watching the canal with a foreboding gaze, distancing himself.

Even with your body exhausted and the thick clog of salt and sea up your nostrils, your heart fluttered at being in a place you once only saw in your dreams. The day’s long hours of walking in the summer sun with only acquacotta and gelato filling your stomach left you craving for sleep. Slowly, concern for Amadeo drifted into pleasant dreams of him, his blurring body curled away from you in a quivering hunch.

Your sleep only lasted what seemed a few minutes, an abrupt sound causing you to stir. The open space between you and the canal was almost frightening, a silver moon bouncing off of old family photos laying the walls, dim picture frames and polaroids of the Amalfi coast. The only thing that familiarized you was Amadeo, watching over you.

“...deo?” You muttered, your voice cracked and dry. The arid night left your throat parched.

“Shh, cuore mio. Sleep.” He hushed, seemingly out of breath as beads of sweat trickled down his neck.

Your legs were scrunched up, held still by him as he sat at the edge of your small twin-sized mattress, squeaky from a rusty bed frame.

“What time’s it?” You mumbled, delirious and looking for your phone in a mess of faded bedsheets.

Amadeo grabbed your forearm, gently brushing his fingers down it at a jagged pace. He held your limp wrist with a tender squeeze, trying to affirm and control it.

“Just rest, my love. Ignore it.”

His whine held a touch of needy desperation as you squirmed. With a free hand Amadeo rubbed at your knee, massaging it with a roughness that made it seem like he was ready to pry apart your leg. He was quick to make a trail from your outer thigh to beneath your pajama shorts, where the cotton’s end met your flesh. His hands were warm, almost sweaty in their attempts to caress your skin.

“What’s the matter, huh?” You try to fight sleep, knowing something must be wrong if he dared to come and harass you in the middle of the night. If it weren’t for the exhaustion of your endeavors only a few hours ago, you might’ve even been flustered at the way he touched you. “Can’t sleep?”

“Could say that,” He teases, huffing as he presses kisses to your knee. “Not without you, bellissima. Not here anymore.”

An array of small, devotion-like kisses fall from his pouty lips, decorating from the tops of your knees down to the middle of your thighs.

Slowly the wetness of his tongue, like that of a slick eel, began to wake you up. A perspiring grope at your thigh made you flinch, your foot pressed at his abdomen as a warning.

“Wasting your time, darling,” He smiles, still hunched against your right leg laying in his grasp. Your sleepy lips turned into a taught, worried frown, scanning over the bright moonlight that once shone sweetly on his opal-white, slightly crooked teeth, instead now illuminating needle-like razors. They almost seemed painful in his gums, thick as bone in his stretched mouth.

The horror reached your eyes before it could escape your parting lips, a webbed, sickly green-grey hand slipping over your mouth.

“Shh, hush now,” He whispered, sibilant and harsh. “tu sei speciale, it's okay, you’re with me.”

A dark tongue left his mouth, a hint of purple running over his teeth that appeared sharp enough to pull the skin from your muscle. What had happened to him? Was this all part of some wicked dream induced by your fatigue?

“Ama..eo….p..ease,” Your voice was muffled beneath his wettening hand, his skin covered in a thin layer of moistness that seemed to transform him into something inhuman. Slits of skin carved in the sides of his throat, widening with each pant that left his mouth.

Amadeo’s body had slowly become gaunt and long, collarbones jutting out as his thin cotton shirt pooled around him. The soft green of his eyes transformed into a murky color that lightened as he let out a hiss of a laugh. Slowly, his damp lips came down to kiss your navel, putting the entirety of his newfound weight on the lower half of your body.

“Divine… So divine all for me,” the hand covering your mouth scratched at your cheek in time with your jaw’s frightful flinch. Brittle nails drew a stinging pain as his hand flung away, the sight of blood shocking even Amadeo.

His ease has disappeared as he brought the back of his webbed fingers to graze the four scratches, almost tearing up at the sight. If you had thought he was unpredictable before, his temperament had gotten a world of a lot worse.

“È colpa mia, no no,” He wiped the blood away, licking it from his knuckles before coming to clean the rest of your scratch. “I’m sorry, I promise, it will be fine.”

He seemed to forget his knowledge of English, babbling in broken Italian and heaving as he grasped at your clothes, kissing up your stomach in repentance.

“What’s wrong with you?” You ask, fear laden in your voice as the burn from your cut started to rise, slower than the blood had. “Amadeo please! Are-- are you sick?”

You were no longer hazy with sleep now; something was very, very wrong here. Even the slapping waves of the once still canal thought so, pounding against the stone inn.

“This is what I am,” He grunted, digging beneath your shirt like a child throwing a tantrum, tightening it over his head. “It’s what I always do! But I can’t leave without you, even if you are hurt.” He mumbles, now raspy beneath your shirt as the slick of his skin and tears soak into your stomach.

Was it right to push him away, as your mind had told you to do, or should you pull him close in a sympathetic embrace? He seemed untouchable in the sun, grabbing your chin and nuzzling your cheek each time you met for a new adventure, leading you by the hand to teach the rich history of seafaring towns and rustic cities. But this…. You didn’t know this distraught, monstrous man; maybe you never really knew him at all.

“What….are you?” You look at his slippery feet, something akin to a vast fish’s tail grazing at his tailbone. His sharp hands dug into the flesh of your stomach, holding it against his cold face. “You’re not…”

“You hear of Colapesce legend? Il monstro delle acque nere, the sea snake?” Your guide unleashes his claws into your hips, like a cat preventing its prey from squirming. “Sirena Leucasia may be more famous for your Hollywood movies.”

“I have no idea what those words mean. Please, just let me take you to a hospital--”

“No!” He huffs, slinking off of you in a slippery fashion. Amadeo tries to pull you toward the edge of the bed by the wrist. “No doctors. Just… maybe I will show you.”

His accent grew thicker, the words almost garbled in his mouth as he hunched forward, beckoning you to come off the bed with him. Round glasses once pushed against his nose sat broken on the floor beside your slippers, the lenses cracked and wet.

“Come, I promise you will be safe,” His weary smile was frightening, the poorly disguised deception hidden by a cold kiss to your knuckles. “Come, come.”

You stumble out of the creaking bed, following him more out of pity as he skitters towards the open ledge meant for sea gazing. The curtains were billowing roughly towards you, salty wind airing the room in a nauseating flutter. With small steps you observe his tail dragging against the ground. It appeared to grow heavier with each movement, walking becoming impossible for him as he practically crawled.

“Follow, you see, vita mia.” He murmured, ushering you forward with a webbed hand. His fingers shook, growing bluer with each fingertip.

“After this, we’ll go to the hospital, okay Amadeo?” You looked at him, weary of the gleam in his eyes. “Right?”

“Yes, yes,” He sputtered too quickly, pulling you onto the stone ledge of the canal. The once safe, emerald water had turned an impossible black. Only a few street lights and a passing boat made Amadeo’s sickly face visible.

His smile was so wide, delusional in its giddiness as he held both of your hands in his. He stepped closer to the water, only a foot away as he didn’t dare to look back.

You had followed to pityingly entertain him; perhaps a breath of fresh air would do some good for whatever illness he had concurred. But somewhere along the sight of his animalistic grin, the nail marks digging into your skin, it dawned that your naivety had gotten the best of you.

“Ama…” His hands found your elbows, digging viscous fingers into them to drag you into his chest. He had no need to take another step, your weight and the slip of your feet providing all the power necessary to fall splashless into the canal.

A short shriek fell from your lips before you were submerged into warm, cloudy water. The tips of something slimy touched the bottom of your foot, causing you to thrash about in Amadeo's arms.

You desperately opened your eyes, ignoring the sting behind your eyelids as bleak water blinded your vision. Amadeos’ body shone like a twinkling, scaly blue hue. What looked dulled and grey on land was reflecting the minimal light shining in the canal, his skin covered in thick, silvery sapphire scales, occasionally broken by the tan human skin he once wore. That evening his sweat was a sweet scent of summery orange blossom that you once shyly inhaled. Now, water overflowed in your nose and lungs, brined dirt coating the back of your throat as Amadeo clutched you in his arms. The stench of fish and seaweed became suffocating.

‘Cuoricino’ he mouthed, wiping at the scratches left on your cheek in an unfitting tenderness. His distress had become a gentle, benevolent smile, still haunted by the features of a wild creature. The intense gag of salted water down your throat had turned your broken screams soundless, shivering at the sensation of a slippery tail making its way around your legs.

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theactofknowing · 7 months ago

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take a shot for me

You and Jayce Talis are friends �� good friends, even — and it’s no surprise for the two of you to be found drinking. You’re young, free from the shackles of true responsibility, and the bar is the perfect place to go.

What does surprise you, however it came to be, is what falls into your hands when you invite him into your apartment after a night out.

tags: smut, mutual pining, AU!modern setting but it’s not explicitly stated, sub!jayce, WHO SAID THAT(!!!), loss of virginity because HELLO JAYCE ARCANE. NOT beta read. forgive me

wc: 4.5k

Golden eyes — happy sun-yellow, warm and bubbling companionably with tipsy indulgence — meet yours.

Your gaze falters for a moment as you take him in; the unsteady lean against the bar which he tries to play off as a suave stance, the slight shine on his lips from his drink.

“You’re such a lightweight,” Jayce says, small smile curling his lips — which are only slightly asymmetrical, you’ve stared at them often enough to recognize it.

The recognition you have has been built over the past months. Two academy students; oriented together in the same lectures seats apart, till the courses increased and the distance dimmed, sat side-by-side.

Your connection had grown in the class setting, though it thrived outside of it— blooming like a flower exposed to the sun. Conversations started with work, class, then shifted into something more boisterous, entertaining, to nights in the bar more than was healthy.

“Bull,” you retort, making move to stand from your chair. You’d meant to leave ages ago, when you saw how depressing the bar life had been. It was a weekday, and you and Jayce were mixed along with divorced singles and depressed fathers. Jayce’s company, however, kept you idle.

He’s kind enough to not mention your slight sway when you rise from your seat. You pull your coat on, closing it under your chin, and he does the same.

“Take me home,” you say, joke lacing your tone, and he complies. He holds his arm out for you to grasp onto, which you gratefully take as he leads the two of you into the chilly night.

“Do we have a drinking problem?” You ask, recalling your frequency at the bar. You pull yourself closer to his side, leeching the warm heat that emulated from him as easy as breathing.

The night streets are dimmed, shrouding the intricate architecture and well-loved streets from your eyes. It meant little, not when the both of you knew the way like muscle memory. Your feet carry you easily, shuffling softly against the streets.

In the dark, you can’t see his features when he turns to look at you, making his voice more clear in the position. “Maybe you do,” he says, and you know he has a smug look on his face, one eyebrow raised — the right one, with the knick in it. Part of you wishes to see it.

You scoff, playfully swatting his padded arm as you accuse him of being beside you all those drunken nights. Youthful laughter echoes through the street, quieting down as you turn once, twice onto your street.

He departs from you, keeping an eye as you reach your apartment door. You stand there silently for a moment, contemplating, then turn towards him. You know you must look odd, fondling the doorknob and standing still like you don’t know how to open your door.

“Do you want to come in?” You ask, surprising yourself with the question as you do. You aren’t sure what your intentions are; helping a friend get out of the climate, or help him take his pants off. Either would be fine.

Fortunately the weather has long turned cold, winter swirling around the corner, and the wind is the perfect explanation for the heat in your cheeks — just nipped numb and warm from the weather, nothing more.

His brows raise in surprise, like he isn’t sure either of your intent either. “Yeah, yes.”He nods quickly, taking a moment to bury his face in his coat as you turn away.

Your home is dark, quiet, with midnight-moon light painting a cool glow over the belongings within. Flicking on one light, a lamp near the couch, you move with a one-track mind.

Shucking off your coat, then hobbling over to rip your shoes off, which Jayce laughs at when you stumble, though he denies this. You ask yourself why you invited him in as you move about, though you aren’t opposed to the idea — you enjoy his company, his refreshing intelligence, the kindness he possessed to do good and share it.

You plop yourself on the couch, your lack of full sobriety existing as a slight tingle behind your eyes, giving you the kick you need. “Come hither,” you joke, motioning with your finger as you rest your head against one cushion.

Jayce has been in your home often enough to recognize where his belongings go, how you want him to kick his shoes off at the door, before moving to join you. He laughs quietly and sits down next to you, eyes swimming with subdued mirth.

It’s comfortable, sitting together and letting companionable silence come and go like the wind. Easy conversation flows between you, speaking on projects and things processed in the academy, papers to be done and stamped.

Eventually, your mind starts to wander. His voice fades into the background, a warm sound that reminds you of blankets and drinks together, although it means little in the moment.

Openly, you watch his lips. You wonder if they’re soft, if you can taste the drink on his breath and lick the remnants from his mouth. Typically you’d reel these thoughts in, slap a big shame sticker atop them, though you have little care in your happy state.

You begin to scoot closer, inch by inch. Jayce doesn’t notice till he does, eyebrows silently furrowed as he tries to deduce if you’ve moved closer, or if he’s had too much to drink.

You’re not quite sure what your plan is, what your means are. Distracted by the premise of your feelings, Jayce could ask you if you were an idiot, and in your otherworldly state you’d probably say yeah, sure, without processing the question.

One inch, then another, and you’re sat beside him. You can feel his legs shift beside you, always having to move, to fidget. He’s long been quiet, watching you with open curiosity and, perhaps wariness, as you gaze upon him.

Your head comes to rest upon his shoulders, and you know the angle looks good on you — coy smile pulling at your lips, long lashes fluttering around your open, speaking eyes — and he stares at you in surprise.

Slipping slowly, your hand trails up his bicep — you’re unsure what your plan is, but it feels good to exist here, here in the moment, and maybe your past self was wrong for withholding you — and settles on the curve of his chest.

There’s a clear shift in the means of his visit by now, and he’s caught on. He’s watching, waiting expectantly, seeing if this is a prank or something more, something real and curling around his heart.

Yellow eyes turned sunset-sky dark, overshadowed by the slight of his dilated pupils, watch you. There’s a question lingering in his open eyes, one of uncertainty and for the knowledge of more.

“Jayce,” you sigh, unable to articulate your want and your certainty through nothing more than a whisper. Your hands are at his chest — not quite pawing at the softness like you’d like — fingers drawing impatient lines.

A breath, two, then you will yourself to move in. You feel air pass between you, still shifting into electric sparks as your lips near one another. You can envision the curve of his lips as your lids shut, how it’ll feel licking into his mouth. Just before they do, Jayce stops you.

“I’m…” his voice is low, face pinched in a grimace. “I’ve never, I’m…”

Never… what? And oh, surprise hits you like a truck when the realization settles. Jayce Talis, a virgin? Your thoughts must show on your face because he starts to scoot away from you, shutting himself out.

Quickly, you grab his bicep. “That’s okay.” You squeeze reassuringly, hoping and praying you haven’t scared him off. Jayce was, above all else and the lust in your brain, once of your closest friends. “Seriously. And I’m fine going as fast or… or as slow as you want.”

He looks at you disbelievingly, though a hesitant smile plays on his face. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you confirm. Shamefully, part of you revels in this. Heat licks at your groin at the thought of being the only one to see him so, to have his hands on your skin and voice in your ear.

He’s not saying no to you, he’s warning you, between the lines saying he wants you to be the first. You should take this revelation slow, have a first date and build up the promise of the good he could have. Your mouth moves before you can decide. “Let me… show you a good time?”

He nods, both of you lost for words as the gap diminishes. The ache inside you — thumping heavily in your chest and urging your hands to move, feel — burns brighter, gasoline of his lips exciting it so.

The moment your lips connect, you can’t help but sigh. The sparks you felt are burning, urging you to slip closer, to shut your eyes snd let the waves wash over you.

Jayce is enthusiastic, lips clumsily pressing against yours in a rhythm that’s hard to follow. You don’t find fault in that, not when you know you’re shaking with just as much need as he is. In the interval, where your breaths are one and your skin is hot, his need slips and he begins to follow your lead.

You push him against the couch, eyes still shut and unwilling to depart from him more than necessary. He gasps into your mouth when you settle in his lap, fists clenched painfully at his sides as he’s uncertain of what to do, how to do it.

Unrelenting, you push further into him. He loves this, it seems, as he arches in response, curling himself into the warmth and smell of you. Your hands slip beneath his shirt, memorizing the dips and curves of his body on the chance you’ll never experience this again. Ever the multitasker, your hands begin to fumble the buttons on his shirt, painstakingly slipping them free till his torso is bare to you.

Your lips separate from his, dragging a slick trail of kisses of want across his cheek, jaw, the thin skin by his ear. Oh, you know you’re doing something right when his head falls to your shoulder, pitched sigh of his gracing your ear as you suck the skin.

Flushed, the mark left behind blooms. There’s a tenseness in his shoulders as you draw back to review your work, and for a breath you worry that you’ve done something wrong. It dawns on you when you see the shift of his hips, the slight press into the seat below, that he’s resisting the urge to grind.

Heat blooms in your core when you realize he’s trying to be good, to follow your unspoken instructions to follow your lead. You take incentive and grind your clothed cunt against his tented trousers, the grind wonderfully heavy as the seam of your pants press against your clit.

His hips rut upwards sharply, surprised moan warm against your collarbones. Open-mouthed breaths pass between you, swirling in the air and suffocating in your ears, as the two of you curve together. His upwards grinds are inconsistent and fueled by his natural instinct to move, but lack of experience simmers alongside it.

You whisper Jayce’s name with a soft hand on his chest, which he takes as sign to stop. He doesn’t seem to process that his hips are still shifting an inch, like he’ll explode if he ceases his movements, but he watches you painfully expectantly.

The room is dim as you hadn’t bothered to flick on the light, though an adjacent lamp beams behind your head, haloing a soft glow around your head that blocks the light from kissing along his frame. For a moment you wish you withheld till you got to your bedroom or at least flicked on more light.

That worry passes by quickly when you take in what you can see — the soft parting of his reddened lips, the pleased furrow of his brows — he’s looking at you like you’re the lit candle in a shrouded room, like you’re the illuminated masterpiece of art in a room of lackluster beauties.

You can feel his clothed cock against your core, impatiently pressing close enough as though he could break out of his pants and yours. Grasping the back of the couch, you lean forward. You lift your hips by a few inches, punctuating your lifted dance with a hearty grind.

Curling and warming; you’d been tipsy when you entered your apartment, drink pulsing in your blood and inebriating your veins. Arousal and want for more pulsed instead, shaking your hands and holding your breath, and you weren’t sure you could live with the unresolved tension.

