#if i want to go to grad school again i should just be able to go

[dykehayleywilliams]

if i randomly decide i want to go to divinity school i should not have to collect application materials i should be able to transmit my vibes to the admission office and in exchange i get all the money i need to go

[ugh-yoongi]

ex-conomics | csc

you supported seungcheol through years of being an aspiring athlete, and all you got to show for it was your undergraduate degree and an awkward, stuttered apology when he dumped you to go semi-pro. now he’s back after an injury derailed his career, and there’s only one problem: you’re the only one available to tutor him. you - 0; the universe - 1. talk about no return on investment.

⚽ pairing: choi seungcheol x f. reader ⚽ genre: exes to (lite) enemies to lovers; university au; angst, fluff ⚽ rating: while there is nothing explicit in this fic, there are two brief references to smut. while i can't stop anyone from reading this, i would prefer minors do not interact with this or any of my work. ⚽ warnings: cheol is some degree of famous, reader is a grad student/TA, mentions of an injury and coping with the aftermath of it, lots of economics talk that even i do not understand, swearing, one mention of alcohol, some misplaced jealousy, rom-com tropes, dino is kind of a loser but we love him anyway. probably a lot of other things i missed, but this is actually pretty tame for a fic of this length. ⚽ word count: 13.4k ⚽ thank you: a lot of people looked this over for me in the process and i'm sure i will forget some of them so if i do i'm sorry: @the-boy-meets-evil, @hot-soop, @highvern, and @haologram, who also gave me some wonderful ideas for the vlogs. thank you to MIT for opencourseware existing. i took microeconomics and dropped it, so i couldn't have done this without you. everyone in the discord server for helping me along the way and keeping me motivated. ⚽ author's note: i haven't posted a fic in nearly seven months, so i think it goes without saying that there are parts of this i like and a lot more i'm not 100% happy with. i'd love if this was more fleshed out and 10k longer, but i was able to write anything at all so it's good enough. this was written for the back to school with seventeen collab, hosted by @camandemstudios. thank you both for letting me participate! please make sure to check out the rest of the stories! everyone worked so hard and this collab was a ton of fun to participate in. <3

You look down at the paper. Back up at who handed it to you. Down at the paper again.

“You’ve got to be joking.”

The poor freshman kid laughs, all nerves, and even though the sound is grating, you remember what it’s like to be forced into work study. How far away graduate school seemed; how large your professors loomed over you with all their power and knowledge and credentials; how you constantly felt like the dumbest person in nearly every room you walked into for four straight years.

“Um—”

You sigh, just barely resisting the urge to slam your head onto your desk. “I—it’s fine, don’t worry about it.” Your words do little to ease Freshman’s nerves. He’s still hunched over in the doorway of your office, wringing his hands as he shifts his weight back and forth, in for a lifetime of body pain with the way he’s squaring his shoulders. “You’re sure about this, though? Like, I’m really not being set up?”

“I don’t think so?” he offers, slowly starting to turn green right before your eyes. “Dr. Lee ga-gave me the paperwork himself, I don’t think he would’ve messed it up? Oh no, did I mess it up? Should I go back to Student Services and conf—”

Good god, this kid’s anxiety is gonna stink up your office for weeks. “No need!” you interject. “I’ll just…” Sign it, you want to say, but the longer you stare at the sheet of paper the quicker you’re losing your resolve.

TUTORING REQUEST FORM Student Name: Choi Seungcheol Degree: Undergraduate Major: Business Course: ECON04101 Introduction to Microeconomics Instructor: Lee Yeonseok, PhD. Recommended Tutoring: High (3-4 hours per week)

You curse under your breath. Of the two names on the paper, Dr. Lee’s does not come as a surprise. He’s a notorious hard-ass with an infamous attrition rate—most students don’t last more than a week in any of his classes—but he’s also the sole reason you were able to pay for someof your grad school tuition out of pocket with all the tutoring money you made.

That, however, was two years ago.