“How do you want me?” You ask breathlessly, though you aren’t sure he could answer. He’s been panting against your skin, wet lips dragging along the unmarred canvas. His grip on you, once shy and courteous, now hold you with such strength that he could fuck up into you however.

A whine. “My hands? Mouth? …” there’s a question that hangs in the silence. Do you want to fuck me? It asks. You swallow thickly imagining it, of him bending you over the couch or you in his lap, whispering in his ear as he whimpered in yours. He must be imagining the same because he presses into your heat, jumpy for you.

“You— well, hah,” Jayce babbles, sentence accentuated by his soft moan. You can hear the click of his throat as he swallows, voice almost hoarse as he speaks, “anywhere, anything. Just you, please.”

Your breath stutters for a moment, unsure how to respond appropriately. You lean forward and press your lips to his — sharing your unspoken want through unrelenting kisses, your shared pining in your teeth as you nip at his lip.

After a breath and slick kisses, you part from him and he lifts himself trying to chase your lips. He looks almost pained to be separated from you, the heat of your body. You shimmy down his frame, nudging his legs apart to kneel between them.

“You’re going to— you want to—?” He asks, shocked at the motion you’ve set. You give him a look, one of disbelief and certainty. He nods, understanding, more than excited to let the waves pass over him.

Your hands settle first at his knees, then slowly dance up the covered skin, fingers twirling and leaving a trail of promises as they near where he must be aching. Every drag upwards seems to hurt him with the way his muscles dramatically tense, brow pinching inch and inch further.

With you gripping his thighs for support, you lean in. You press your mouth against his groin, cheek petting the fabric as you kiss where his cock rests. He jumps like he’s been burned, then curls in towards you like he isn’t sure if he wants to run away or into the feeling.

You take a breath to look up at Jayce, though you don’t separate yourself from him. You imagine that the sensation is dimmed through all the fabric, but his mouth hangs open like you’re already sucking him off. His arm sits on the backrest, curling to press the back of his hand against his open lips.

It must be an erotic sight, you realize. Your frame, small when compared to his in this scenario, pressed against his long, long legs, like you’re trapped there. His eyes — golden sun, marigold circle around his blown pupils — won’t leave yours as you blink hazily up at him, nuzzling against his cock like you’re worshipping it, him.

Pressing your cheek against his thigh, you lift your free hand up. Your fingers dance along the seam of his pants, curling excitedly along where the button rests. One of the two layers that separates you from the heat of him, you’re glad to be rid of it.

You look up to him, silent question gracing him as your nimble digits circle the button. This is his first time — you don’t want to push him, overwhelm him, but you want him — and you can see he’s nervous in the stiffness of his frame.

“We don’t have to do anything.” You softly remind him, fingers smoothing away an invisible wrinkle in his pants. Your hands are antsy.

“No, no— Gods, please—“ he closes his eyes, legs spreading further in an invitation, “I want you.” I want you if you want me, he means.

Jayce’s hands slip to his pants before you can, pushing the button through the eyelet and hold your breath in your chest till it hurts, and you aid him the rest of the way. He moans unashamedly as the heaviest restriction on his cock is freed, leaving him nearly skin clad.

His boxers are still on, too shy and riddled with nerves to expose himself just yet. He’s watching you carefully, waiting to see your reaction as if you’d ever react negatively. You halt his worries by returning to your spot, lashes tickling your cheeks as you mouth along the clear shape of him.

“Fuuuuuuck,” Jayce whines as you suck on the covered tip of his cock. He can’t sit still while your tongue laves the precum-dampened spot on his boxers, wetting the fabric till it plastered to his cock within. His thighs are shaking next to your dipped head, like he’s fighting the urge to clamp them against your skull.

You’ve hardly done anything and he’s already falling apart. You peek up at him to the best of your ability, unwilling to pull away your mouth; his head is tipped back, only leaving his heaving chest for you to see, in and out.

Such open and honest responses have you sighing against him, focusing on the feel of him against you and the heavy pulsing in your cunt. You feel like you’re about to explode, like a bubbling kettle bursting with steam at the edges. Your lid is about to pop.

The pressure has long gone past aching, so you decide to relieve yourself with your free hand. You pop open the button on your pants with a quiet jingle, fingers slipping between your folds. You huff, warm breath wrapping around Jayce’s cock and it jumps against your skin.

There’s a sharp intake of air above you, and you open your eyes to find Jayce watching you. Your gaze meets just as the meat of your palm grinds against your clit, mouth dropping open as pleasure shoots up your spine.

You whimper his name, face shifting momentarily away as you forget what you were occupied with, and he chokes on air. His hand comes down quickly to grasp himself, breathing through the motions, like he was about to cum. “You… oh,” he whispers, starstruck. He’s getting off on this, seeing you lose yourself with his name in your mouth.

He can’t help himself, it seems, as he takes himself fully in hand and his boxers start to fall away. There’s a soft shlick sound that fills the air, wet head of his cock sliding his hands smoothly. His open-mouthed panting shows how overwhelmed he is, how one squeeze too many could have his cum painting his knuckles.

You wonder what he’s thinking about, if he’s imagining fucking you or painting your face. Watching him, you ache. You have to have him now, you decide as his thick hands squeeze himself indulgently.

You bat away his hand and he easily complies, nails poking under the band of his shifting boxers as you look up to him with the unspoken question. He nods enthusiastically, no longer shy and embarrassed, and lifts his hips to assist you.

He pops completely free from his boxers and exhales thankfully. You, on the same level, are incredibly thankful to be here. The tip of his cock shines with precum, twitching something fierce when you reach forward and use your still-slick hand to pull the foreskin down and expose him to the cool air.

Your hand slips, inching down the length of his shaft till your thumb rests on the sensitive circle of skin just by his sack, thumb circling softly. Jayce squirms under the pressure, though unwilling to voice his needs without your say-so or inquiry — always looking to please.

Lips trailing, you kiss up his exposed thigh, biting back a pleased smile when the muscle twitches beneath your touch. Trailing further and further up… you pass by his cock, much to his dismay.

The soft fuzz of his abdomen tickles your face where you press against him, stomach twitching beside you. As you lean more into the couch, his cock presses against your chest. He squirms, as if burdened by the uncomfortable pressure.

“Please,” Jayce says, never having been burdened by his open emotions and desires. You love that about him. He begins to murmur nearly inaudibly, “please, please, please…”

You draw back, looking inquisitively at him. You know you’re playing mean, though you can’t bring yourself to feel guilt. “Please what?”

“I want…” he swallows, thinking about how he should respond. “I want your mouth on me. Please.”

“My mouth was just on you.” You remind him, head tilted to the side.

“My— my cock.” He relents. His ears must be burning with a shocked flush, but you aren’t paying enough attention to actually check. “I want you to suck me off,” he rubs his eyes with the back of his hand, “I feel like I’m about to explode.”

Laughing softly, you move to fulfill his request. The air in your living room has shifted multiple times throughout the evening — once electric and stifling, now shifting into something slower, more memorable.

Your mouth falls open and you lick up the side of his cock, lips plump around his shaft. You can tell he’s shaking from the anticipation, and you wonder how long he’ll last.

You breathe in once and then wrap your lips around the head of his cock, sucking softly as to not overwhelm him.

“Yes— oh, yes,” Jayce is loud with it, his gratitude and pleasure. He’s trying not to move too much underneath you, to let you work as you please, but he can’t resist his back from arching dramatically. You pray the neighbors don’t hear his cries. “Hah, oh…”

Bobbing slightly, you let yourself be lost to the sensation. You urge yourself to take him in further, to press your tongue against his sensitive underside as the head glides smoothly into your waiting mouth. With each slip down, you catch a whiff of him — woodsy like charcoal, mixed in with the natural scent of him that embodies him so well.

You know he’s not going to last longer when his cock twitches in your mouth, gasps of his filling your ears and traveling straight to your clit.

“Oh, you—“ he’s mewling now, unable to resist the slight curve of his hips into your mouth. His hand comes to curl in your hair, not demanding, but rather grounding himself as the world slips away. “Fuck, yes— yesyesyesyes—“

You pull your mouth up as spurts of him start to coat your tongue. He’s fighting to keep his lids open, to watch as you open yourself so readily for him. Lips parting, your tongue cradles the underside of his cock as his cum paints your tastebuds — salty, enticing you for more — and his jumping tip.

He sits still for a moment, recalibrating his sensors as you let the sense wash over you. With one final suck and kiss, which Jayce gasps and jolts with as the sensitivity burns him, you pull off him.

“That was…” Jayce wheezes, dopey smile pulling at his uneven lips. You laugh in agreement, taking in his wrecked form as you do, the sheen on his bare skin. “Holy shit. Get up here,” he leans over and pulls you up onto his lap with a strength you forgot he possessed.

He breathes against you for a moment, arching into your touch as your hands glide across his skin. If he could, you imagine he’d be purring. He pulls back from you to meet your eyes, a powerful glint in his own; the same one he possesses when he has an excellent, exciting plan.

“Can I… return the favor?” His fingers curl at your open waistband, still unbuttoned from your earlier pursuits. At the mention, your arousal floods back overwhelmingly fast, knocking your knees weak. You nod quickly, afraid words would fail you.

Your pants are gone in an instant — albeit with an awkward dance as neither of you want to separate, chests heaving and dragging together in the tight spot you’ve dug — leaving you bare at the waist down. Wet, damp, you press against his open thigh and the slight pressure has your back curling.

“Show me how,” Jayce says, unashamed and eager with a boyish giddiness.

“Take your hand… here like— uhn,” you hold his wrist in your hand, curling his longest fingers forward before his palm kisses your oversensitive clit. His chest puffs out a smidge at your moan, though you make no move to comment on this.

His fingers are stiff in your cunt as they separate your folds, curling in that ‘come hither’ motion you directed to earlier. You’re going to love teaching him, you realize, as he soaks up every lesson you grace him with, responding back as a student more enthusiastic than you.

Overwhelming gratitude falls over you in heavy bursts, trickling down your spine like a thick rainfall. Grinding softly, you lean forward and swallow his fingers in your heat.

You’re not sure if he’s trying to be subtle or doing it subconsciously, though you don’t have the energy to ponder; his cock, not hard, rubs against your leg as your whines and huffs kiss his ears.

“Gods, you’re better than I imagined.” He says against your temple as you lean forward for support, fingers curling in a mind-numbing race that leaves you unable to respond. You moan loudly at the image this paints; him, fucking his fist or his pillow, stifling his whines as he imagines you bent over, mouth open and saying his name. Jayce, Jayce.

You find yourself hurrying, grinding your clit as hard as possible till it hurts. You’ve been on the edge for ages, and now you find yourself overwhelmed by the sense of all around you. Each push of his fingers into you follows the grind of his hips, and you hope he’s imagining taking you, how the warmth of you would envelop his cock.

One proper twist has your legs buckling, clenching as deep as possible around his fingers as your hips stutter. You’re huffing in his ear and he whimpers in yours, dragging his oversensitive cock against the curve of your thigh, and oh, Jayce—

Your head falls against his shoulder. You feel as though you’ve been beaten, dragged, and wrung out— but in a good way, akin to the soreness that follows a massage.

Kissing up his neck when you find yourself, you peck at the spot you left before. He sighs happily, readjusting you in his arms.

“So,” he says, and you can feel his voice vibrate against your lips. You imagine his neck words are partnered with an excited grin, masking the uncertainty he showcased earlier, “how’d I do?”

my inbox is open! feel free to leave comments/ requests, or maybe suggestions for a part two…?

#jayce talis #jayce talis x reader #jayce talis x you #jayce arcane #jayce talis arcane #arcane #arcane fanfic #arcane fanfiction #arcane fandom #jayce talis smut #arcane jayce

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taetebebe · 4 days ago

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FIT TO YOU

Pairing: model!Jungwon x fashion student!Reader

Synopsis: Shoulder appreciation with fluff and a bit of crack :)

Word count: 761

Author’s Notes: I had these 3 links 1. 2. 3., a crazy mind and a spare hour. If you’re in need of more shoulder appreciation check out this by @yourislandgirl (here it is, sweetheart).

Enhypen Bookshelf [[]

You had two rules as a fashion student:

Never faint in front of your models.

Never let your professor catch you eyeing Jungwon’s shoulders. (NEW)

Rule one was already teetering on the edge, and rule two was basically shredded because here he was, standing in the middle of your cramped studio, wearing a shirt that looked like it might burst any second, and shoulders wider than any human silhouette you’d ever tried to drape.

“Okay,” you said, clutching your measuring tape like a lifeline. “Let’s start with the basics.”

You tried to sound calm and professional, but your brain was doing cartwheels. How do you even begin measuring these shoulders? They might need their own zip code.

Jungwon gave you a slow, amused smile as if he knew what you were thinking. “They’re not that wide.”

You eyed him. “Yeah, well, that wide is a serious problem for someone who thinks a tape measure is a sword.”

He shrugged, and the fabric of his shirt protested dramatically, threatening to split like a bad relationship. “Fashion’s all about challenges, right?”

You gulped. “Right.”

You started with the usual—neck, chest, waist. Then came the monster: shoulder width.

“Forty-nine centimeters,” you muttered, blinking at the number as if it was a typo. “Seriously? Did you order these on purpose?”

Jungwon raised an eyebrow. “Are you implying I’m a bodybuilder?”

“Bodybuilder? No. A walking, breathing architectural marvel? Absolutely.”

He laughed, this deep, almost amused sound that made your stomach do weird flips. “I’ve been called worse.”

You snorted, accidentally dropping your tape measure on his foot. He grinned and bent down to pick it up, muscles flexing under that shirt like a perfectly sculpted statue. You tried not to stare but failed miserably.

Note to self: find a way to turn wide shoulders into a fashion statement instead of a measurement nightmare so you don't fail.

The problem with Jungwon wasn’t just his shoulders—it was that every jacket, blazer, or shirt you tried to design for him turned into a battle of wills between fabric and flesh.

One day, you tried a sleek leather jacket prototype. The first time he tried it on, you held your breath, expecting an explosion. The seams stretched with a sickening pop—but held.

Jungwon looked in the mirror, flexed once, and said, “You know, these shoulders were made to carry me.”

You blinked. “Whoa, that’s… surprisingly profound coming from you.”

He smirked. “Yeah, well, it’s the truth.”

You rolled your eyes. “Fine, but don’t quote me on that when this jacket rips in half.”

Despite the chaos, you started noticing little things. How he adjusted his stance to protect his shoulders from the world. How his shirt sleeves were always just a little too short, because finding the right length was basically an urban legend for guys with arms like his.

One afternoon, he caught you sketching him without realising.

“Are you stalking me or just obsessed with my shoulders?” he teased, crossing those impossibly broad arms over his chest.

You grinned back, not missing a beat. “Is it weird if I say a little bit of both?”

He laughed—loud, genuine—and suddenly the studio didn’t feel so cramped anymore.

Fittings became your favourite mess.

You'd pin fabric on him, only for him to break the pins by flexing. You’d gasp. He’d smirk.

“Want me to show you how annoying I can be?” he asked one day, eyes gleaming.

“Do I have a choice?”

He stepped closer, deliberately pressing those wide shoulders into your space. “Nope.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop smiling.

One night, after everyone else had gone, you stayed late to finish a jacket that was almost perfect. Jungwon was sprawled on your studio couch, scrolling through his phone, shoulders relaxed for once.

You walked over, threading your fingers along the curve of his shoulder.

“They really were made to carry you,” you murmured, the line suddenly feeling less like a joke and more like a truth.

He turned his head, surprised by the softness in your voice. “You don’t think they’re too much?”

“No,” you said. “I think they were made to carry me.”

His eyes widened just a little. “Really?”

You nodded, tracing gentle circles on his skin through the shirt.

He swallowed hard, the silence between you thick with something new and terrifying and wonderful.

Before you knew it, he’d scooped you up, arms wide and warm—shoulders carrying you effortlessly like you weighed nothing.

You gasped, clutching at his neck, breath hitching.

He winked. “Just wait until you try using them as a pillow.”