“Does he know I don’t tutor anymore?” Stupid question. The kid stares blankly back at you, as if to say I don’t know any more than the people in Student Services, let alone Dr. Lee. It is literally my first year here. “I’m Dr. Ahn’s TA this year. I’ve got my hands full with her bullsh… stuff—”

Immediately, you know you’ve said something wrong, because the kid’s eyes light up, all that previous anxiety disappearing like smoke. “Wait, the same Dr. Ahn that teaches the crypto course?”

“No, that one died,” you say quickly. Kid deflates. “Anyway, I don’t really tutor anymore, especially for econ. As you can see”—you gesture vaguely around the cramped four walls of your office—“they’ve upgraded me. They even put my name on a little placard by the door! Go look! They spelled it wrong! If that doesn’t sum up this university I don’t know what does.”

You heave another sigh. Try to school your face and tone into something that exudes professionalism and finality. “Look, I’m sorry I can’t help you. I tutored Dr. Lee’s students for, like, three years in undergrad so I’m sure they just… forgot that wasn’t my actual job here. Who’s in charge of tutoring these days? I’ll shoot them an email and explain all this.”

Freshman gives you a name, and it takes less than a second to find them in the employee directory. You expect that to be the end of it, but he’s still taking up space in your doorway. You quirk an eyebrow. “Yes?”

The hand-wringing returns, along with an embarrassed flush that disappears beneath the neckline of his school-branded sweatshirt. “I just—um. Maybe you could, uh. Send that now? Before I get back there?”

You blink. “Don’t you have to go all the way back across campus? How slow do you think I type?” He shrugs, and you give up on the idea of getting rid of him. “Fine. What’s your name, anyway?”

“Lee Chan. I’m a sophomore. Do you know that guy?”

“Oh. I thought for sure you were a freshman, but you’re gonna need to be more specific, Lee Chan, Sophomore.”

“The guy they want you to tutor.” You freeze. The guy they want you to tutor is—“Choi Seungcheol,” Chan tacks on, and, yeah, you know—knew, you correct yourself—someone with that name, once upon a time.

But there are a lot of Chois and a lot of Seungcheols. It’s been years since you’ve spoken to the Seungcheol you knew, and that was when he’d broken up with you to—“I heard he’s a football player? Well, used to be, I guess. The girls in the office were freaking out so I guess he’s pretty famous, but I don’t know anything about sports, do you? They said they have photocards of him. I thought they only did that for idols.”

You think about being kids together in Daegu. Think about the exasperated looks you’d share when your parents would drag the two of you to festivals: Palgongsan in the autumn, Biseulsan in the spring; transformation and rebirth. Think about being eight years old and watching your father cram into the small space of the Chois’ living room, standing around the TV with Seungcheol’s dad, shouting at Park Jonghwan. Daegu FC made the FA Cup quarterfinals that year, and you think, of everything, that’s what you’ll remember for the rest of your life.

You think about falling in love slowly. Sixteen and clueless, the pair of you were. Didn’t really know any different, just that you’d look at him and feel butterflies. That you’d hold hands in secret. Text beneath the dinner table. That you’d watch him on the football pitch and be consumed by pride. That the future felt impossibly far away, that life would never catch up to the two of you.

You think about all the football jargon you didn’t understand—the academies, the teams, the implications. You think about, I’m thinking about trying out for the FC Seoul U-18, I just don’t think there’s much more I can do here in Daegu. You think about replying, Oh, I applied to university there.

You remember thinking it must’ve been fate, how easy that had worked out. How easy that first hurdle had been overcome.

You think about how fast everything happened. The try-out, the acceptance, the explosion. Remember being unable to go anywhere those first few months without seeing Seungcheol’s face, touted as the next big thing. Think about applying for scholarships when he was applying for international visas. Think about studying for midterms when Seungcheol was studying English for interviews.

You think about the last few weeks of your relationship, when it felt like you were desperately trying to cling to ghosts. Think about how Seoul had once felt endlessly big, both in opportunity and size, and how it now felt suffocating. You think about, So you’re just giving up? Is that what you’re saying? Think about, I don’t know what else to do. It doesn’t feel fair to you.