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pearlprincess02 · 10 months ago

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academia sign as 𝔞𝔠𝔞𝔡𝔢𝔪𝔦𝔞 𝔞𝔢𝔰𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔱𝔦𝔠𝔰

academia (829)

𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔬𝔱𝔦𝔠 𝔞𝔠𝔞𝔡𝔢𝔪𝔦𝔞

aries / 1st house academia: aries in academia approaches learning with enthusiasm and a pioneering spirit. they thrive in competitive environments, enjoying subjects that allow them to take the lead, such as sports science, entrepreneurship, or anything requiring bold, innovative thinking. their learning style is hands-on and action-oriented, preferring to dive into projects rather than sit through lectures. quick to grasp new concepts, aries students excel in fast-paced, dynamic settings where they can showcase their initiative and drive. they are natural leaders in group work, often inspiring others with their energy and passion.

chaotic academia vibes: red bull, coffee, late-night study sessions, messy desk, sticky notes everywhere, highlighters galore, backpack overflowing, headphones tangled, running late, cramming, competitive studying, impulsive learning, last-minute cramming, energetic study sessions, motivational posters, pomodoro technique, study groups, mind maps, flash cards, music playlists

major & minor in college: history, english, psychology, theater, business, creative writing, philosophy, computer science, art history, sociology

𝔡𝔞𝔯𝔨 𝔞𝔠𝔞𝔡𝔢𝔪𝔦𝔞

taurus / 2nd house academia: taurus in academia is methodical and steady, approaching learning with patience and determination. they excel in subjects that involve tangible results or a connection to nature, such as agriculture, culinary arts, or finance. taurus students prefer a structured learning environment, where they can take their time to absorb information deeply and thoroughly. they have a strong memory and excel in retaining facts, often mastering subjects through repetition and consistent effort. their learning style is practical and grounded, focusing on real-world applications and long-term value.

dark academia vibes: leather-bound notebooks, vintage fountain pen, cozy sweater, warm coffee, comfortable armchair, candles, classical music, antique bookshelves, quiet library, natural light, slow & steady approach, consistent studying, structured routine, mindful studying, note-taking, reading extensively, researching deeply, essay writing, critical thinking, patience & perseverance,

major & minor in college: literature, history, art history, philosophy, classical studies, music, latin, greek, anthropology, environmental studies,

scorpio / 8th house academia: scorpio in academia is intensely focused and driven, diving deep into subjects that fascinate them, especially those involving psychology, criminology, or anything that uncovers hidden truths. they are natural researchers, drawn to mysteries and complexities, excelling in environments that require investigative skills and critical thinking. scorpio students prefer to study in private, where they can immerse themselves fully without distractions. they have a talent for uncovering details that others might overlook, and their determination to master a subject is unmatched. passionate and resilient, scorpio learners often emerge as experts in their chosen fields.

dark academia vibes: black coffee, leather jacket, intricate jewelry, vintage records, haunted library, gothic architecture, mysterious aura, intense gaze, quiet solitude, deep thoughts, intense focus, deep research, analytical thinking, critical analysis, debating, persuasive writing, problem-solving, independent study, night owl, passionate learning,

major & minor in college: psychology, philosophy, criminal justice, history, political science, sociology, anthropology, mythology, astronomy, creative writing,

𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔯𝔢 𝔞𝔠𝔞𝔡𝔢𝔪𝔦𝔞

gemini / 3rd house academia: gemini in academia is curious and versatile, thriving in environments where they can explore a wide range of subjects. they are natural communicators, excelling in fields like journalism, linguistics, or social sciences, where their quick wit and love for information can shine. gemini students prefer a dynamic, interactive learning environment, enjoying discussions, debates, and collaborative projects. their learning style is fast-paced and adaptable, allowing them to pick up new concepts with ease and shift focus between topics effortlessly. always eager to learn something new, gemini keeps their mind sharp by continuously seeking knowledge in various fields.

theatre academia vibes: script book, makeup bag, costumes, props, rehearsal space, stage lights, backstage passes, playbills, acting classes, impromptu performances, versatility, adaptability, improvisation, memorization, public speaking, character analysis, script analysis, ensemble work, storytelling, critical thinking

major & minor in college: theater, english, creative writing, communication studies, film studies, music, dance, history, psychology, sociology,

𝔠𝔬𝔷𝔶 𝔞𝔠𝔞𝔡𝔢𝔪𝔦𝔞

cancer / 4th house academia: cancer in academia is intuitive and emotionally connected to their studies, often drawn to subjects that resonate with their personal experiences, such as history, literature, or psychology. they excel in environments that feel nurturing and supportive, preferring to learn in a space where they feel safe and comfortable. cancer students have a strong memory, especially for details that evoke an emotional response, and they often approach learning with empathy and care. their learning style is reflective and deep, focusing on understanding the emotional and human aspects of any subject. sensitive to the needs of others, cancer can also be a compassionate and supportive peer in group settings.

cozy academia vibes: knitting needles, teacup, soft blanket, candles, cozy armchair, bookshelf filled with sentimental books, family photos, journal, soft music, homemade snacks, emotional intelligence, empathy, nurturing oneself, creating a comfortable study space, mindful studying, journaling, connecting with others, supporting others, patience & perseverance, emotional regulation

major & minor in college: english, history, psychology, sociology, social work, counseling, child development, family studies, art history, creative writing

𝔯𝔬𝔶𝔞𝔩 𝔞𝔠𝔞𝔡𝔢𝔪𝔦𝔞

leo / 5th house academia: leo in academia is confident and expressive, thriving in subjects where they can showcase their creativity and leadership, such as performing arts, literature, or leadership studies. they enjoy being at the center of discussions and excel in environments where their ideas and talents are recognized. leo students are passionate learners who bring enthusiasm to their studies, often inspiring others with their energy and charisma. their learning style is dynamic and interactive, preferring presentations and group projects where they can shine. with a natural flair for storytelling and self-expression, leo often excels in areas that allow them to be both creative and influential.

royal academia vibes: crown-shaped stationery, velvet robes, gold jewelry, vintage fountain pen, grand library, ornate furniture, elegant calligraphy, classical music, high-quality textbooks, personalized study supplies, confidence, leadership, public speaking, motivation, goal setting, networking, presentation skills, time management, creativity, passion

major & minor in college: history, political science, business, theater, art history, music, philosophy, classical studies, public relations, creative writing

𝔟𝔬𝔱𝔞𝔫𝔦𝔠𝔞𝔩 𝔞𝔠𝔞𝔡𝔢𝔪𝔦𝔞

virgo / 6th house academia: virgo in academia is analytical and detail-oriented, excelling in subjects that require precision and critical thinking, such as mathematics, science, or technical writing. they have a strong work ethic and prefer structured learning environments where they can methodically work through complex problems. virgo students are diligent researchers, often going above and beyond to ensure they fully understand a topic, and they have a knack for organizing information logically. their learning style is meticulous and focused, thriving on clear instructions and practical applications. with a keen eye for detail, virgo often excels in areas that demand accuracy and thoroughness.

botanical academia vibes: herbarium, plant journal, botanical prints, terrarium, gardening tools, natural light, plant-based stationery, herbal tea, nature-inspired décor, organized study space, organization, planning, time management, detail-oriented approach, note-taking, researching, problem-solving, critical thinking, patience, perseverance

major & minor in college: biology, environmental science, botany, horticulture, chemistry, agriculture, nutrition, health sciences, art history, creative writing

𝔯𝔬𝔪𝔞𝔫𝔱𝔦𝔠 𝔞𝔠𝔞𝔡𝔢𝔪𝔦𝔞

libra / 7th house academia: libra in academia is balanced and diplomatic, drawn to subjects that involve relationships, aesthetics, and justice, such as law, art, or social sciences. they excel in collaborative learning environments, enjoying discussions and group projects where they can exchange ideas and mediate differing opinions. libra students have a natural talent for seeing multiple perspectives, which makes them excellent at analyzing complex issues and finding harmonious solutions. their learning style is interactive and social, thriving in settings that allow for cooperation and mutual respect. with a strong sense of fairness and a love for beauty, libra often excels in areas that combine intellectual rigor with creativity.

romantic academia vibes: love letters, poetry collection, vintage jewelry, soft/pastel colors, romantic novels, flower arrangements, classical music, art galleries, beautiful stationery, cozy cafes, collaboration, harmony, diplomacy, balance, aesthetic appreciation, empathy, persuasion, critical thinking, creativity, open-mindedness

major & minor in college: english, history, art history, philosophy, psychology, sociology, communication studies, music, creative writing, design

𝔞𝔡𝔳𝔢𝔫𝔱𝔲𝔯𝔬𝔲𝔰 𝔞𝔠𝔞𝔡𝔢𝔪𝔦𝔞

sagittarius / 9th house academia: sagittarius in academia is adventurous and curious, drawn to subjects that expand their horizons, such as philosophy, travel, or global studies. they thrive in environments that offer freedom and exploration, preferring to learn through experience, travel, and broad, open-ended discussions. sagittarius students have a natural enthusiasm for big ideas and are often inspired by the pursuit of knowledge that challenges conventional thinking. their learning style is spontaneous and wide-ranging, excelling in areas where they can explore different cultures, beliefs, and philosophies. with an innate love for wisdom and truth, sagittarius often excels in fields that encourage lifelong learning and intellectual growth.

adventurous academia vibes: travel journal, global map, adventure novels, passport, backpack, camping gear, telescope, world atlas, foreign language textbooks, wanderlust-themed stationery, curiosity, open-mindedness, exploration, adaptability, risk-taking, global perspective, intercultural communication, problem-solving, independent study, passion for learning

major & minor in college: history, geography, anthropology, philosophy, foreign languages, international studies, environmental science, economics, creative writing, journalism

𝔴𝔦𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔞𝔠𝔞𝔡𝔢𝔪𝔦𝔞

capricorn / 10th house academia: capricorn in academia is disciplined and strategic, favoring subjects that offer practical applications and long-term value, such as business, engineering, or finance. they excel in structured, goal-oriented environments where they can set clear objectives and work methodically towards achieving them. capricorn students have a strong work ethic and are adept at managing their time efficiently, often thriving on detailed planning and rigorous analysis. their learning style is focused and persistent, with a preference for mastering foundational concepts before advancing. with a keen sense of responsibility and determination, capricorn often excels in areas that require patience and sustained effort.

winter academia vibes: thick coat, scarf, warm coffee, cozy sweater, planner, bookshelf filled with textbooks, quiet study space, pen & paper, minimalist décor, structured routine, discipline, time management, goal setting, planning, persistence, problem-solving, critical thinking, researching, note-taking, long-term planning

major & minor in college: business, economics, law, political science, accounting, engineering, computer science, mathematics, history, philosophy

𝔣𝔲𝔱𝔲𝔯𝔦𝔰𝔱𝔦𝔠 𝔞𝔠𝔞𝔡𝔢𝔪𝔦𝔞

aquarius / 11th house academia: aquarius in academia is innovative and independent, gravitating towards subjects that involve technology, future trends, or social change, such as engineering, environmental science, or sociology. they thrive in learning environments that encourage original thinking and unconventional approaches, often preferring to explore new ideas and challenge established norms. aquarius students are skilled at grasping complex, abstract concepts and enjoy engaging in collaborative projects that push boundaries and promote collective progress. their learning style is progressive and exploratory, with a strong inclination towards experimenting with novel methods and solutions. with a keen interest in improving the world, aquarius often excels in fields that foster creativity and forward-thinking.

futuristic academia vibes: smartwatch, laptop, tech gadgets, futuristic eyewear, minimalist design, neon lights, sci-fi novels, futuristic architecture, virtual reality headset, sustainable products, innovation, problem-solving, critical thinking, future-oriented thinking, collaboration, interdisciplinary learning, ethical considerations, lifelong learning, adaptability, social consciousness

major & minor in college: computer science, engineering, physics, astronomy, artificial intelligence, environmental science, sociology, political science, psychology, philosophy

𝔬𝔠𝔢𝔞𝔫 𝔞𝔠𝔞𝔡𝔢𝔪𝔦𝔞

pisces / 12th house academia: pisces in academia is imaginative and intuitive, drawn to subjects that explore the arts, spirituality, or the human psyche, such as creative writing, music, or psychology. they excel in environments that allow for introspection and creative expression, often thriving in less structured settings that encourage personal interpretation and emotional depth. pisces students have a unique ability to grasp abstract concepts and connect disparate ideas, making them skilled at synthesizing information in innovative ways. their learning style is fluid and adaptable, with a preference for exploring topics through personal experiences and intuitive insights. with a deep sense of empathy and creativity, pisces often excels in fields that involve understanding and expressing the complexities of the human experience.

ocean academia vibes: seashells, aquarium, ocean-themed stationery, beach towel, nautical decor, marine biology books, beach reads, ocean-inspired jewelry, dreamcatcher, calming music, intuition, empathy, creativity, imagination, meditation, mindfulness, visualization, dream journaling, connection with nature, emotional intelligence

major & minor in college: marine biology, oceanography, environmental science, psychology, art history, creative writing, music, philosophy, sociology, religious studies,

all observations belong to @pearlprincess02

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makeyuomine · 1 month ago

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studio styles // part 1

Summary: (Y/N), a newly hired Architectural Assistant at the renowned architecture firm Studio Styles, grapples with imposter syndrome as she navigates the pressures of her first major role in the field. Balancing ambition with uncertainty, she finds herself drawn to her supervisor—Harry, the firm's brilliant yet enigmatic Principal Architect. As professional boundaries blur under late-night deadlines and quiet moments, (Y/N) must confront the question of what she's really building: a career, a future… or something much more complicated.

architect!harry.

Author’s Note: Thank you all for taking the time to read my work! Pleaseeeee let me know your thoughts! Ideas for more are encouraged :)

♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡

The office smelled faintly of concrete dust and expensive coffee—an oddly comforting blend for (Y/N), who still couldn't believe she worked here.

Only one month in, and the sensation of imposter syndrome clung to her like glue. But each time she caught her reflection in the sleek glass doors of the downtown firm, dressed in black slacks and a structured blazer, she reminded herself: You earned this.

Freshly 25, (Y/N) was the firm’s newest Architectural Assistant, freshly graduated with a Master's and still blinking in the unfamiliar rhythm of a life no longer defined by GPA calculators or studio reviews. Her mind often wandered to one question: Who am I now that I’m not a student?

Work, it seemed, was determined to fill that identity vacuum. She welcomed it. Chased it. Whether it was a zoning analysis for a low-rise mixed-use project or drafting elevation concepts for a civic plaza in the City, she raised her hand for everything. Her ambition didn’t just burn—it blazed.

But no amount of ambition had prepared her for Harry Styles.

The moment she had stepped into the interview room a month ago, she had felt it. The unmistakable shift in the air. The strong current between them.

Harry—Principal Architect, her direct supervisor, and the owner of the very firm she now worked at, Studio Styles—was, in a word, unfair. Thirty-seven, tall, and effortlessly magnetic, he carried the kind of refined charisma that seemed to say: Yes, I know I look good in this tailored navy suit, but I promise I won’t make it your problem.

The man who interviewed her, hired her, and now walked past her desk with rolled-up sleeves and the kind of quiet intensity that made architectural specs seem like poetry. Honestly, how was anyone supposed to stay focused?

Everyone in the office respected him, admired him—even joked about him being the "greenest of flags." But (Y/N) saw something else too: a softness in his voice when he explained design theory, the weight he carried in his brow when he thought no one was looking, the restraint in his gaze when their eyes met.

She wondered if he felt it too. That pull.

Harry had kept things strictly professional, of course. She could tell he worked hard to focus only on the technical, the mentorship. But sometimes—when they hovered side by side over CAD drawings or walked together during site visits—she could swear his fingers brushed hers just a moment too long.

Still, she had goals. Real ones. The promotion to Architect I was not guaranteed. It was the next step, the first real test in proving she could belong in this rarefied world. It would be a long year of learning, proving, and adapting.

Romance? That was the plot of her old daydreams, back in undergrad when her biggest worry was a group project going sideways.

Now? Now she had deadlines. Career reviews. A whole identity to build from scratch.

And yet, as she watched Harry gesture thoughtfully at a floorplan from across the room, smiling that small, half-lidded smile that always made her stomach twist—(Y/N) couldn’t help but think:

If I’m building a life from the ground up… is it so wrong that he might be a part of it? Or is this what happens when you spend years chasing degrees and suddenly find yourself in the real world—down bad for your boss like some HR training video gone rogue?

♡ ♡

The hum of the office had quieted, reduced to the occasional tap of a keyboard and the distant whirl of the plotter spitting out floorplans. Most of the team had already cleared out for the evening, but (Y/N) was still at her desk, editing renderings with the intensity of someone who feared the smallest oversight could unravel everything.

She didn’t hear him approach—just the soft sound of leather soles stopping beside her.

"Got a minute?" Harry asked gently, holding a thick project folder in one hand.

She glanced up, blinking. "Yeah, of course."

He gestured toward the small glass-walled conference room at the corner of the floor. Her heart gave the faintest stutter.

What did he want to discuss? Had someone filed a complaint? Was she being fired?

Inside the conference room, he set the folder on the table between them. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, forearms flexing as he opened the file.

She did her best to hide the nerves tightening her chest, but it was written all over her face.

"Well, don't look so worried," Harry smiled at her reassuringly.

She let out a soft laugh. "I'm sorry, I tend to overthink."

"Don't worry. I actually wanted to discuss a new project with you," he looked at her.

(Y/N)'s brows lifted, curiosity sparking in her expression. A new project? That hadn’t come up in the staff meeting earlier.

"This is the new Rivera Cultural Center downtown," he said, eyes scanning the drawings. "It’s a multi-phase project, community-driven, green-certified. City's backing it heavily, and it's going to be high-profile."

She nodded slowly, her eyes following the path of his finger as it traced the plans. She couldn’t help but notice his hands—steady, capable, and undeniably masculine.

"I want you to take the lead on schematic design," Harry said, looking up at her. "Concept, massing, program alignment, early elevations. You’ll collaborate with me directly."

The words snapped her out of every lingering daydream. (Y/N)'s heart thudded loudly enough; she was sure he could hear it. "Wait—me?"

He smiled faintly. "Yes. You."

She opened her mouth. Closed it again. She wanted to say yes. God, she always wanted to take on a big project. But this one felt… massive.

"I’ve never led something like this before," she said quietly, brows furrowing. "I—I don’t want to mess it up. Or let you down."

"You won’t," he said. "Because I’ll be there. Every step of the way. And I wouldn’t hand you this unless I was sure you were ready for it."

There it was. No patronizing. No sugarcoating. Just belief. Pure and steady.

She lifted her eyes to meet his. And something passed between them then—something unspoken, heavy with possibility. Like the silence before the first line is drawn.

She wondered if he felt it too, that current, that magnetic shift. From the way his gaze held hers, unwavering and sincere, she knew the answer.

But neither of them said it. Not yet.

Instead, she nodded once.

"Okay," she whispered. "I'll do it."

He smiled. And this time, it reached all the way to his eyes.

♡ ♡

The office was quieter than usual this evening, the glow of the city skyline filtering in through the windows as the last of the staff trickled out. (Y/N) had stayed behind, focused on the schematics for the Rivera Cultural Center. She'd already gone over the designs three times, but she couldn't shake the feeling that something was missing.

She was staring at the plans when Harry approached her desk, a soft thud of his shoes on the polished wood floor. She glanced up, startled but grateful for the distraction.

"Everything going okay?" Harry asked, his voice warm but low.

She smiled, pushing the frustration aside. "Yeah. Just trying to figure out the massing for the main lobby. I feel like I’m overthinking it."

"You are," he teased lightly, sitting down in the chair across from her. But his eyes softened as he continued, "But that’s good. Means you're invested."

She shifted in her seat, pulling up a few of the elevation designs. "I just don’t want to miss anything. I want it to be perfect."

"You’re on the right track," Harry said, leaning forward slightly, his gaze locked on the plans. He was close enough now that she could see the faint creases in his shirt, the way the lines of his suit jacket stretched over his shoulders. His presence was comforting, grounding her. "We’re getting there. I can help you with this—walk you through the next step."

She hesitated, glancing up at him, meeting his eyes. He seemed genuinely invested in her progress. There was no condescension, no rush. Just the quiet assurance that she was more than capable.

"You’ve been really supportive," she admitted, almost shyly. "I didn’t expect it to be like this. I thought you'd… I don’t know, be more hands-off."

"Do you want me to be hands-off?" he quickly asked.

She looked up, their eyes immediately connecting.

There was a slight pause. "N-No," she stuttered.

A faint smile tugged at his lips as his gaze lingered on her face. They both turned their attention back to the plans, but there was something different in the air now, something thicker between them that made the space feel smaller, more intimate.

Harry stood, moving to the whiteboard beside her desk to sketch a few notes. She could feel the subtle shift in energy as he reached over her, their shoulders brushing for just a second. It wasn't intentional, but the warmth of his body, the nearness, sent a jolt through her.

When he stepped back, their eyes met again. She was sure he felt it too—the quiet tension hanging in the air, the pull that neither of them acknowledged aloud.

"It's getting late… you should probably head out," (Y/N) said, glancing toward the window where the sky had already begun to fade into evening hues.

"Yeah, I'll get going soon. Just want to make sure you're alright," he said.

The sincerity in his voice truly touched (Y/N).

"I don't know what I'd do without you on this," she admitted.

He stepped closer, gaze on her.

Harry’s expression darkened. His hand came up, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered.

"You won't ever have to find out," he murmured.

That did it.

Her breath hitched just before he leaned in, and then his mouth was on hers—firm, searching, not hesitant at all. She responded instantly, her hand sliding into his shirt collar, pulling him closer. The kiss deepened, the weight of everything they hadn't said crashing into that one desperate moment.

His hand found her waist, and with a quiet groan he walked her back until she bumped into the edge of the desk. The plans crinkled beneath her as he lifted her—strong hands guiding her to lie back over the very designs they’d been pouring over just minutes earlier.

The moment was charged, a collision of ambition, desire, and months of restraint finally breaking loose.

He hovered over her, breathing hard. "Tell me to stop."

She didn't.

Instead, she reached up and kissed him again.

The kiss was breathless and all-consuming. Harry's hands framed her hips, her fingers curled into his shirt. Every thought, every rule, every hesitation had vanished the second their lips met. The sound of paper rustling beneath them—plans and sketches now forgotten—only fueled the urgency.

And then—ding!

The elevator doors slid open with a mechanical chime, slicing through the moment like a blade.

They froze.

A beat later, the telltale squeak of rubber wheels echoed down the hall, followed by the soft clatter of cleaning supplies and the faint shuffle of footsteps. The janitor had arrived for the night shift.

Harry pulled back, breathing heavily. (Y/N) sat up fast, heart hammering, cheeks flushed as she frantically smoothed down her blouse and skirt. He ran a hand through his hair, adjusting the collar of his shirt, then leaned casually against the edge of the desk like they'd been talking about floor plans—not making out on top of them.

A faint tune drifted into the studio—some upbeat song the janitor was whistling along to, completely oblivious, earbuds tucked firmly into his ears. He didn't even glance their way as he pushed the trash bin through the hallway, humming to himself and wheeling toward the break room.

(Y/N) let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

"That was close," she whispered, glancing sideways at Harry.

He looked at her, and despite the attempt at nonchalance, there was a spark in his eyes—mischief, disbelief, desire. His lips curved into a crooked smile, a silent what just happened? passing between them.

She couldn't help the grin that tugged at her own mouth, biting the inside of her cheek to suppress it. Their gazes lingered, playful and loaded.

Neither of them said a word, but the silence said everything.

This wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.

♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡

Author's Note: Thank you all for taking the time to read my work! How are we liking architect!harry?

#harry edward styles #harry x y/n #harry styles fluff #harry styles smut #harry styles angst #harry styles x reader #harry styles blurb #harry styles one shot #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles #harry styles au #harry styles slow burn #slow burn

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orikixx · 5 months ago

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Blueprints & Heartbeats

Part: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

Featuring: Nanami Kento

Warnings: slight angst, wc 1.5k, part 2 will be a smau!

Summary: academic rivals to lovers! a mixup in the architecture group project forces you to team up with Nanami Kento, the serious and stoic student. But maybe, he isn’t as brooding as you thought?

Author's note: I feel like I’m trying a new style and this is kinda scary lol. I hope you guys like it!🫶

There he was.

As you walked into the classroom, you saw him. The man you’ve heard all too much about, yet never got the chance to talk to. Well, it’s not like you didn’t get the chance, Nanami Kento just flat out ignored you.

At first, you thought he hasn’t heard you. He couldn’t have been ignoring you on purpose, right? So you tried again, and again, until eventually giving up because clearly, he had no interest in talking to his classmate.

You two share the same major, but that doesn’t seem to matter to him. Despite being in the same classes and even the same study groups, Nanami always finds a way to avoid interacting with you. It’s frustrating, to say the least, especially when can’t understand why. Maybe it’s your personality?

It cannot be the fact that you’re an annoying person, because you aren’t. There’s no denying that people definitely find you loud and bubbly, but no one would actually describe you as an annoying person, since you almost manage to brighten everyone’s mood. Or almost everyone, in that case. The problem could be Nanami, perhaps he just hates everything that’s not beige, boring and brooding, just the way he is. Or maybe there was something else, something deeper, that made him keep his distance. He definitely strikes you as the antisocial, loner wolf type. Either way, it was clear that Nanami Kento wasn’t interested in getting to know you.

You sat down next to Satoru, a friend you’ve met through the architecture course, and immediately felt at ease, with the help of his non stop babbling about some movie he’s watched with his girlfriend over the weekend. Zoning out a little, the hum of conversations fills the room, Satoru’s voice drowning in the background as you observe the walls of your lecture hall. The walls are lined with endless sketches, and the faint scent of ink lingered in the air. The harsh fluorescent lights made you dizzy, which brought you back to the fact that your professor has just walked in.

You quickly hush Satoru, and look at your professor. She’s known for being very harsh on students, so you always try your best to leave a good impression on her. She starts talking, something about another group project. It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence to have to work in groups, but it felt like such a hassle for you. Having a very different way of working than the other students, it sometimes caused clashes within the group. They were eventually solved by getting to a compromise, but it was noticeable that it happened every single time you were in the group.

While most students meticulously planned their designs with rulers and perfectly aligned sketches, your workspace always looked like controlled chaos. Bold, colorful markers and loose sheets of paper filled with quick sketches and half-formed ideas were scattered across your desk. You thrived on spontaneity, letting inspiration strike in bursts, while others preferred methodical precision.

Your designs were vibrant, full of life and energy, much like you. They weren't always perfect, but they stood out. Other students often seemed to be skeptical about your work, yet they agreed that your flashy ideas were always the cherry on top of their mundane, strictly planned designs.

The professor starts reading out the names for the group projects, which are in duos for the first time in the entire year and a half you’ve spent at the course already. She reads name after name, and when satoru is paired with some other student instead of you, the both of you silently groan. You wait as the list goes on, until eventually you’re paired with… Nanami.

Before you can even process what your professor said, someone’s coughing loudly, and you turn around to see that it’s no other than the man himself. You turn back bashfully, ears red with embarrassment. The fact he looks terrified out of his mind at the thought of working with you bothers you, but what can you really do at this point.

When class ends, you and satoru go your separate ways. He went to talk to his teammate, and you were intending to do the same, or at least try to, because when you search around the class for Nanami, he’s already standing by the professor, seemingly.. arguing with her? You get closer, trying to subtly eavesdrop on whatever they were not so calmly discussing.

“There must be something you can do to change the groups!”

Oh.

You stop in your tracks, feeling like a beat down puppy. You don’t even move away, inevitably listening to the rest of their conversation as the other students’ conversations buzz around you.

“I’m sorry Nanami, I’ve already submitted your names to the administration, there’s nothing I can do to change the situation.”

There’s a burn in your chest, slowly spreading until you feel your neck heating, until your face is red, and you’re suddenly filled with such utter despair, because how the hell are you supposed to work on a project with someone who hates you without even knowing you?

You weren’t intending to be dramatic, but you know you can’t handle him right now. Before either of them could turn around and notice you, you just left class. Not discussing even the simplest details with him felt wrong, but you can try doing that later, when you’re calmer, if he’ll deem you as worthy enough to talk to.

As you were walking through the campus, your mind clouded with anger, you tried deciding how to deal with the situation.

You could text him, though with the way he’s treated you so far, he might as well just block you. You don’t actually believe he’d to that, since he cares too much about his grades, yet he’s definitely going to be so unpleasant to you.

…………

Nanami might as well have buried himself 6 feet deep at this point. Not only he got paired with the one person in the entire class that could beat his grade on every single assignment, but she also had the audacity to be so effortlessly unbothered and vibrant about it. Her carefree attitude, her ability to come up with ideas on the spot, and the way she never seems to second guess herself, it irritates him in ways he can’t quite explain.

He knows he won’t be able to function.. normally, if he had to work with her alone. It’s not like he hates y/n, because no one could hate her. He just lets his ego get to him, and he doesn’t know what to say when she comes by, trying to talk to him. As he sees it, she might as well wave a huge flag that says “look at me! I’m better than you!”. He knows it’s stupid, but that’s just the way he is. So when the professor tells him she can’t change his teammate, he feels defeated.

He turns around, contemplating if he should search for y/n in the classroom.

He scans the room , yet he can’t spot her anywhere. She usually hangs out with gojo, but the white haired man is now talking to his own teammate, and y/n’s bubbly voice isn’t heard throughout the place.

Nanami’s phone buzzes in his pocket, and he swiftly takes it out, curious about who even has his number saved.

Unknown number: hi Nanami, it’s y/n from the architecture course. Would you like to meet up tomorrow and start working on our project?

Nanami stares at the screen, unexpectedly dumbfounded. How did she manage to beat him even at texting?

Nanami: meet me tomorrow at the café near the lecture hall at 11:00.

He knows he could’ve been nicer to her, but honestly it doesn’t bother him at the moment since all he can think about is how he’s gonna spend the rest of the semester with y/n as his teammate.

She doesn’t reply to him, just leaves the text on read. He shouldn’t be surprised, or feel anything considering the fact he’s been anything but nice to her, but he feels like it doesn’t fit her personality. Maybe he hadn’t talked to her even once, but he’s been watching her.

A lot.

He knows which students get on her nerves, and he can recognize the look on her face when she tries to hold her laugh in during a lecture. The fact he even knows anything about her irritates him, but if he doesn't observe her to learn and improve himself, what other option does he have?

Nanami sighs, shoving the phone back into his pocket before leaving the hall. As he walks across the campus, in the direction of his dorm, he notices y/n. She was sitting on the grass with her friends, the sun shining on her figure, and she looked so…. He doesn’t want to finish that thought.

Her hands move in an almost animated manner, one he often sees in class. He has to tear his eyes away from the sight, fastening his pace.

Still, even as he tried to stop it, the image of her lingered in his mind, unbidden and unwelcome.

divider credit: @soulari

taglist: @yourname-exee @realalpacorn @zayuriluvs @galactacium

#jjk #jjk x reader #nanami kento #jjk nanami #nanami x reader #jujutsu kaisen nanami #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen #academic rivals #slight angst #jjk angst #jjk fluff #jujutsu kaisen fluff #jjk smau #smau

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scremogirl · 2 years ago

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✧✩🜚𝐅𝐔𝐋𝐋 𝐅𝐈𝐂 🜸𖤐✰

𝐒𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮

Yandere! Nerd x Academic Rival! Reader

Mentions of depressive behavior/thoughts of suicide. AFAB! Reader: is called “Ms”.

Annoying.

A know-it-all smarty pants that was simultaneously the worst pain in your ass. Not that he meant to be of course; you couldn’t really blame him. Sure, some people are just naturally smart; but not him. Following you around like a lost puppy no matter where you went. He was toying with you on purpose and you knew it! You just couldn’t understand why he decided to make your life worse.

Now, the relationship you have is more one sided. You’d make subtle jabs and throw cheap shots his way but all he ever did was laugh it off. He never fought back. From what you’ve gathered, he just prefers to stare. And when I say stare I mean straight into your soul type stare. Every time he gets annoyed or is thinking really hard about something that’s what he does. Stares. It’s really creepy and unsettling, all the times you caught him or tried to, he would just look away blushing, trying his best to hide behind his shaggy hair. Eyes burn holes through the back of your head five out of the seven days of the week. However, even the two days you aren’t in school, the feeling of eyes on you never seems cease. You feel chills crawl up your spine and always look over your shoulder wherever you go only to find nobody there.

You’ve always strived to be the best. Your home life was like the equivalent of being tossed in solitary co finemente and being left to rot. It seemed as if your parents only cared about your academic life. Therefore, they were always super strict about your grades. You knew it came from a place deep within their hearts, they just wanted you to do good in life; but it still hurt. You wanted to make them proud. Wanted to feel loved by the people who were supposed to be closest to you. So you pushed yourself to limits nobody could ever reach. From winning spelling bees to holding the spot of Vice President on your school's student council team. Schools were already offering you all expense scholarships in freshman year!

You were an all rounder. One of the most involved students in your grade. You were in various sports and academic clubs, always helped in school fundraisers, and even have 500(+) SS hrs.

“ Apologies, Ms. (L/N), but there’s nothing we can do about this. You’ll have to get a tutor in order to pass,”

Technical engineering.

Your worst subject. You excelled in physics and math; some would say the best. You got the formulas down to a T and knew everything there was to know. It was more so the building aspect of things. There were just so many damn parts! Who even needs an electriconic digital caliper anyways?!

“I’m sorry, (Y/n), but that’s just the way things turned out. You need this credit to graduate, but you needn’t worry. Miylo is the best at this. He’s perfect for the job,”

Miylo Reneritzer. A 6 foot, dead eyed, pale skinned dork. He’s never stood out to you. He wasn’t popular or a scholar. He didn’t play sports and wasn’t in any clubs. He didn’t participate in the annual dances and didn’t attended school games. He was just there. A regular student with a knack for technicalogical architecture. You were in 11th grade at the time. You needed to get all your credits out the way so you didn’t have to worry about them senior year. Not that it was a problem for you seeing as all of them were already completed. Well… except this one. You’ve been putting off for so long. You had to face it sooner or later. Too soon for your liking.

You would meet with Miylo twice a week; you were place in the same tech class so the first meeting didn’t really count. He was a great teacher! A little quiet and very monotone, but very thourough none the less. By the end of junior year you ended up with a A-. You parents hammered you for not making it a plus but you’ve come to terms with it. He saved you. And you were grateful. You ended up losing contact the transitioning year and just never interacted again; almost completely forgetting about him.

He didn’t forget about you though. How could he?! You were the most beautiful girl in the entire school! Nobody could compare to you. What you didn’t know about him was he was s everely bullied and even contiplated ending everything. That was until you came along. Someone finally wanted to talk to him. Even if it was just for help getting a good grade. Taking to a pretty popular girl and getting money and an increases on his report card? Sign him up. That one day changed the entirety of his life, he owes his life to you.

All he remembers is being called down to the counselors office; parents ready waiting and giving him the most bone crushing hug. Everything seemed like a blur from then on. But what he can remember is how he got there in the first place.

“A friend of yours, (Y/n) (L/n) had some concerns about your health. She said she’s been paying attention to you for awhile and noticed your self destructive behaviors,” says the counselor.

What? Before he started tutoring you he thought you were a teachers pet and hog all the chances for others to answer questions but if saves him the embarrassment of public speaking he doesn’t mind. You’ve noticed him? In more than just at tutor-tutee way? Nobody ever notices him. Not even his own parents. It’s evident with the amount of shock on their faces and all their “why didn’t you tell me’s” and confessions of love. He’s mad at you at first. He spends at least 3mths in that looney bin because of you. He hated it at first. All the questions and discard for privacy. But… slowly he changes. He becomes healthy and happy again. His mind drifts back to you. The way you would answer questions when you noticed the teachers eyes land on him, the way you would always do the presenting part in group presentations, the way gum and smiley faced erasers would apprear on his desk on a particularly hard day. You cared. You did this for everyone you saw struggling. Not that he took that into account, in his mind, he was the only one. You thought he was special. And he wouldn’t let anyone take his spot in your heart.

When he got out, he decided he was a changed person. Senior year would be his redemption arc and you would finally be together. You already were in his mind; you were just to scared. He saw straight through your act. That’s why you would do all that stuff for him instead of just coming out and saying it. He needed to pull himself together and become a better person first. He wanted you to be proud of him. He wanted you to see him for all he’s worth. He joined all the clubs you were in and surpassed all expectations. He became popular, inserting himself into all your social circles and even became a student council member beside you. Or should I say infront of you? The President. And the validictorinan.

Ugh! Since when did he become so…so great!? You don’t have any clue where this change in him came from and you want him to go back to the way he was. You were the best! You didn’t work this hard for your parents approval for nothing. They would always compare you time him. Miylos the student council president they’d say. He would never get an A-, he would never miss a volleyball game because he was overwhelmed with school work, he would never feel how school was the only true escape from an emotionally disabled household. He would never understand. Oh, but he did.

He’s been in your house plenty of times to know what’s going on. Not that you’ve know of course. That explains all the missing panties. Hmm, maybe that explains where all of your pens have gone too. And your half eaten food, and the Polaroids you’ve take of yourself, and your rose to-… Regardless! You’ve had enough of this! You needed him to know just exactly how you felt. What other way than asking him to meet you under the tree on Fri before school ends?

“I already know,” Hm?

“Good. I couldn’t hold this in any longer. You do know just exactly what I feel,”

“Oh my love but I do,” ….my love? What is he taking about.

“What am I talking about? Oh sweetheart, don’t play coy with me. It’s okay; I’ve always know the real reason behind your aggression towards me. Your just shy is all. I just want to let you know that I love you too. More than you could ever know,” he steps forward and arms outstretched and expecting a hug. He push on his chest and stare up at him in confusion. Love him? You don’t love him, you despise him! He chuckles.

“Like I said, it’s okay to be open about how you feel. That’s why you brought me here isn’t it?” What! This wasn’t some sort of confession. Well…technically… but not one of love! He was here to understand how much you loathed him. He had to not like you either, that’s why he did everything you did right…Right!? He hated you. He had to!

“Hate you? (Y/n), I could never hate you. After all you saved me,” at this point you thiught he was joking with you. Furthering your suspicions of his true feelings. You tried marching pasted him only for him to grab you arm. You tried to shuck him off but his grip was strong. All those clubs really built up his physice. He wasn’t the same scrawny little geek you remembered. He was larger, seeming as if he grew a few more inches. He filled out his uniform more, and his eyes became brighter and more emotional. If your affliction for him didn’t exist you’d think he was cute. The only thing that seemed hadn’t changed about him was his unwavering love and loyalty to you. He huffs out an exasperated sign, snapping you out of your thoughts.

“I get that your shy my love, but that’s there’s no need to be so rude. We’ll work on a more conventional way to express your emotions,”

“Do I have to spell it out for you! I don’t like you, you creep! You’ve been following me around every since the beginning of this year. You’ve taken everything from me. Clubs, student records, student president! Do you know how hard I’ve worked to get here! You act so laid back and relaxed about everything and it drives me nuts! I hate you!” You push past him again, angry tears forming from all the supressed emotional turmoil. He doesn’t grab you right away which makes you think he’s finally got the picture. Didn’t anyone ever tell you no to turn your back on the enemy? You’re suddenly grabbed and thrusted into the base of the tree. He tsks at your behavior before sighing again. Hands have now moved to your shoulders and apply slight pressure keeping you in place. If that didn’t do it, the way he's looking at you would’ve have; fierce and warning, and yet, filled with so much adoration.