You think about all the places you’ve watched him. On countless football pitches; shy glances in school hallways; in the passenger seat, wracked with nerves on the drive to Seoul; poised above you in bed, hairline dotted with sweat as he rolled his hips, telling you how much he loved you.

You think about watching him walk out the door, and how you never watched him again.

So you fire off your email, concise and to the point about why you can’t tutor Choi Seungcheol in Introduction to Microeconomics, and turn to Lee Chan, Sophomore.

“No,” you finally answer. “Never heard of him.”

For all intents and purposes, your rejection should’ve been the end of it.

A few days go by. You hold office hours, attend lectures, work on your thesis when you have both the time and the energy. Try to ignore the feeling of bees beneath your skin, anxiety needling each time you check your email. You were well within your right to decline the tutoring request, but you can’t help but feel like you’ve done something wrong. That someone somehow knows who Seungcheol was to you and will pull you up on it. That those girls who’d gushed about him to Chan are somewhere laughing at your expense.

But you don’t hear anything at all about it… until you do.

Sunday evening. You haven’t moved from your couch in hours, some variety show playing in the background, barely audible over your keyboard clacking. Much to your detriment, you don’t write many papers these days, so you’re out of practice. Feels like you haven’t done anything besides formulas in years, all of your academic knowledge reduced to fucking math, so you’re about ready to toss your laptop out the window long before the email even comes through.

You see, From: Lee Yeonseok. You see, Subject: Choi Seungcheol - Tutoring.

Your stomach plummets to the floor.

You scan the body quickly. You see the words personal favor… friend of his father… urgent matter… and your hands start shaking. Whether it’s from the sheer audacity of this man or anxiety, you aren’t sure, but it’s not like it matters. There aren’t a whole lot of people on campus brave or dumb enough to go up against him twice.

“Motherfucker,” you spit, bitter the only taste in your mouth.

Where did you go wrong to wind up here? You’d followed the script: got the grades, passed the exams, received half of the required education for the Respectable Career, helped a few others along the way chase dreams that may or may not have been their own. You’d fallen in love. Only had a broken heart to show for it, but that’d been in the script, too: The First Love, followed by The First Heartbreak.

The split from Seungcheol was supposed to have been the end of that chapter. You’d planned on never seeing him again, and you never would have, had it been up to you. Apparently the universe has other plans, participation required.

“Did you spill onion dip on the rug again?” You startle, sending your laptop flying. Kaori, your roommate, is perched halfway in between the living room and the kitchen like a cryptid, clearly not expecting your reaction. “Oh. Were you watching porn?”

Face burning, you fetch your laptop from the floor. “In a common area? Kaori, please, I have far more decorum than that.”

She snorts, resuming her trek to the fridge. “See, that’s what I thought, but then I walked out here and you threw your laptop so fast it was like watching my ex get caught watching furry porn all over again.” She pries the lid off a large container of yogurt. “You think this is still good?”

“Dunno. What’s it smell like?”

She sniffs it and pulls it back to check the label. “Vanilla, I think, which is concerning because it’s supposed to be strawberry.”

You shrug. “What’s the worst that can happen, you get extra”—you pause, trying to remember the correct order of things, before giving up entirely—“...biotics?”

“Mm, so close. Care if I just eat this with a spoon?”

Nose scrunched, you wave her off. “Couldn’t pay me to eat yogurt on a good day, let alone if it’s expired. All yours, babe.”

Spoon in hand and a pleased smile on her face, Kaori collapses onto the couch beside you. You try to return your attention to your paper, try to find your momentum again, and it works for all of ten minutes before you’re groaning and slamming the top closed.

You don’t even need to look over to know Kaori’s staring. “What’s up with you?” she asks. Before she can answer: “Wait, is this serious? Because I can’t have a serious conversation in this t-shirt.” You steal a glance sideways. Ask Me About My Hemorrhoid! it says, and you exhale loudly. “Don’t breathe at me, I lost a bet.”

“And continued wearing it?”

She jokingly rolls her eyes. “God forbid a girl has hobbies.” Nudges you with her foot. “C’mon, spill.”