“We need to fix this little attitude of yours, don’t we?” It’s rhetorical. You know that but you feel the urge to snap back at him. Before you could get a word out, you can her the distance ringing of the school bell signaling the end of the day. His phone rings on the last ring. He gives you a hard glare telepathically telling you not to move. He stands straighter and picks it up. With what you heard, the student council meeting is starting soon and the others are wondering where you two are. Saved by the bell. He sighs before grabbing his bag that he placed down as long as your hand before sighing.

“Unfortunately, we can’t continue this conversation my love. Lucky for us, it’s Friday. We’ll have the rest of the weekend to work it out of you,” he throws a coy smirk your way and grabs at his belt, readjusting it a bit. God, what will you do?

Hey loves! Hope you enjoyed. I’m thinking about making apart to of this. I wasn’t really confident in it and decided that I should give more explanation to Miylos behavior. This could just be his introduction and I’ll expand on it. Let me know what you think. Thank you for reading!

-Love, Sos❤️

#yandere x you #yandere x y/n #yandere x reader #yandere! nerd x reader #✧✩🜚𝐅𝐔𝐋𝐋 𝐅𝐈𝐂 🜸𖤐✰

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werezmastarbucks · 1 day ago

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snowball pt1

incarnations masterlist

obsessive, deranged, stalker!yoongi x f!complicit!reader

in which, no matter what you do, you can't seem to escape him

word count: 9831

music: can't get over you by joji, haunting by halsey

warnings: violence, casual threats of violence towards the reader (although it never gets to it), toxic relationship, obsessive behaviour, yoongi has rage episodes; texting and driving - that is so dangerous, my bff literally got into a car accident like that, smut, voyeurism, intense jealousy, hardcore stalking, codependent, dysfunctional relationship, gaslighting, manipulation

You open the door and see a mid-sized box sitting there, waiting for you. You kneel to pick it up - rather heavy - then gasp with indignation.

It's your address but not your name. Cause last time you checked, Min Yoongi was a boy and lived in a different place, but that's beyond words. You tiptoe back into the apartment, pulling the door closed after yourself with the hook of your finger, then put the box down a little heavier than normal, and bow to read the information again, just to be sure.

Yoongi has been doing this very funny thing when he puts in your address when ordering something online. He types in the right name and even the phone number, so the delivery people call him to specify the time of dropping the parcels by at your place. At first, you thought it was funny, just about one single time. But the joke got old very quickly; next, it became irritating when he would barge in questioning why you weren't at home on this day and on that time, when the delivery people wanted to grace you with their presence.

Absurd? Sure.

Then you started suspecting he does it on purpose. Like, on the fourth time.

Then finally he confessed: he is kind of paranoid about the secret services learning his address. Why would secret services want you, Yoongi? you asked him, baring you teeth in bitter irony. Of course, of course. The secret services just sleep and dream about catching and seizing an architecture student with bad blonde dye. Sure. He said, accept my quirks, or we're not friends anymore.

You never had a choice anyway. Surprisingly, all his parcels arriving to your house is a minute problem compared to Yoongi's whole presence in your life. Because not being friends is completely out of the question, and it's empty threats. Just like his threats to smack you, kick you or break both your arms. It's just his mouth talking, talking. In reality, even if Yoongi has a violent bone in him, he applies it on others, and not you.

You finally start piecing things together when the sixth parcel in a row is delivered to you, and he calls the same day demanding to know if you accepted it. Eventually he has even adjusted the deliveries to your schedule so that his shit doesn't get shipped back anymore.

You push the box to the wall with your foot carefully and go back into the room to continue what you were doing.

It takes the whole evening and a portion of the night for you to finally message Yoongi about the thing. Weird that he hasn't reached out himself yet; usually he watches over his parcels like a hawk, but maybe he is really busy. His studies are hard, and the spring time is coming with exams, so he is normally buried under the piles of digital books, hunched in his small bed, slouched, busy.

At one in the morning, you finally drop him a word, thinking about why you've been stalling. You know why. You just don't want to even let it into your mind.

If Yoongi comes round, he will stay. There's a lesser chance he will stay in the middle of the night, or that he will even drag himself out of the house. It's not that you don't want to see him; Yoongi is your best friend.

It's the reason why you don't want him to linger around.

The fluffy-headed short guy with white hair covering his eyes was the only one who heard you when you said something smells like smoke.

He walked across the room full of colourless, deaf, disinterested people, and nodded at you, signalling to show him the way. You weren't that alarmed - just thought the owner of the apartment (Namjoon) would be interested to know something is burning in his kitchen.

"I don't drink much", was all Yoongi said with a curvy smile that made his chin dimple, when you complained about people not paying attention. You walked into the small, round kitchen together, and he crooked his neck to see the empty pan heating up on the stove. You watched his calm, unhurried movements as he pulled a towel off the cupboard and wrapped his hand in it; then pushed the pan away and turned off the stove.

He then turned and dug his gaze into you, slightly tilting his head back, because the hair was an obstacle to see.

He looked at you like he recognized you.

Like you said something funny: his eyes got warmer.

Student parties must have collided people together; as a concept, it was invented to hook people up. However you didn't hook up; Yoongi said 'bim bam boom', and you bent in half with laughter. You drunk a lot that night, and everything he did seemed funny. This chemically blonde guy, throwing his head back instead of moving the hair away, dry with his words, sarcastic, kind of looked around like he disapproved of everything at the party. Except for you. You were at the same campus, different courses. You had seen him before: a snow-white head floating around the university, hard to miss in the sea of black. He had seen you longer.

You have an idea that Yoongi... likes you? Craves you? Watches you? He's the type of friend that feels like you've known him for years when in reality even 450 days ago you hadn't known his name. Everything just clicks. The music taste. The outlook on the world. The judgment. The favourite type of coffee. The only thing that's different is the ambition. He knows he will be an architect. He knows he will earn a lot of money. He sees the path and he wants it. He plans to some day build a luxury spa center in the shape of a huge lotus flower.

You? You survive on coffee he brings over in the morning, often on the run, the takes off to the other side of the campus. And just row. Go outside. Read books. You are interested in other things. You watch him, thinking, wow. This is a monster.

Then Yoongi watches you back and you realize he doesn't look this way at anybody else.

Yoongi is the best companion you've had in all your life. It's inexplicable. He's idiotically funny and rude, dry, trustworthy, serious when it's needed, and so, so blonde. When in crowd, his head shines, beams at you kilometers away, you can't lose him.

You can't lose him.

But you still doubt when sending him a message.

"your parcel has arrived" "what parcel?"

You snort into your pillow, look at the time. No way he will travel from another district now, should be safe.

"the parcel you have ordered at my address, again" "oh that parcel."

then, a minute later, he texts:

"it arrived at one in the morning?"

You sigh and shake your head no although he can't see you. You can feel the indignation through the message. One text is usually enough to tell Yoongi's mood. You don't know how either of you does it - you feel him. He is pissed about something and will take it out on you now. You refuse to reply, instead plunging deeper into your bed, curling comfortably under the blanket, toes slightly cold, pressing against each other.

"was the delivery guy a vampire or sum" "ffs"

You brush him off and switch your apps to pacify yourself before sleep by staring at funny videos. But Yoongi becomes active in the night time, just like his theoretical vampire delivery guy who brings parcels at night.

"why you waited all day to text me?"

The ringing demand in it glares at you; Yoongi doesn't let go. You start suspecting he is lamenting the fact that he won't come over tonight. Just when you reinforce your comforting thought, he drops another-

"i'll be in fifteen" "no"

You jump out of bed. Your feet kick, the blanket flies up like it's a bat's wing.

You don't know where the determination came from, but you want to punish him for always misguiding his feelings onto you in the form of scold.

Yoongi likes spending time with you. And can't get enough of it. And blames you for it, sometimes even trying to gaslight you into thinking you're the needy one.

It's a bit clinical.

He is lucky he is so eye-cuttingly cute and so, so captivating with that feral aggressive charisma that you can't stop keeping him around.

You walk barefooted into the corridor where the massive parcel is still patiently waiting by the wall, abandoned and shy. You put your feet into the funny monkey-shaped rubber slippers Yoongi gave you because 'they reminded him of you', and then stall for just a second, thinking what kind of wrath you will be calling upon yourself. Doesn't matter. If it means you get to go to sleep soon, it will be worth it.

You sneak into the street and place the fucking parcel next to the neatly tucked dumpsters. The weather is dry, street is clean. The parcel almost looks like a pet you're kicking out. The phone in your hand, edge of it painfully poking you into the palm, vibrates again.

"no, twenty, the lock is jammed" "pick it up by the dumpsters"

A pause.

"you didn't" "i need to go to sleep"

You curse yourself for even texting him in the first place. It's almost like you knew what he'd do, and wanted to take your chances.

Seriously, risking that grumpy, displeased, ruffled, snow-head Yoongi will show up at your doorstep in the dead of night, has the truly Gemini edge to it. You want it. But you don't though. You love his energy. You know it will disrupt your whole night and make you oversleep in the morning.

Yoongi's insults and complaints trickle into your phone in the form of notifications peeping in your hand as you walk back to the building. The night spring air, still cold for promenades, not flowery-scented yet, is threatening to kill your desire to sleep with the freshness, so you hurry.

You beg the universe to make Yoongi tired enough tonight so that he gives up, but you know these prayers are futile. Not even God will want to deal with that angry, obsessive raccoon.

Twenty minutes later, a notification of yet another text echoes the ring of the doorbell:

"you really threw my fucking keyboard to the dumpsters"

You turn off the light pretending it will exorcise him from behind the door like a demon. It doesn't work.

"open the door"

The phone is too big for your hands; you squint at its light.

"you got it? go home" "didn't freeze my ears off for half an hour to not beat you up now" "go home" "open ze door"

You hate how his dumbness puts a smile to your face. He bangs on the door outside. Two minutes before a neighbour peeks out and starts cursing him, and then Yoongi will unleash all he has, and you will be the butt of the joke.

"home"

You try for the last time.

"open. door."

He suddenly bangs so hard it reminds you of that scary-ish night when it dawned on you Yoongi might be crazy. These short, unexpected flashes of rage would have been completely off-putting if not for his unwavering devotion to your... friendship?

It was a short, eye-opening moment, really. You noted how Namjoon wasn't surprised at all, only, slightly upset. He looked guilty. Knew Yoongi way longer than you did.

When your elbow slipped off the window sill (tipsy) and you ouched audibly, rubbing it, it attracted attention of Joonho (drunk) who stumbled towards you, confusing you with someone else. You made sure he did, because he kept calling you Hani. You even tried to specify if he means the actress? but the guy was so wasted it was embarrassing. His whiskey breath engulfing your head like a helmet; you slouched trying to get away from him, from under the arm he pressed against the window. It was on the first and only storey of Namjoon's mother's modest but beautiful home. Nobody deserved what transpired. As you bent your shoulders and knees to get away, Joonho grabbed you by the arm in a more of a reckless, mindless drunk gesture, as in 'no wait', not even the 'you're not going anywhere' way. But Yoongi was there, ten steps away, elbowing his way to you. You came to the party together, a couple of besties, and left it together also, but in a very changed state of mind.

The whole scene didn't even last a minute - that's how quickly snowball head Yoongi made that decision; he noticed his hand on you, and something primal in him took the wheel. The time it took him to walk across the room couldn't be more than three seconds. He is a small, delicate boy: just about a head taller than you, thin wrists, more of a twink, actually. But the force with which he grabbed the poor drunk idiot belonged to someone you didn't know. With the whole body, Yoongi shoved him - only, there was a window in the way, and so Joonho got crashed into it, and then through it, and fell out on the grass in the yard.

The party went quiet. The shatter of glass, sharp, melodic like techno, contrasted with Yoongi's deadly pale face in that moment. You managed to catch the moment when the animal unclutched his brain, and the light returned to his eyes, rebooting his system.

But it was too late. Yoongi shoved a guy through the window for grabbing you without consent - and that was the thing you could never forget. That's that.

You have had several healthy conversations with yourself about that and so far still weren't completely sure this part of him isn't dangerous. Let's reframe it: not dangerous to you. The way he bangs on the door right now, booming through the quiet stairwell, can be anything. It can be your last night on this earth: it might be the animal and not Yoongi the friend behind the door.

You still get up from the bed, striding slowly through the sleepy darkness of your small rented apartment; he is luring you like a bog light. It's almost useless lying to yourself; you might not be in love with him. You definitely do not suffer from the smoky, bizarre obsession Yoongi seems to have about you. But you aren't ready to block his number either. Not out of fear. No. It's the... his eyes when the animal retreats.

You unlock the door and see him in the spring jacket that's too light for the nighttime. Nose still red from the cold, he is jumping lightly like he is either freezing or his bladder is full.

"This wasn't an invitation, you know", you grumble, standing your ground. Yoongi is about to take the step forward but stops himself, seeing that you're blocking the way to the corridor.

"I need to pee".

You roll your eyes. It's pleasant, almost delirious to pretend he annoys you. He does the same all the time; calls you immature to rile you up; forgetful to anger you; insists on following you, in order to see the whites of your eyes. It's youth and all its sweet, cringe-free pretence. You step aside with a sigh and mumble immediately:

"You leave after. I need to go to sleep like an hour ago. I need to get up early".

He sniffs shortly, the parcel he'd picked up by the dumpsters again inside your apartment. It drops from under his arm as he walks in and quickly kicks off his shoes and, without looking at you, walks straight to the bathroom.

He always does something there. Every time he's in there, you hear him open the mirror cupboard doors (he doesn't need to; there's nothing of his concern inside), shuffle around the products, the toothpaste and the brush on the sink, and moving the little sliding shelf next to the shower cabin.

When you ask him what he is doing, Yoongi usually replies that he "assesses". Sometimes it's easier not to inquire.

You look at the parcel resting at exactly the same spot next to the wall again. And simply walk into the bedroom. You hear him pee in the dead quiet of the apartment; then turn on the water. Your feet against the floor, still cold after the winter, and not a single alarm going off in your brain.

Maybe the animal is never out to get you.

You snuggle back into the bed still convincing yourself you will be able to command him away from under the blanket, from the shrimp position you've assumed. Once Yoongi noticed how you sleep, he wouldn't stop teasing you about being neurodivergent, the T-Rex hands making him snap with laughter. You've always thought it's the loneliness pose. The trying to curl into yourself for comfort.

The bathroom door opens, and he proceeds with silent, cat steps, and you only hear him when his jacket shuffles inside the bedroom.

"No street cl-"

"I remember", he mutters and takes it off. Losing him in the darkness is as impossible as in the crowd. He is all sugary-white like a ghost. You see his pale wrists grab the hems of the jacket and pull it off, then throw it back into the corridor, right on the floor. You close your eyes for a second.

Wouldn't be the first time.

"Why did you have to take it outside? What if someone had stolen my keyboard?" he whines, unmoving, in front of bed, like an alien visiting you with the intention to abduct.

You scoff into the pillow.

"The street is empty".

You think about how late it is, and it makes you moan. Only about five hours left of sleep.

"Maybe you should stop ordering your shit and putting in my address".

He hums indifferently. You can hear him doing something. The clothes rustle very softly, on the edge of audibility. You open your eyes to see what the fuck the guy is doing - he is sitting on the edge of bed, taking off socks. His house sweatpants he put on when leaving the house are also shining grey in the indigo dark of the room.

You never even thought of asking yourself what you two are. Have a feeling this dynamic is pretty rare. You missed the moment when Yoongi became a weird ghost present in your every day and not just a best friend.

He slowly walks around the bed crawling towards the other side, and gently lifts the edge of the blanket, like you're a forest deer that may dart if he produces a sharp movement.

"I need sleep", you warn him, muffled, against the pillow, and he sighs like he is at least sixty-eight,

"Yes? You only mentioned it forty times in the span of a minute. Go to sleep then".

Lying on your side with your head slightly turned, you see his rogue leg kicking his portion of the blanket down and lie on top of it as he stretches next to you.

Truth is, even his scent is so soothing that it immediately makes you sleepy. You get sleepy around him often. Psychologists say it's a sign of compatibility and peace? Yoongi doesn't touch you, not even by accident; he produces a single deep purr when his phone beeps from the corridor, in the pocket of his jacket. When it beeps again, you groan, irritation growing in you, and he groans in reponse, jumping off heavily, like it's your fault.

When he returns, you feel the bed cave in again, and close your eyes.

"We should do it more often", he says, and finally awkwardness dawns on you. You tense a little.

"Sleepovers", he clarifies and turns to his side. You can feel his eyes peering into the back of your neck.

You can't hear him breathe. You can't hear him walk. In the morning you wake up, shaking a nasty dream off yourself: you were walking in the forest, and a bird flew off the tree, tipping it, and the trunk fell on you, burying you on the ground. The weight is Yoongi's arm around your waste, pale fist relaxed next to your stomach, knuckles pointing to your solar plexus. His nails are always neatly cut, very short, clean, because he would nibble on them if he didn't get rid of them. Even his hand is screaming unrest. And yet, when he stays over, silently crawling into your warmth, pretending it's nothing, you sleep very well. The animal guards you.

He leaves before the classes start, forgetting the damn parcel near the wall in your corridor. Forgetting, right. Forgetting he put it there. The keyboard is so important that he forgets to take it with him. He forgets.

─────────────── ✧

Yoongi is surprisingly forgetful, although you find it a relief sometimes. Every fifth time it skips his mind that you had plans for an evening or he was supposed to pick you up from somewhere. You linger on those occasions demonstrating his absent-mindedness, hoping they are proof that he isn't completely consumed by you.

Ever since he bought an old used car, he's been your designated driver; the concept of him succeeding in his little ambitious projects (find an evening job, stay an A-student meanwhile, get a car) makes you feel more respect to him, gradually pushing the image of an irrational, chaotic, capricious snowball head from your mind.

Now you wish Yoongi thought a little more about you tonight specifically as you leave the gym. The empty dark street has become chilly about four hours ago; you take out your phone scanning the road with your eyes, searching for his little white Hyundai parked nearby. The only person who had shared the workout with you at such a late hour is leaving behind your back: it's a gym worker. A buff tall guy in a cap, also dressed too light for this early spring weather; he throws you one expressionless look, and you don't linger on his broad back. The phone in your hand lights up as you type a message to the only person you trust fully. Perhaps you shouldn't. But you do. You are in too deep.

"where are you?" "homy"

Of course. You walk slowly towards the empty bus stop, lit up softly with pinkish-lilac neon signs. Your butt feels fragile against the cold iron bench, and you wiggle.