Kaori doesn’t know about you and Seungcheol. Most people don’t, aside from a few old classmates from Daegu who found you on social media and tried befriending you once he started making a name for himself in Seoul. After that, it was just easier to keep things private while you were together. New friends knew you were seeing someone but not their name or how long you’d been together. Any curiosity surrounding why the Choi Seungcheol was following you on Insta had been waved away easily. Our parents are friends, we grew up together. Then you broke up, and there wasn’t any evidence to delete, and he wasn’t following you on Instagram anymore, and it was easier that way.

So, yeah—even though you hadn’t met her until years later, Kaori knows you have an ex. She knows you’ve had a few flings and situationships in the time since, too, and it’s why she’s none the wiser when you ask, “It’s nothing, really. Just—do you follow football at all?”

“Nah, not really. The new guy’s pretty into it and keeps trying to get me to watch the games with him, but it’s so fucking boring? I dunno, I can’t get into it. Not in real life, anyway—I binged all of Captain Tsubasa in an embarrassingly short amount of time, though. Why?”

“Student Services asked me to tutor someone the other day and I had to turn it down. I just don’t have the time, you know? This semester’s already killer, and Dr. Ahn’s been riding my ass nonstop about grades. Turns out it’s some football player, so Dr. Lee emailed me asking me to do it as a personal favor, which means, on top of all the other shit I have to do, I’m now tutoring some football player four hours a week in Microeconomics.”

Her face distorts. “God, that guy’s such a prick. Like wow, you’re good at the economy! Good for you! Who cares! Why don’t you go balance the national debt or something instead of torturing university freshmen!”

You also wrongly assume that’s the last you’ll hear of it from Kaori.

Two days later, after Student Services replies to your email with the days and times you’ll be tutoring Seungcheol, she materializes in the living room to harass you.

“You didn’t tell me your football player was Choi Seungcheol.”

The panic is instant. You know how she means it, but it’s not how your body interprets it. All of a sudden it feels like an interrogation, an accusation, and a whopping serving of guilt takes up residence in the middle of your chest for not being entirely honest.

“Explains this weird text Ken sent me.”

She slides her phone over to you, open to her text thread with her current flavor of the week. Beneath an article about Seungcheol enrolling in classes at your school:

doesn’t ur roomie TA there Why are you calling her “ur roomie” like you don’t know her name?? Rude. Also yes. ask her to get me an autograph No babe pls he was my fav player before he got injured No 🙄 fine. can i come over later? Starting to think you’re using me for my roommate. Get your own job 🙄

You hand her phone back. “I didn’t think you’d know who Choi Seungcheol even is.” It’s the best you can do, even though it just digs you a deeper grave. “You said you’re not into football.”

“I’m not, but unfortunately I am into that stupid man.” She sighs, wistful and longing. “Babe, you have to understand. His dick is so big.”

You hadn’t wanted to stay in Seoul for your graduate degree, let alone the same university you’d gone to for undergrad.

You’d applied to schools all over—Japan, Europe, even a few in the States. Romanticized the hell out of NYU, went window shopping for an overpriced apartment, picked a favorite pizzeria based on nothing but vibes and online reviews. In those few months after graduation, there wasn’t a whole lot tying you to Seoul. Your and Seungcheol’s relationship had been old history by then, your parents split. Your dad stayed in your childhood home and your mother moved a few hours closer to her sister. They’d waited until your brother was old enough to be out of the house.

And it’d just been… a lot. Overwhelming. Some days you could barely shower or feed yourself, let alone move halfway across the world, so you’d stayed in the familiar and tried not to let it feel like failure.

But the good thing about familiarity is you learn its tricks, figure out the hiding spots. Early on, your first or second week of grad school, you laid claim to a study room on a floor of the library everyone else ignored. You write notes on the whiteboard with faded blue markers that are still there days later. The chair on the opposite side of the table is always exactly where you left it, the space between it and the table enough to only accommodate you. Sometimes you leave books—old paperbacks littered with notes in your writing—or papers, just to see if they move.

They never do.