"why???"

Yoongi replies with an annoyed emoji.

In a minute, he remembers.

"oh shit"

He probably is completely lost under his papers; exams are coming, and Yoongi is about the only person you know who sincerely enjoys studying. You don't really blame him; he will do it well himself. You simply chuckle, reading his swift chain of apologies, and put your workout bag under yourself to sit on something warmer.

"hang on, i will be there in 15"

The city is almost empty at midnight; through the glass wall, you watch the street with feeble plum trees recuperating slowly after another winter. Soon, this district will bloom pink and yellow, white and purple, and be very beautiful. You might even make Yoongi walk here with you, under the guise of simply spending time together, as opposed to sharing this beauty with him. Because he is kinda similar to all that bloom: fluffy and in light colours, and vulnerable. No, not that way. Yoongi is vulnerable like a bare wire.

You look at the time on your wristwatch and shiver slightly, not properly cold yet. One lonely person passes by on the other side of the road without looking at you. It's boring; time drags out so slowly, the hand of the watch seemingly unwilling to move. Your earphones are dead, so your brain gulps, squirms for immediate entertainment. You take the phone again, a part of you capricious like a little kid who is reaching out for cake right now.

"a creepy guy just sat next to me lol"

The reply comes almost immediately. You can clearly imagine Yoongi driving and typing; he does it all the time. One hand on the wheel, long fingers guiding the vehicle without any tension at all. And the eyes on the screen, looking from under his thick white hair.

"where ?" "i'm on the bus stop" "walk away but not far don't run"

You sigh and lean against the glass, smirking. No idea why. Simply bored. Maybe it will make him drive faster. The muscles in your legs hurt so much you dream about a hot shower and the crisp of your bed. It can't happen soon enough.

"???" "i crossed the street"

You pause for a little to make it seem more realistic. The street is still hollow, almost all buildings dark just like the closed gym behind your back.

"he's following me loool"

The silence that comes after makes you feel a little uncomfortable. You rub your eyes with your hand, then yawn. These bus stops are becoming more and more dreamy each year. Holographic ad spread out softly inside the glass with that pleasant greenish tint. The only bad thing about them are these ice-cold iron benches that always evoke the female childhood trauma of "do not sit on the cold surfaces!!!"

"where is he? keep walking" "i'm almost there"

You read the messages and feel your ears tune in with the quiet of the street. The big avenue several blocks away hisses and blares with the commotion, and his white shambly Hyundai, a personification of him, is supposed to divert from there any second now. You stand up, pulling the bag onto your shoulder, and manage to make several steps forward, when you hear Yoongi before you see him.

His little car, an old, hardworking baby he clawed out for five million won, is sliding across the clean, still chilly asphalt, and Yoongi brakes sharply next to the bus stop. The driver door kicks open, and you realize he will never not be attractive to you. From the moment he crossed that dense, smoke-filled living room in Namjoon's house, he stood out to you in the ways that are subtly beyond simple explanation. There's a certain flexibility in the way he exits the car, with shoulders already raised, a little cat ready to fight a rottweiler; hair shining against the unevenly lit dark midnight street. The white hair that takes in the chewy neon lights of the bus stop like a sponge.

His eyes scan the space behind you as you walk towards the car unhurriedly. Yoongi cuts the distance between you in two strides, his jaw slightly unhinged: his brain is either focused on keeping his mouth closed, or it isn't.

"Huh? Where..." he turns his head to look across the road. You fail to notice the vein on his throat: too dark; and the fists clenched by his sides: focused on his face. You grin apologetically. Yoongi's skin is pinkish as the holografic ad changes on the glass.

"Thought you'd be here sooner if I created a reliable threat for you".

Suddenly his eyes slide back onto you, and grinning dies by itself. His mouth opens again. He is wearing home sweatpants as always: probably dropped the pen and left the house immediately, throwing the jacket on his back, as he realized he'd forgotten about the gym night. The beatle-black eyes from under the hair drill into you for a second, and then Yoongi steps up. You're half-way to his car, the bag in your hand, something in your brain itching you to get inside sooner rather than later; you turn to look at him; Yoongi's shoulders raise back again, and in the next second, he crashes his fist into the glass wall of the bus stop.

An almost nauseating flashback into the party. Only, the sound of glass is different. Your foot freezes in front of you, neck almost cramping with tension as your whole body asks: fight? flight? stay?

The glass glitches into a grey net of shards; hundres of them fall on the ground in front of him at once, to Yoongi's feet. Your fist clenches the bag in an iron grip as your eyes bulge.

Together with the hissing sound of the glass, you see a short, almost unnoticeable burst of red: the skin on his fist explodes with the force he applied to the blow.

The back of his head drops, shoulders lower, relaxing; then Yoongi turns around, and your gaze slides onto his hand. Blood dripping on the asphalt. He relaxes the palm, straightening fingers, trying to feel how bad it is, probably.

"Good prank", he says softly. Your eyes dart back to his face. It's a little tired, greyish now that he had destroyed the source of the futuristic shine.

"You think you're overreacting a bit?" you ask. Throat dry. Yoongi shakes his head like he always does; it's not an answer, he ignores the question. He always fixes his hair that way, covering his eyes, like he doesn't want you to see them.

He drives back with one hand, the bloody palm lying on his lap, fingers half-bent, the crevices of the nails filled with red. At home, you tug on the sleeve of his sweatshirt, pulling him into the bathroom, and look at the broken knuckles in the bright light. Tiredness is forgotten; all nerves in your body are concentrated on him. You are in awe the most about how your brain is completely sleeping on the danger of him. Get into his car. Get him into your home. Kicking the long-forgotten and ignored keyboard in the parcel box, still unopened, still unneeded.

Yoongi yanks the hand away from you, refusing to give into the silent moment, and turns on the water. He knows his way around your place: opens the shelf doors and takes out the antiseptic and several cottons swabs. He starts cleaning his cuts by himself, blinking aimlessly, one tip of his mouth sucked in, like he doesn't feel pain at all.

"You wanna tell me something about your violent outbursts?" you ask gently, sitting yourself on the closed lid of the toilet.

Even behind the hair, you can see he is frowning.

"Just reacting to circumstances".

Yoongi is like a shark. He is slow, observant and unstoppable. Knowing him in his everyday life, you'd say he doesn't really react to things. Lets them slide off of him unless they pinch him directly.

"Overreacting".

He curls his mouth, and it might look capricious to some, but puts a smile on your face.

"Don't be toxic".

It's the first time in the whole year and a half you've known him, that he opens up:

"I have big emotions".

"About?"

Yoongi puts out his hand above the sink, dissatisfied with the intricate work the swab does. And pours the antiseptic straight to his knuckles; you can see the separate pieces of skin upturned by the blow, the spots of collision; the abrasion exposing his red flesh. It sizzles and bubbles as the hydrogen peroxide bites into his hand. The natural empathy makes your jaw ache for a moment as your eyes clutch the view. Yoongi doesn't flinch. He makes a fist softly, then opens the cupboard again and searches for a bandaid. You completely forget he avoids the question again; the defined curve of his jaw has an almost glistening clarity to it; you leave the bathroom to get him a band from the kitchen.

Neither of you feels like speaking. You feel a bit shitty for your little stunt, finding it tasteless in any context; however, with Yoongi, the problem of it is pushed to the background.

You turn around on the other side, half-asleep, and bump into him. Had crawled from the edge of the bed, so soundlessly, closer to you, like he is a snake shapeshifter. Sometimes Yoongi makes you think of the sleep paralysis demon standing above you as you sleep. The white of him an unmistakeable beacon in the blackness of your bedroom protected from the outside by thick purple curtains.

The sleepiness only allows about 40% of your brain to function, so, just like when you're a little drunk, the conventional defenses are down. Your hand lifts up from the mattress and gets to his head; curious, you rake the hair off his forehead, and Yoongi opens his eyes, two black slits, cat-like, on the white face. His wounded hand flinches under his chin but rests. You see the top part of his face so rarely, like it's an unexplored, or forbidden, territory. His strong, smooth forehead is alien under your palm. You don't know what you expected - perhaps not two perfectly symmetric, angular eyebrows. His eyes watching you lazily, half-lidded.

He says,

"I won't let anything happen to you".

The sound is blunt against the pillow. And the next second - perhaps you dreamt it? he charges at you, like a spider.

─────────────── ✧

You rarely see your sister. The family - a sore spot in your body - is a distant concept. You've thought of yourself as alone the last five or so years. Relatives staying behind in another city, that naive, tall, young girl with fencing as a hobby being your only thread connecting you to the blood. She is reserved, too. The children in your family... you feel the weird, seismic connection in between how Yoongi hides his eyes from you, and the arm-length distance your own sister is keeping you at. Never talking about feelings. Never sharing the trauma of growing up in a religious fanatics family. But in the short hugs you exchange once every two years, there's still familiar, deeply-hidden flame: i love you. Like it's an embarrassing secret, like it's something dirty.

She meets you at the coffeeshop near the university, and you try to pretend like he is your personal poltergeist pet when he comes round exactly an hour in, having given you two time to reconnect. He said he might. You know his 'might', unlike with other men, is always actually 'definitely'. The smaller the deal he makes about his promises, the more sure they are to become true.

The last time you've seen this girl, she was still in high school. Now, barely out of it, she is growing into a young woman. Five years behind you, the same eyes though. You see them stare at Yoongi curiously when he leans against his chair, his arm spread on the back of yours, fingers tracing symbols on your spine casually. There was no definite let's date between you, of course. This is you, your familial curse, and Yoongi fitting into the shape of it perfectly. All smoke, all implications instead of proclamations.

He is to be stared at, you don't find it criminal. Feral, slender, slightly stooping, he shakes his hair onto his eyes, then, surprisingly, puts his finger into it and moves some away, showing an eyebrow. Stares back at her.

"You look alike", he grins shyly, the corners of his smile forming tiny half-moons on his cheeks. The conversation screeches to a halt when he arrives: not that it was natural before, so his sudden appearance actually made it worse. He is disruptive to any system you build around yourself; barging in, throwing snowy glow, drawing glances. Yoongi doesn't contribute any more to the conversation, just leaning back, relaxed, sipping black coffee, his fingers scratching your back. Sometimes her eyes dart to him, like she is saying things for him to hear and acknowledge. She has always been like that: transparent in her focus. Eyes bigger than yours, she is like a simpler copy of you.

What you fail to notice is how Yoongi keeps meeting her gaze, never refusing her a return look.

"You should see her more often", he suggests when you leave the coffeeshop. Yoongi's hand envelops yours in an insufferably warm gesture. Feels right. That's what doesn't let you rest.

"The girl clearly misses you".

"When I text, she rarely replies", you note, "we both have problems... with communication".

He doesn't press.

You don't see your sister for another four years after that.

─────────────── ✧

Yoongi doesn't kiss; he devours you. He shows with all his body that he wants you. You still don't officially date: rather, you belong to each other. With every touch that your spare each other, attraction grows, like you have been put under the spell. Only, he's been put earlier. Otherwise, it's monotonously sweet, like breathing in the drug.

It's disruptive to studies; you can't leave your rented apartment for days, curled, pressed into the mattress, sometimes without touching, sometimes just talking. Although it would be fair to mention that talking happens less often when his mouth is in your vicinity.

Yoongi's favoutire meal: what's in between your legs. He brings over food for you and starves, waiting until you're finished, to glue himself to your vulva until you visibly thrash around. He doesn't stop when you come; you have to pull his head away with force and in the moments when his eyes flick up on you, you see the animal is at the wheel, trying to cannibalise you. He never hurts you, unless you ask; no, he needs you metacarnally. The first time you have actual sex, it's his head pressed against the inner side of your thigh, tongue licking your residual from his lips, the hand caressing your stomach because you're shaking. And the quiet, thin "I need to fuck you now; please". You think he is being too careful for someone who might call you an idiot 'as a joke' four hundred times in one day, so you just whisper an okay; you are still coming down from an orgasm that makes your legs go numb. Your limbs go numb with pleasure, all senses focusing in the center of your body where Yoongi quickly pulls down his pants and crawls onto you like a shadow parasite. That's how you know the animal is deeply in love with you: it slides his dick inside gently, swiftly, and lets Yoongi moan into your shoulder, which immediately activates your protective instincts. He fucks you long and tender, fast, and slow; he has a habit of clenching his cock at the base so that he doesn't come too early even though you'd prefer him to sometimes.

Yoongi has a habit of pressing his lips together to form a straight line which makes him look like a frog. When he studies, he becomes deaf to the phone calls. He walks, putting his legs too wide, because his balls are too big. He washes twice a day, keeping clean, and never fails to mention how you are just a step away from clinically disgusting because - oh, the horror - you shower only in the evening, before bed.

He loves you; there is not a single doubt in your mind about that; albeit in his own lunatic way. It's the love that smothers you in the morning when he is clingy from sleep and follows you around the apartment like a puppy, his hands roaming from the top of your neck to the undersides of your knees. He doesn't give you any pet names, preferring to repeat your actual name like it's his prayer. You hear the tone that creeps into the normal interactions, even when he just calls you for something.

You get to move his hair away from the eyes, and he gradually gains the habit of brushing the bangs to the sides. His eyes are now open to the world; just about anybody can look into them when you are out in the street. Yoongi doesn't need to order parcels at your address and attract your attention by starting petty fights about nothing, anymore. You are all his. Every time he calls, you struggle to say no, because you drown in him, too. You, you don't have to call at all.

Sometimes he just turns up on the doorstep like a genie, like he feels you need him.

He is - what do they say - simply too good to be true.

─────────────── ✧

In the summer, he has time to work like he always does, and be at your side. Like a guardian. Like a security. When walking along the road, he pushes you to the other side on the pavement, away from the cars. Shielding, hiding you. When you tell Yoongi his care is overbearing, that you don't need him to accompany you everywhere, he gaslights.

Yoongi is lounging on your bed with the polaroid album in his hands. His hair is growing out; you had noticed with a surprise that it has a slight wave. It's incredibly cute. The roots are dark: he has an appointment next week with the hairdresser who is going to turn him back into the immaculate snowball. You call him snowball head, and he rages about it, weirdly, like it's an insult. You break your brain to understand what exactly about it he finds so irritating. So you call him that often.

"Snowball head", you coo from your desk. You look at him. Yoongi has already redirected his gaze from the pictures to you, staring through the opening in the Ikea cubicle shelf. His eyes are dark like when he is about to snap.

"Although the snow is dirty, huh?" you chuckle, "I need to go to the store".

"You're not going anywhere", he taps on the page of the album with his index finger. His nails always clean and short, digging into the skin. Otherwise he'd make a mess.

"Until you tell me about these people".

He wants to know your past relationships and the present. And maybe even the future. You found that indulging his bursts of possessiveness with condescension is easier than arguing. Yoongi is not dumb; he knows he behaves like a maniac sometimes. Grabbing your wrist when you say hi to people. Asking about every single face in the pictures.

You leave the chair and stroll towards the bed, painfully slowly. Every time he is in horizontal, something in the dark, meaty depths of your brain commands you to get excited. No matter what he does; no matter how he acts; the picture of Yoongi's long legs on the blanket and his dishevelled white-grey hair on your pillow is an order. Maybe you are broken, too. By the time you settle yourself next to him, pushing the elbow into the blanket next to his rib, you almost forget what he wanted to ask.

"Who's that?"

"My classmate. We wedded in second grade", you look up at his jaw next to your face. "In the girls' toilet, with pom-pom thread rings".

"Ever got divorced?"

When you clearly try to rile him up, he usually plays along. The slant of his eyes is irresistible: the upper lid ending too low, making him look like a cat, inner corner like an elegant stroke of a brush. And he knows it. Sometimes Yoongi just lets you stare at him and keeps quiet.

"No".

You watch him unravel slowly, under the surface. The submarine made of hell, fire, passion and blood just below the still water. A slow smile creeps onto your face as you drop your head on his shoulder.

"Where is he?" he asks suddenly. Your brows fly up.

"No idea. Haven't seen him since school".

Yoongi blinks once, a little too hard, and flips the page of the photo album. His silence feels like old crusty paint that scrubs against the fingers. He bites his lower lip musingly.

"I need to go to the store", you repeat. Yoongi ignores you. He is looking through the album at the people you used to know: childhood friends; university pals he is also acquianted with; past best buddies. He doesn't ask any more questions, and that is worse than him complaining, or interrogating you. He looks like he is updating a file in his head, marking them. You sniff through your nose, pushing yourself off the bed and try to get up to get dressed. The July sun is low; stores will be closing soon.

His hand grabs your elbow quicker than it takes to notice. Pulls you back. You ask yourself why it arouses you rather than irritates. Yoongi finally lets go of the album, throwing it to the side; it slides off the blanket and falls to the floor with a thump. This is the last time you ever see the thing. After this, the album disappears. You know Yoongi took it, in retrospective. You know he presses you down with anger, shoving his tongue inside your mouth like he is searching for traces of unfaithfulness behind your teeth. You know this is not a red flag but a vast poppy field. But it intoxicates you; the sound of his throat as he draws a breath is a fucking melody; you know, if he keeps you home for too long, in the morning he will bring you the groceries you needed, without even asking for the list.

─────────────── ✧

"I don't actually think you're stupid, you know that? I wouldn't be with a stupid person".

You pout angrily.

"Then maybe change up your nicknames for me".

"It's not nicknames", Yoongi is trying to make peace. His freshly dyed and cut hair is shining in the kitchen; short strands on top stand up, unburshed. The romantic wave is gone. You try to push the stubborn strands down, but this discoloured hair is more like plastic now. Yoongi drags the spoon inside the plate, no doubt to irritate you further, gathering chunks of egg.

"Why do you get to piss me off, but I don't?"

You stare at him in sincere awe.

"I piss you off? When do I ever piss you off?"

He rolls his lazy morning eyes. Lopsided mouth chews, opening and closing. His lips are raw pink.

"You know".

You hold yourself against the table, invested no to end.

"I don't".

"Call me snowball head".

"I never got what's so offensive about it".

"I just don't like it; and when you pull me by the hair; and you keep doing that".

He drops his head, focused on egg again. Your hand can't help itself; it gets into his hair once again to see the reaction. It never occurs to you that maybe you are imperfect, too. Yoongi just sighs, his slender shoulders looking paler now that the hair is white, and the tee he is wearing is also white.

"That is such a strange thing to be pissed about".

"You're a strange thing", he hoots.

"No, you".

"No you".

You look at your phone to check the time, and get distracted. Meant to see how long he has before he needs to leave for work. You, you get free summers. Because Yoongi.