And all of this is why it feels like a punch to the gut when that sanctity is tainted. When you’re halfway through a stack of Dr. Ahn’s exams and the doorknob rattles behind you. When you don’t even need to turn around to know who it is, because he still sounds the same, still has that overwhelming presence. You’ve always sensed him before you felt him.

“There you are,” Dr. Lee says, ambling into the room before you can protest. He, too, is overwhelming, just in different ways. Immaculate posture that anchors his slight frame that’s always dressed impeccably and expensively. Wears a watch that’s triple your tuition. Shoes polished so bright they’re nearly blinding. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

This time it is an accusation.

Well, you found me, you want to say, but just knowing Seungcheol is behind him, lingering in that half-study room, half-hallway space, is enough to keep you quiet. Like if you speak you’ll summon him closer and you’ll no longer be able to pretend this is nothing more than a nightmare.

You plaster on a polite smile. Say, “Ah, here I am, kyosu-nim,” and put all your energy into trying to glue Seungcheol to the floor with your mind.

Which is fruitless, because Dr. Lee moves further into the room. Gestures for Seungcheol to follow him with an impatient huff, and the study room is small, sure, and with three people it feels cramped, but that’s not the reason it feels like all the air’s been sucked out of the room.

Seungcheol looks… different. He looks as anxious as you feel, and he sticks close to the wall like he’s trying to disappear. Dr. Lee introduces him with grave importance, unaware of your history, and the forced smile he offers you almost looks embarrassed.

You know Dr. Lee is still hammering away, probably giving you a stern talking-to for rejecting his request the first time, but you can’t tear your eyes away from Seungcheol. Feels like the world around you has reduced to a pinhead, all hyperfocus; feels like your lungs are sucking in stale air one at a time.

“...his father is a very good friend of mine, so I expect…”

You expected to feel nothing. Seungcheol had left to chase his dream—one you’d always been so supportive of that it sometimes felt like your dream, too—and, perhaps naively, you thought the distance and the years would’ve been enough. You expected your heart to have hardened. You expected all those nights you spent crying to hit you at full force. You expected anger, hurt—indifference, at the very least.

“...as many hours per week as you both can manage…”

But you should’ve known better. Should’ve expected the butterflies, the way your palms grow clammy, the way your heart rate spikes. Should’ve expected everything to feel upside-down. You should’ve expected to look at Seungcheol and feel sixteen and in love all over again.

“...you are responsible for his academic progress…”

And that simply will not do. You’ve spent the last few years pulling yourself out of that hole, clawing your way back to something resembling normal. You’ve purged the thought of him from your mind—let his scent fade from your sheets, an old sweatshirt he’d left behind; forgot the way his lips felt against every inch of your skin; forgot the way his entire being lit up when he laughed; forgot the safety he encompassed, the way he whispered all those sweet nothings.

You cannot go there again.

So you roll your shoulders back, smile politely. Say, “Ah, kyosu-nim, Choi Seungcheol-ssi seems very intelligent, I’m sure he is capable of being responsible for his own academic standing, don’t you think?”

Dr. Lee cannot disagree without all but calling Seungcheol an idiot, so he hovers before you in shocked silence. Makes a show of huffing and checking his watch, like he’s all of a sudden remembered he’s late for something and being inconvenienced by this conversation he started, and then he’s halfway out of the library with a terse, “Discuss and figure this out amongst yourselves,” thrown over his shoulder.

You have an entire dramatic exit planned in your head. Gather your things, fake a phone call that makes you sound authoritative and important, and brush past Seungcheol wearing your nicest perfume as if all of this is so far beneath you you can’t even bring yourself to care about it.

Of course, you actually have to brush by him for any of that to happen, and since you’ve already decided you will not go there again, you quickly scribble your email address onto a piece of paper and slide it across the table at Seungcheol, who has steadfastly remained planted just outside the door. “Here’s my email. I don’t have time to discuss this right now.” Seungcheol cocks an eyebrow. You start throwing things into your bag haphazardly. You know you look frantic and affected, but there’s not much you can do about that. “What? Send me a copy of your syllabus and what you want to prioritize. It’ll be easier to get through this if we have a plan instead of winging it.”