"What is it?" he asks after a while. His eyes now awake. He looks from above the table, across the tiny kitchen, focused like he is about to jump. You huff and throw the phone on the counter.

"28 Years Later dropped, I was reading comments".

"Really?"

"Oh, of course not. I am lying to you, I was texting other guys".

The emotional tone change is exhausting. It happens with him about seven times a day. It's draining. Yoongi tenses his jaw muscles, spoon near his mouth.

"An hour after waking up, already in the mood, huh?"

Your eyes bulge with indignation.

"And who ruined it!!!" you almost yell. Yoongi knows how to push and pull. He has a built-in barometer inside his skin. He gets up from the table and walks over to you, and you deem it your duty to fight him off a little. You can never encourage this. You can never resist him when he puts his hands on both sides of your waist. But not before swiping your phone off the counter and looking through it.

"Honestly this is humiliating", you complain, calmer. Trying to get to him. There's faint stubble on the tip of his chin giving away the fact that he is a full twenty-three year old man.

"I don't distrust you", he booms quietly. One hand grounding you to the place, firmly, but non-aggressively. It's always him acting like he has to help you come to your senses. Like he isn't the one who needs his brains tweaked.

"Just everybody else".

"So that means you distrust my intellect".

"You are naive. People flirt with you and don't even notice".

"I notice, I just don't care".

You lower your face to try and look into his. He is finally satisfied, his finger working the display of your phone. Quickly changing apps, he is checking every single page at the speed of an AI bot.

"I do".

"Why?"

Yoongi's arm tenses a little, blue veins on the forearm shooting through the flesh, as he pulls you closer. It's trusting. The space in between is such a good place; you just wish he saw that, too. The morning bliss is still there, in the tickling kiss he places on your cheek.

"Because you are mine".

The kiss turns into a soft bite. It's not the first time you suspect Yoongi would, in fact, eat you, if only it wouldn't mean your death.

This is the day when his delusion allows him to think that telling you he had installed a camera in your kitchen would be a good idea.

In an ugly twist of irony the empty pan on working stove had brought you together and then separated you.

You forget to turn it off after you drain the water from the pan.

Twenty minutes later, you get a message on your phone:

"pasta's about to burn"

It makes zero sense to you so at first you ignore it. Yoongi texts again:

"y/n, turn off the stove"

Once you are shaken back into reality, you do start smelling the smoke.

It is a double flinch: first, a the closely avoided tragedy.

Second, at the realization.

You walk into the kitchen and push the pan away, turning the handle. Then you freeze, in the empty space that is now filled with the ghost of Yoongi.

Simplistic questions seem dumb to ask, but you cannot override them.

"how did you know?"

This is why he calls you a dummy sometimes. You know. You just stall endlessly, never wanting to believe what your brain is computing. Always hoping Yoongi would have a different explanation.

"that's why i put it in your home" "put what?" "you won't find it 😊"

You retreat from the kitchen, and he texts:

"nooo don't go"

You collapse onto the chair in your bedroom, and your head snaps to the sides.

Yoongi is a spider with eight eyes.

Finally, the wake up call rings in your ears with the sound of an ambulance siren. He. Put. A camera. Into your kitchen.

Is he watching from the phone? His working computer? Is he even at work?

You throw the phone of your desk and jump up, walking around the bedroom. Your eyes scan the space; for some reason you are drawn to the window, so you stand on your tiptoes to feel through the curtains, unsure of what you are doing. The phone keeps buzzing on the desk. You hit your laptop shut, seeing the small black eye of the web camera staring back at you.

"cold" "colder" "there aren't any in your bedroom, only the laptop" "wait you mad?"

Your throat throbs with the emotion you couldn't describe even if you had a thesaurus at your disposal.

"are you insane? yoongi are you insane?" "dont b dramatic" "YOU ARE LITERALLY INSANE"

... "and whose fault is that?"

After you do not reply for a while, he clearly gets nervous. He simply underestimates the implications of what he's done.

"you can't even walk into a room on the first try, always keep bumping into shit you expect me to just leave you for a whole day and hope you don't kill yourself?"

For the first time in the whole while you've known him, dated him, kept him in your apartment, you start sobering up. You can't even find the camera. You walk back into the kitchen with shame, like it's you who has done the crazy thing, and start going centimeter by centimeter while Yoongi is spamming you on the phone. You can't find the fucking camera. It's either very small, or he is, in fact, a demon who penetrates your place in spectral form and watches you, invisibly, sitting on your ceiling.

You raise your face to it and stare into the white, feeling yourself go insane, too.

In thirty minutes, he is at the door. Banging, threatening, yelling. Pleading. Your name comes out of his mouth like a prayer. Like it's something you can almost taste. Something that he can eat forever. For a while, a long while, you do not feel attracted to him at all.

You do not let him inside the apartment, rather, stepping out bare footed, and hit him in the chest with your fists sideways, and he blames you for being literally the most performative bitch in the universe. He doesn't get the concept of personal space. There is no personal space: just you and his unwavering love.

There are no tears. It's not a tragic story. There's terror: you make him tell you where he hid the camera: it's tucked right under the window sill, in between two wires of your UV light lamp for the plants. The plants that you had been forgetting to water and that didn't die. Because Yoongi had been entering your place when you weren't there, and took care of them.

He has been everywhere in the creases of your existence, not only in between your legs; he wanted to fill your universe to the brim, so that you wouldn't see anything else.

"A hundred per cent of my life is you", he hammers, the edge of his jaw burning pink after your nails dragged along it. A failed slap on the face, turned scratching.

"Do you realize that?"

"You need help", you beg, crouching your fingers in horror. Trying to put some distance in between you.

"What I need to do, I think", he muses, "is to get you pregnant".

It's him thinking out loud. His eyes crawl up to the ceiling. Your feet go cold on the bare stone of the staircase cubicle. You step one foot, then the other, and it doesn't escape his attention.

His words make you want to sneak back into the flat and lock the door, but he knows the code. He punches it himself most of the time, when he doesn't feel like waiting for you to get the door. There's nowhere to run from him. The serpent brain peeks through his pale skin. Snowball head wants to tie you to himself with something unbreakeable. You step back.

"No, Yoongi, no-"

"I won't force you, just saying. You won't have to work anyway. I'll get a better job in no time".

And you know he means it. He is the first in his class. He is going for the highest marks. Several architectural companies already want him for apprenticeship after his graduation. He is a machine. He has all ends in his hands. And now you know: he is doing it for you.

"You don't get it, do you?" you whisper, "We're over. I am breaking up with you".

"We weren't dating", he replies, deadpan. You see he doesn't take it seriously. His neck crooks slightly, like he is studying you for the first time.

"You can't break up with me".

"I'll call the police", you utter, and he smiles. His small, square teeth click against each other, showing salmon-pink gums. Yoongi fills the whole space, a sixty-two kilogram guy with the sharp collarbones from forgetting to eat anything except your pussy, for days.

"You'll call the police? What are you, a stalking victim?" he grins wider with sincere disbelief. The raised eyebrows indicate he isn't mocking you.

You cling onto the door, and he steps to you, making you tense your body like a spring. His slow, black eyes look you up and down, then he puts his warm hand on top of your palm.

"We love each other. Or you don't think so?"

"This is not love", you mutter. You see his face like it's the first time: nose too wide. Tired eyes. Chapped lips. You saw it before. But now it's without the bright-pink tint of desire.

"It's mental disorder".

"Really? And what's so bad about this mental disorder? Do you not like it?"

"You really don't understand what's so wrong about watching me when I am alone", you gulp, almost hysterically, "going through my phone and stealing my things?"

"For every thing I steal, I put one extra back", he says quietly. "How are you planning to be without me, if you haven't restocked your own bath products in six months?"

The icicle slides down your spine. Without thinking what the fuck you're doing, out of sheer fear, you pull the door to yourself with all the might you have.

Yoongi produces a short grunt of pain; he has a strange relationship with it. He is barely human; his fingers that he uses to draw blueprints of flower-shaped buildings are caught in between the doorframe and the door for a second, but he is quick like a feline. You can hear him choke a little, then hum, like you simply kicked him in the thigh.

"You and me", he hoots from behind the door, shuffling. Perhaps he is jumping in place not to scream louder.

"This is not a normal thing. You act like I've crossed some boundaries when there were none. Y/N!"

A thunderous bang on the door. You run into the bedroom and try to swipe your phone. Your hands are shaking, and it falls to the floor, pushed away. You get to your knees and hit your head on the underside of the desk, barely feeling it.

You call the police, hearing only your own panting breathing. Yoongi's muffled voice goes,

"We are meant to be, Y/N!"

You have no idea what happened to his hand.

You change apartments.

You change the phone number.

You block him everywhere and check with Namjoon, telling the dude everything.

Yoongi doesn't follow you around the city and doesn't hunt your new address; he doesn't show up at the coffeeshops where you meet with friends, and doesn't pick you up from the studies.

But his presence is heavy like toxic smoke; you hear his breathing in the dead of night, picturing the snowy white silhouette shining in the blue blackness of night.

You still want him. When you want him really bad, you still do not allow yourself to unblock and text him. You know Yoongi will one day put you into the fucking basement.

When you want him really, really bad, remembering the softness of his hands, the eager need of his hips, the piercing stare of his perfectly-shaped eyes, the pale, smooth skin on his soft stomach, you put your hand in between your legs. It's safer. You hope he isn't sitting on your ceiling in those moments, watching you miss him.

He is like a dirty curse, like an ugly STD you know people will judge you for. The new apartment on the other side of the city still somehow bears his smell.

The insidious freedom you get on the first try feels like a fever dream. You fail to catch the dead finality to his words.

taglist: @mar-lo-pap

#yoongi x reader #yoongi x y/n #yoongi imagine #yoongi smut #myg

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kayewrite · 10 months ago

Text

Like I Do

(i just wanna love you)

genre:; fluff, best friends to lovers. word count: 1864

jeongin x reader. college jeongin!. architect student Jeongin! (writing for him cause university jeongin is what i always dream of *sobs*0

wherein: you tried to stop you feelings for your best friend especially he has a girl.

College is something—

Something you don’t want to do but have to do.

Something hard to do, but you need to do it anyway because your future is in there.

You sigh for the third time as you look at the problem you need to solve for your hydraulics subject. You feel overwhelmed, so you decide to close your book and stand up. "This won’t do. I need caffeine."

You walk to the cafeteria, buy what you need, and sit at the nearest table when someone places a piece of bread in front of you.

"Hello. Miss me?" You sigh, then look at the man who sits across from you.

"I’d rather swim than see you," you joke because you hate swimming.

"Aww, I missed you too." He smiles, then takes your coffee and sips, leaving the cup half empty.

Jeongin has been your best friend since high school. Now in college, where you take different courses, you rarely see each other. He’s studying architecture, and you’re in civil engineering. Neither of you is in your dream course, but you took it anyway.

"How’s life?" he asks after you both rant about that one instructor you share—the one who doesn’t teach well but gives hard quizzes anyway.

"Better until I saw you."

He squints his eyes and rolls them. "I think you’ll see me more often. My girlfriend is in your department."

You stop sipping your drink at his words but then pretend it doesn’t affect you.

You’ve had a long-time crush on this best friend of yours. I mean, who wouldn’t? He’s handsome and cute at the same time. He knows you better than anyone else in this world and is always there for you in hard times. Tell me, who wouldn’t?

But you tried to suppress it when you realized he’s a gentleman to everyone, not just you. He’s like that to anybody, and you’re not that special. Well, you are his best friend, but that doesn’t differ from how he treats his other female friends. He’s just that kind of potato to everybody.

"Who? Why didn’t you tell me?" You put on an upset face.

"Well, you’re busy. Every time I go there, I see you spacing out, so I can’t tell you."

"Well, that explains it." You try to act calm, but honestly, you’re just as hurt as if you were pricked by a tiny splinter that goes deeper into your skin until it swells. It hurts like hell, but you’re afraid to tell anyone—they might say you’re overreacting. It’s just a small wound.

"Are you angry?" Jeongin suddenly feels uneasy. He knows you well.

"Nothing. I’m just tired, but you drank my coffee, you prick."

He laughs in relief. "Don’t worry, I’ll buy you another." Then he stands up. You’re about to say it’s okay, but you feel too weak to do so and let him do what he wants.

He comes back with the same coffee and two cupcakes—your favorites: strawberry and chocolate.

"Here, our future engineer. Keep fighting!" He places them in front of you, cheering you up. You can’t help but smile. You seek comfort from him. You stay there until who knows when, talking and catching up until you run out of things to say.

You return to your study area, feeling like the burden you were carrying is now gone. You pick up your pen and answer your problems quietly.

You step out of your classroom, feeling happy. Your long quiz is finally finished. You’re not sure about your answers, but at least it’s done, and now you can rest!

"Ohoy there!"

You look toward the end of the hallway you’re walking down and see Jeongin with a tube slung over his back (probably his plates).

You smiled. "What are you doing here? Aren't you busy?"

"I was busy, but I need to look for my inspiration. Have you seen her?" Jeongin's eyes twinkled as he teased, but you knew he meant his girlfriend. The words made your heart sink, but you played along.

"She's inside taking the exam. You should be quiet and let her take it in peace," you replied, trying to keep your tone light.

Jeongin chuckled, leaning against the wall next to you. "How's the quiz? Did you ace it?"

"Finished, at least. Whether I aced it is a different story," you said with a small laugh. "But I'm just glad it's over."

"That's the spirit!" Jeongin gave you a gentle nudge with his elbow. "How about we celebrate? Let's go to that ramen shop we used to visit in high school. My treat."

The suggestion brought a rush of memories—late-night study sessions, bowls of steaming ramen, and laughter that echoed through the small, cozy shop. It was your place, your little refuge from the world. But now, the idea of going there with him, with her, made you hesitate.

You forced a smile and nodded. "Sure, sounds good."

Later that evening, the three of you sat around a familiar table at the ramen shop. The comforting aroma of broth filled the air, but the atmosphere was different, heavier.

Jeongin's girlfriend sat close to him, her arm looped through his as she leaned in, talking softly. You tried to focus on your ramen, stirring the noodles absentmindedly. Jeongin noticed and, without a word, pushed a small bowl toward you.

"I asked them to leave out the vegetables and tone down the spice," he said, his voice warm with familiarity. "Just how you like it."

"Thanks," you murmured, trying to ignore the way his girlfriend's eyes narrowed at the gesture.

Throughout the meal, she grew increasingly clingy, touching his arm, laughing louder at his jokes, as if marking her territory. You felt smaller with each passing second, the weight of your unspoken feelings pressing down on you.

"I need to go to the restroom," you suddenly announced, standing up before either of them could react. You needed air, needed space away from the suffocating tension.

In the restroom, you stared at your reflection, trying to compose yourself. But the tears came anyway, hot and uncontrollable. It was too much—pretending you were okay, pretending you could just be his friend when every moment with him reminded you of what you couldn't have.

You cried until you couldn't anymore, until the mirror showed a person you barely recognized, someone worn out from hiding too much. Wiping your eyes, you took a deep breath and made a decision. You needed to set boundaries, for your own sake. Jeongin had a girlfriend, and you had to let go of the feelings that were tearing you apart.

The next few days were hard. You avoided Jeongin, making excuses whenever he tried to hang out. You buried yourself in your studies, in anything that could distract you from the ache in your chest. But Jeongin noticed. Of course, he did.

One day, he cornered you outside your classroom, his expression serious. "You've been avoiding me."

You sighed, unable to meet his eyes. "I’ve just been busy, Jeongin. You know how it is."

"Bullshit," he said, his voice unusually sharp. "You’re not just busy. Something’s wrong, and you’re not telling me."

"Why does it matter?" you snapped, finally looking at him. "You have a girlfriend now. Go focus on her."

Jeongin blinked, taken aback by your sudden outburst. "Is that what this is about? You think I don’t care about you just because I’m dating someone?"

You shook your head, tears threatening to spill again. "No, it’s not that. It’s just… I need space, okay? I need to figure things out."

"Figure what out?" His voice softened, and he took a step closer, his hand reaching out to you.

You stepped back, shaking your head again. "I can’t do this, Jeongin. I can’t keep pretending that I’m fine when I’m not."

The silence between you was deafening. He looked at you, his brows furrowed in confusion, and maybe something else. You didn’t wait for him to say anything else. You turned and walked away, leaving him standing there, alone and confused.

Days turned into weeks, and the distance between you and Jeongin grew. You tried to move on, focusing on your studies and pushing your feelings aside. But every time you saw him, your heart ached, a constant reminder of what you’d lost—not just the chance to be with him, but the friendship you had cherished.

Jeongin, on the other hand, became more and more withdrawn. His girlfriend noticed, of course, and their relationship began to strain under the weight of his unresolved feelings. He missed you, more than he thought possible, and the longer he went without seeing you, the more he realized something that terrified him.

He liked you. He always had, but he had been too blind to see it, too caught up in the idea of finding the perfect girl that he overlooked the one who had been there all along. The one who knew him better than anyone, who made him laugh, who made him feel at home.

And now, he was losing you.

It was a rainy afternoon when Jeongin finally found you in the library, your nose buried in a textbook. You didn’t notice him at first, too engrossed in your reading. But when he sat down across from you, you looked up, surprised.

"Jeongin, what are you—"

"I broke up with her," he blurted out, cutting you off. His eyes were intense, filled with a determination that you hadn’t seen before.

You blinked, taken aback. "What? Why?"

"Because she’s not you," he said, his voice quiet but firm. "Because I’ve been looking for something, someone, who was right in front of me the whole time. And I was too stupid to see it."

Your heart pounded in your chest, a mixture of hope and fear swirling inside you. "Jeongin, you don’t know what you’re saying…"

"I do," he insisted, leaning forward. "I know exactly what I’m saying. I like you. I like you so much that it hurts, and I can’t stand the thought of losing you because I was too scared to admit it."

Tears welled up in your eyes, but this time, they were tears of relief, of joy. You had been holding onto this hope for so long, and now, it was finally happening.

"I like you too," you whispered, your voice trembling.

Jeongin smiled, that familiar, boyish smile that you had fallen for all those years ago. "So, what do you say? Should we give this a shot?"

You nodded, unable to speak past the lump in your throat. He reached out, taking your hand in his, and just like that, the distance that had grown between you disappeared. It wasn’t going to be easy, but for the first time in a long time, you felt like everything was going to be okay.