He seems to catch on to your distaste because he mirrors it. Scoffs as he rolls his eyes and says, “Yeah, no use spending more time together than we have to,” and if you hadn’t gone years without speaking, you would’ve seen right through it.

But you did, so it stings all the same.

As it typically does, the planet keeps spinning after your run-in with Seungcheol.

You grade Dr. Ahn’s coursework. Try running off your anxiety at the gym, even though it’s pretty good at keeping pace with you these days. You meet Kaori’s maybe-boyfriend sneaking out of your apartment early in the morning and he has the good sense not to mention your ex, but you chalk that up to the mess of hickeys covering his neck and not any sense of social decorum.

Other people’s embarrassment saves you a ton of your own, you’ve come to learn.

Throughout all of this, Seungcheol only emails you once to send you his course syllabus. Doesn’t mention tutoring or provide you with his schedule or ask for yours, so when you’re sitting in a bar with your friends, three or four drinks deep and feeling a little petty, you forward him the original tutoring request and make sure to bold, underline, and highlight the “Recommended Tutoring: High” part for good measure.

He doesn’t take your bait—electronically, at least—but he does show up to your office hours the following Tuesday.

Bag tossed onto the floor, he flops unceremoniously into the chair across from you and says, in lieu of a greeting, “They spelled your name wrong. On the door thing.”

“I know,” you reply, your smile polite and terse. Incredible how he has the ability to raise your blood pressure in milliseconds. “What can I help you with?”

“Depends. How long do you have?”

“Well, considering you’ve shown up to my office hours on time, I’m assuming you already know I’m here every Tuesday and Thursday from four to six. So”—you glance at the clock above the door—“assuming no one comes by who needs my help more than you do, you have approximately one hour and fifty-eight minutes.”

Seungcheol is quiet for a moment as he takes you in. His stare is weighted; it makes you feel a little green around the edges. Clinical and sharp, so far removed from the way he used to look at you. You clear your throat. “I looked over your syllabus. The good news is there’s only a midterm and a final and the rest is problem sets. The bad news is there’s only a midterm and a final so they’re weighted quite heavily. You really need to know this stuff inside-out to have any hope of passing.”

“That’s why you’re here, right? Dr. Lee specifically requested you.”

You huff a breath through your nose. “I’m here as supplemental help. I can’t take your exams or do your readings for you. What else are you taking this semester?”

He sighs, sinking further into the chair, very much playing the part of the heir who has no interest in any of this. Which… is unlike him, you think, if you’re even allowed to. The Seungcheol you knew years ago took everything so seriously. Never clipped corners or took shortcuts. Anyone else would think him a spoiled, petulant child. “Business Accounting and International Trade.”

“Could be worse,” you note. “At least those three courses are tangentially related.”

Seungcheol rolls his eyes. “Easy for you to say. I haven’t taken a fucking math class in years.”

You return it. “You remember how to add and subtract, don’t you?”

“I ruptured my ACL, not my…” He trails off, looking a little embarrassed that he can’t name a part of the—“Brain.”

Whatever you were going to quip back with dies on your tongue. It's the first time Seungcheol has broached the topic of his injury—the first you’re hearing of it at all, actually—and he says it like it’s a joke, like it’s not a thing at all, but the pain is all over his face. The bitterness of the situation he’s found himself in. The unfairness of it all.

And there are so many questions you want to ask that aren’t your place: if it’s fixable, if he’ll ever play again, how he’s coping. But you don’t really need to—you can’t imagine how you’d feel if someone suddenly pulled the rug out from under you. If everything contained within the four walls of your office suddenly disappeared.

Not that the man sitting across from you hadn’t already done that, but.

“Right,” you continue, as if he hadn’t said anything at all. You know Seungcheol—know he wouldn’t want you prodding, sticking your fingers in that particular wound. “I want you to take a look at this,” you say, handing over a printout you have saved from your undergrad tutoring days. “Tell me what looks familiar, what doesn’t; what does and doesn’t make sense.”