#stray kids x reader #stray kids fanfic #stray kids #stray kids jeongin #currently reading #college life #jeongin skz #jeongin x reader #jeongin x you #jeongin x y/n #jeongin stray kids #hyunjin #changbin #lee know #han #jeongin icons #bang chan #jeongin smut #reading

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getbreaded · 3 months ago

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Who knew the benches by the parking lot would be the perfect place for a zoom call? Really liking my mentor, and the exercises she's assigning. Recently I've taken up a new role in this student comission thing, and it's going well? I think I'm faking it till I make it :)

Got a big to do list for today:

- Submit the PosGeo report

- Finish the architecture design part of the PTR report

- Solve some MOM problems (last class I was completely adrift ༎ຶ⁠‿⁠༎ຶ )(Managed to solve all but one, and I've already sent an email to the prof scheduling an appointment so yayy)

- Take some CompSec notes if I can

There's this market happening today for swapping clothes/books that I wanna go to. Should I make time for it??

#uni #life #studyblr #study #academia #codeblr #information technologies #women in stem #study inspo #real academia

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noisylime · 30 days ago

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Form and Figure

2. First Impressions

parts: previous / next

battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

(eventual smut)

Chapter Summary: You attend the first session of Professor Wayne's Drawing 111 class.

You followed the signs through campus to the Crawford building with your portfolio bag tucked under your arm. You admired the architecture as you walked; GU was home to some of the oldest buildings in the city, spires and flying buttresses providing a striking contrast to the glass and steel of the surrounding area.

After a few minutes of wandering you noticed The Crawford building’s ornate facade risen high into the foggy evening, the classroom for Art 111 somewhere inside.

You strode up the long flat steps to the entrance and tugged on the handle. It was locked. You tried the other handle, but no such luck. Earlier in the day you’d gotten inside with no issues—now you noticed a laminated sign taped to the inside of the door’s window. “Open to the public 9 am to 4 pm. ID required for entrance all other times.”

You hadn’t had a chance to make it to the ID center yet, you’d been procrastinating paying the extra fee to have a new picture taken and card printed on top of all your school expenses. Now you regretted it.

At the door was a key-card scanner that looked out of place. You held your ID up. The scanner beeped, then it’s small light flashed red. No luck.

With your hands cupped against the door window, peeking around the taped sign, you could make out a few students further down the hallway. You knocked, trying to get their attention. One student glanced your way and you waved at them, then pointed at the door. They shrugged at you apologetically and turned back to their conversation as your breath fogged up the glass.

Shit.

You surveyed your surroundings for other options. The lawn in front of the Crawford building was sparsely populated, but someone would use the entrance soon, right? The class started after most had ended and the campus was mostly empty, but it wasn’t abandoned. If someone opened the door, maybe you could sneak in on their coattails.

The trick would be standing far enough away from the entrance to look like you weren’t loitering. Your expired ID had caused enough problems already and you didn’t want to find out what a GU security guard might make of it. You hoped Professor Wayne wouldn’t mind if you were a few minutes late.

You waited halfway down the steps. You judged the distance between yourself and the entrance to be not suspicious but still close enough to slide through after an unsuspecting student or professor. The portfolio bag was starting to dig into your shoulder despite its padded strap.

Across the lawn you sighted a pair of students turning towards the building. You pretended to be on your phone, trying and probably failing to seem casual. You thought you looked like the world’s least stealthy pickpocket lying in wait for a score.

“Hey,” you said into you calculator app. “How’s it going at Mora’s?”

Titus would only be an hour into his long shift at the bar, still just barely getting started for the night. He would be checking ID after ID, leaving some people in a predicament similar to yours, stuck waiting outside because of a silly little card. Somewhere in Gotham someone made a killing selling phony driver’s licenses to high schoolers, sending them out to get a stern talking-to by Titus.

“Wow, I can’t even believe they would try that again,” you said as the pair of students, deep in conversation, passed you by without a second glance and scanned themselves into the building. You hitched the bag up on your shoulder and fell into step a comfortable distance behind them.

As you hurried, you realized the door was closing a lot quicker than you expected, swinging shut with a surprising weight. Your portfolio thunked against your body as you took the steps two at a time, reaching out as far as as you could in front of you. You felt your skin graze the cool metal as it just barely slipped through your fingers and slammed shut with finality.

You gave the handle a small, pointless tug. The pair of students were already far down the hallway and you didn’t want to humiliate yourself by knocking again. You were resigned to waiting for another opportunity.

When you turned around your portfolio bag followed suit. It almost swiped into the outstretched arm of a tall, dark haired man wearing a dark grey jacket. He was young, maybe only a few years older than you. His blue eyes felt like being dunked in a tank of ice water. Your breath caught in your chest.

“Allow me,” he said in a low timbre. The man waved a lanyard in front of the scanner in a smooth motion. He ran a hand through his hair, tucking loose strands behind his ear as he held the door open for you.

“Thanks,” you said quickly and stepped past him, careful to not catch your portfolio on the doorway. You hoped he couldn’t tell how flustered you were.

Once inside, the two of you were greeted by a long rib-vaulted hallway with classroom doors at regular intervals on either side. Arched stained-glass windows lined the top of the hallway high above you, transmuting the glare of downtown Gotham into a warm glimmer.

“What do you think?” the man said from behind you as you paused to take in the ambiance. “The restorations over the summer went well, I’d say.”

“Yeah, it’s...it’s lovely.” You started to walk down the main hall, glancing at the numbered signs to find your classroom. The man walked alongside you with a sure stride.

“Are you a new student?” he asked. His deep blue eyes glinted when he looked at you and you had to turn away, pretending to look at the paintings that hung on the walls to avoid staring.

“Returning, actually. I’ve been away for a while. New to this building though, I haven’t taken art class before.”

“That’s exciting. What class?”

“Intro to drawing.” You waggled the portfolio bag hanging on your arm.

“Ah, that’s a shame.” He gave a slight grin. “The professor for that class, he’s not very good.”

You awkwardly laughed, not quite sure if he was serious.

“The classroom for 111 is just down here,” the man said, gesturing at a branch from the main hall. You could see a group of students gathering in front of a classroom door, waiting for the professor to arrive. Among them you could make out the students that you had tried to enter behind, and the one who had refused to open the door for you. Not a very promising group as far as potential friends went.

Was this man a student too? If he was in the same class, maybe you’d have a chance at surviving the term. One of the students in the group down the hall noticed him and waved excitedly, the man waving back. So he had a friend group already then.

“I’ll be there in a few minutes,” he said. You hadn’t noticed until now that he wasn’t carrying a bag or portfolio of any sort. “It’s nice to meet you…”

“Y/n,” you said. He repeated your name. It rolled off his tongue. You said thank you, you too and he left you to fend for yourself with the rest of the students.

You’d worn an outfit that had felt ‘artsy’ enough and you assumed was somewhat on-trend, but everyone in the cluster of students—apparently already forming cliques—was wearing clothes that you never would have expected to work together. Fashion moved quick in Gotham. You wondered what Titus would say about these outfits. He was always more fashionable than you, able to keep up with trends and new designers. You hadn’t had an opportunity to care about anything like that in a long time.

As the time ticked away, the hallway started to feel cramped. Everyone had a massive bag in tow and there wasn’t much room to move without bumping into someone or their stuff. Some of the students walking up were dressed comparably to you which you were grateful for. You wouldn’t stand out like a sore thumb at the very least.

The thought of introducing yourself to someone or trying to make a friend crossed your mind. You glanced around, trying to see if anyone in the class looked remotely familiar. Your earlier class had been “Chemistry for Engineering Majors”—one of the major-specific courses—so you figured there wasn’t much overlap. No one caught your eye as a potential candidate.

You thought about the man you met. When he asked you a question, it felt like he actually wanted to know the answer. It felt like more than vapid small talk. You hadn’t felt that from a stranger in a long time. You realized you’d forgotten to ask what his name was.

Through a brief gap in the crowd you caught a glimpse of the back of someone’s head wearing a flat cap. No fucking way, you thought. That kid from the bookstore? The gap closed before you could get a good look at their face. You hoped you were seeing things, that the stress of a long first day was catching up to you and causing hallucinations.

Exactly five minutes before class was set to begin the door opened. Excited chatter bounced around the hallway’s sculpted marble walls, then died down as a woman dressed in a sweater walked out and waved for everyone to listen.

“Hi everyone, I’m Kanara, Professor Wayne’s TA,” she said, projecting her voice so you could hear her from the back. “He’s asked that before he gets here everyone gets set up for the day. Come in, sign your name on the attendance sheet, then get a chair from the back.”

You reached the door after shuffling in a disorganized line and stepped into the classroom for Art 111: Intro to Drawing. The sign-in sheet was on a small table by the door and you signed next to your name with the provided ballpoint pen.

You were surprised at how empty the classroom was. No desks, not even a podium like your morning lecture hall had had. The far wall featured a long chalkboard while the one to your right was covered in massive gothic windows. They weren’t stained glass like the ones in the hall, but were almost as intricate and had great draping curtains pulled to the side.

The space filled up quickly as students grabbed chairs from stacks in the far corner, unfolding them to stake their ground. You placed your seat near a window and tried to calm your nerves. It had been years since you’d drawn regularly, no one had seen your recent work except Titus. People seeing it, judging it, sounded terrifying.

All your efforts at staying calm went up in smoke when you caught sight of the kid with the flat cap. It had been him. Shit, just my luck.

While you were fuming, the man who had opened the door for you walked into the classroom. You smiled, glad that you’d have at least one friend in the class. You wanted to wave him over, have him pull up a chair next to you. You held off for a moment as you noticed the way people’s heads were turning to look at him.

Kanara walked over and said something to him you couldn’t hear, and he nodded as his gaze swept the room. Seeing the way he took command of the room without even announcing himself, looking so at ease with the whispers and looks, something clicked into place.

That’s him!? Your mental image had been so far from the truth you hadn’t even realized who you’d been talking to.

He stepped up to the chalkboard and clapped his hands, signaling that class had begun.

You couldn’t believe that this was Professor Wayne. You were flabbergasted at how wrong your assumptions of him had been. Your mental picture was nothing like the man standing in front of the class, dark hair gently framing his sculpted face.

You remembered the joke he had made in the hallway. He must have thought you didn’t think his self deprecation was funny. Way to make a good first impression.

“Welcome everyone,” he said as the class settled down. “I’m so glad we were able to open up this extra slot of Art 111 before the term started. This is one of my—,” he briefly glanced your way, “—favorite classes to teach. I am Professor Wayne, as I’m sure some of you might already know.”

He was forced to pause as some of the class clapped. He waved the applause down.

“None of that, please. This class isn’t about me, it’s about you. I’m here for you to learn.” He looked around the room. Some people looked bashful, but some were nodding in agreement. He continued.

“There’s so much to learn about drawing, but we’re going to start at the beginning. Just like any craft, artists start by learning our tools.”

A piece of chalk materialized in Professor Wayne’s hand, procured from somewhere under his jacket. In one short, strong movement he left a perfectly straight line in the middle of the board.

“Can someone tell me what this is?”

Several hands shot up, eager to be the first person Professor Wayne picked. You saw the kid with the flat cap, his hand almost tearing off his body with how hard he was raising it. You narrowly avoided rolling your eyes at the obvious question, and the student’s overeagerness.

“Actually, let’s all just say the answer at once,” Professor Wayne corrected. “Don’t overthink it. What is this?” He tapped the chalk to the board, pointing.

“A line,” everyone said together. You mumbled along, not understanding the point. Did everyone just take this class because he was hot?

He smiled and nodded. “Exactly. This is our first and most simple tool, but surprisingly versatile. Our hammer and nail, if you will. What’s most important to keep in mind about a line, is that it has character. It remembers how you drew it. How would you describe this line? Just throw out some words.”

“Basic,” someone said. Others chimed in. “Flat.” “Sturdy.” “Straight.” “Boring.”

“Right, we can all agree that this one is pretty unremarkable, I think.” In a quick movement he tore the chalk across the board, snapping it halfway and continuing with the stub. You felt the movement in your gut, the surprising force of the arc he had followed.

Underneath the first line was a new one, much different. He turned to face the class “What about this one?”

The second line was choppy, conveying the speed and carelessness it had been drawn with. In the middle was a smattering of dust where the chalk had broken and he had pressed the nub into the green chalkboard, hard.

“Scratchy.” “Scary.” “Violent.” “Quick.”

“Yes, exactly. This one tells a different story about the person who drew it, and how they drew it. This is the most basic level of how we communicate as artists, the quality of our lines. In a bit I’ll bring out some shapes for us to draw. I want you to think about the story you’re telling. Are they happy shapes? Angry? Use your lines and how you’re drawing them to tell us how to feel.”

You followed along as Professor Wayne described the seven basic tools of drawing; line, shape, form, value, texture, space, and color. For each one, he drew a simple demonstration. You had to admit it was intoxicating to watch him work despite the simplicity of the sketches: a three-dimensional cube, a sphere with a shadow and highlight, and a quick gesture drawing of a face. You spent so much time admiring his dextrous fingers that you barely absorbed any of the content. The lecture flew by and before you knew it Professor Wayne was dismissing the class for a five minute break.

As you came back to your surroundings in a daze, you saw a few students walked up to Professor Wayne to ask him questions. At the front of the line was him, the student from the bookstore. He was asking Professor Wayne a complicated question you could only hear part of, while a pair of his cronies stood behind him and nodded along with every word.

To your horror, Professor Wayne was actually listening. Intently. You stared across the studio while he held the kid’s gaze. He only looked down for a moment to brush chalk dust off his fingers. You wished you had jumped up to get in line to talk to him just to cut the kid off. That, and to chat with Professor Wayne now that you knew who he really was. Your first impression might have been a dud, but there was always time for improvement.

Witnessing the atrocity was too much, so you left the room and stretched in the hallway. Other students mulled around, waiting for class to start up again.

You re-entered the room, with less than a minute left in the break, just as the kid was starting to sit back down. You noticed with satisfaction that some of the students who had wanted to talk to the professor were standing in line with sour expressions while the next person in line rushed through their question.

As you made your way to your chair you saw that Kanara had set up a small table in the center of the room. On top was a handful of geometric shapes painted white: a sphere with one side sanded flat so it didn’t roll off, a cube, a pyramid, and a cylinder. She was directing everyone to grab an easel from the back and set up in a circle around the still life.

Professor Wayne directed everyone’s attention to the shapes once everyone was set up. Following his instructions, you sat at an angle to your easel so you could see the still life at the same time. You got your newspaper pad out of your portfolio bag and used binder clips to attach it to the back of the easel.

Professor Wayne explained that the newsprint was used for charcoal sketches because it had a “good amount of tooth,” and was relatively cheap compared to other types of paper.

He had the class start studying the still life by sketching using vine charcoal. These were sticks of dusty charcoal as long as a pencil but twice as thin. You learned how brittle they were when the first one crumbled in your hand while you tried to scribble in a corner of the pad.

“The trick to vine charcoal is to hold it very lightly, and at an angle,” Professor Wayne said a few seconds too late to save your palms from a black dusting.

He stepped away from the center of the room and clicked a switch that dimmed the room’s overhead lights slightly. Another switch turned on spotlights pointed at the still life, throwing the shapes into sharp relief. From the edge of the circle, he announced that the timer was starting.

You started sketching. You honed in on the jumble of shapes and tried to outline where they met, finding the shadows and highlights like he had explained. The first page was a bust and you flipped it up and over the easel, exposing the next blank sheet.

As the class worked, Professor Wayne slowly walked the perimeter of the classroom, commenting on each student’s work in turn. You tried to stay aware of where he was, bracing yourself for critique once he saw your misshapen sketches.

After a handful of quick drawings to warm up, Professor Wayne announced that the class would be working on another, longer drawing. He stepped between the densely packed easels, placing a hand on the frame of yours for a second as he scooted by. He rearranged the blocks, making a new group of shapes to sketch.

Spending more time on the drawing felt more natural than hurrying through the sketches. The vine charcoal was starting to wear down and you found you could use both the flat edge and the sharp tip you created to get different widths of line.

“Hmm.” Someone behind you made a noise and you jumped, almost dropping your charcoal. You’d been so involved in your drawing that you hadn’t noticed Professor Wayne was behind you, watching you as you worked. The thought of him seeing you delicately shaping the shadow you’d been studying made your stomach flutter.

He rubbed his jaw as he studied your drawing. You looked back at it and saw with dismay that part of it had smudged when you’d been startled. Professor Wayne bent down so he was at your level.

“You’re doing amazing. I’ve got one pointer though. May I?”

“Sure, you’re the teacher after all,” you said. He smiled.

“Charcoal dust is looser than a pencil’s graphite,” he said. “It doesn’t stick to the paper as much. This means you can blend it like you did here.” He pointed at the side of the sphere in your drawing where you had used your fingertip to smear the dust into a softer shadow. “Those are lovely gradients. You can also smudge your work very easily, though. Try to hover over the page, only letting the charcoal touch. Does that make sense?”

You tried putting your hand up to the page, not letting anything touch except the tip of the vine charcoal. You’d only drawn in smaller notepads and sketchbooks, and the bigger newsprint sheets were a noticeable adjustment. And, drawing without your hand touching the page? You’d always used your palm to plant your hand on the paper and control your movements. It felt unnatural.

“I see what you mean, I guess I don’t really see how,” you said.

“Here, can I show you?” He pointed at your hand. You nodded.

Professor Wayne cupped your hand in his, your arms overlapping. His jacket sleeve was soft on your skin. He held your hand just above the page, moving your arm in larger arcs.

“When you lift your hand from the easel, the drawing motions come from the whole arm, not just the wrist,” he said. You were acutely aware of how close he was, how good he smelled, how much his hair refused to stay put behind his ear.

“It feels strange at first, but it’ll be second nature before long.” He turned your hand over in his, showing the side of your pinky and palm. It was smeared with charcoal from the paper. “And it’ll help avoid this,” he said.

He let go of your hand and you let it fall to your lap gently. It laid there, tingling, not feeling like a real part of you.

“That makes sense,” you managed to say as he straightened up.

“Keep up the good work,” he said and walked to the next student’s station. You released the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

The amount of time left in the day felt impossibly long and you swam through it like molasses, trying to sketch with half your mind preoccupied. Professor Wayne ended class a few minutes early so everyone could pack up. You slid your materials into your portfolio bag and zipped it closed in a daze.

You headed for the exit but glanced back just before leaving. You saw Professor Wayne in conversation with another student who held up their drawing and pointed something out to him. He looked up and locked eyes with you for a brief moment, then tore his gaze away and back to the drawing.

As you walked back to the train stop closest to the Crawford building, rain dripping from your bag and clothes, you wondered if he had felt that same jolt of electricity.

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