He looks down at the paper. Back up at you. Down at the paper again. “What the fuck is this?”

“I—what? Cheol, it’s my old notes on recitation. Surely you’ve already covered this—the syllabus says this is week one stuff.” He looks down at the paper again, and it’s so familiar, watching the life drain entirely from someone’s eyes.

You barely resist the urge to slam your face onto your desk a second time.

You meet Seungcheol at the sports center for your next tutoring session.

He likes the humidity and the smell of the chlorine by the pool. He also likes that it’s not the football pitch, so the two of you sit in the bleachers there and go over his lecture notes. Much to your surprise, Seungcheol talks a mile a minute. Has stars in his eyes when he says he finally understands elastic demand curves, supply shock; tells you he spent a whole hour making flashcards.

It’s the first time you’ve seen him so excited since your tutoring began—the first glimmer of hope you’ve felt since Dr. Lee cornered you in your library hideaway. None of this surprises you. Seungcheol has always been smart, even when football was his primary (and sometimes only) focus. He has more determination and grit than anyone you’ve ever met, so you’re not surprised he’s doing well, excelling, but you are surprised—

“Can I ask you something?” Seungcheol shrugs, shoves half a protein bar in his mouth and swallows without chewing. “Why are you… uh. Here?”

“At this university?”

“Not exactly. I mean, I am wondering about that, but I guess… why business?”

Seungcheol hums. Tucks his good knee to his chest and stares down at the pool. No one’s using it, and truthfully the two of you probably aren’t even allowed to be here, but you understand why he likes it. It’s nowhere near as secluded as the library and definitely not as air conditioned, but it is peaceful. Calm. The water laps against the coping in quiet, small waves.

“Ah, I don’t know. You know how it goes.”

You quirk an eyebrow. Never, in all the years you’ve known him, has Seungcheol done anything he didn’t want to do. All that grit and determination. “What about your father, then? Dr. Lee mentioned this was a favor to him. He’s a pretty important person to have in your Rolodex of favors.”

Doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see what this is: Seungcheol’s father has new money; worked from the bottom up, made some smart investment decisions that finally panned out after Seungcheol left for Seoul. Started doing his own thing, made a name for himself. Last you’d heard from your mother, Seungcheol’s brother was second-in-command. Hell, even your own brother did an internship there.

So you know what this is: a father helping his son after his dream was shattered, life turned upside-down. You can’t blame him, even if you’ve heard the whispers from all the way across campus. That Seungcheol is washed up now, trying to nepo his way into his father’s company because of it; that all he knows is sports and he should’ve stuck to that, what does he know about business, why is he the one Dr. Lee went out of his way to help.

Doesn’t stop any of them from smiling at him, though; doesn’t stop them from asking for autographs or selfies.

But you also know this isn’t something Seungcheol seems willing to discuss, so you crack a joke—“I mean, business. God, who’d wanna go into that?”—and go back to what he was willing to talk about.

You’ve never hated elastic demand curves so much in your life.

Deep in the throes of tutoring—when you can’t tell if it’s week two or week twelve—you make it back to your apartment just before ten, head pounding.

The door flies open just as you’re about to punch in the code, and there stands Ken, looking far more put-off than you’ve ever seen him. Looks defeated, if you’re being honest, like someone mopped up all his emotions and wrung them out like dirty dishwater.

“Oh, hi,” you say hesitantly. The man in front of you seems too much like a caged animal to let your guard down. “Everything okay?”

He aborts a nod halfway. Mutters an apology as he brushes by you and stalks down the hall, disappearing around the corner to the elevators. Usually he’s a talker—you haven’t been able to avoid a Seungcheol-related conversation in weeks—so you’re a little stunned. Stand there stupidly for a while, and that’s where Kaori finds you a moment later.

“You gonna stand out here all night, or…?”

“Oh—yeah, right.”

You follow her inside. Toe off your shoes and put them in the rack. Focus on the sound of the kettle whistling instead of the overbearing tension in the room. Drop your bag off in your room, throw on a sweatshirt three sizes too big and a comfy pair of socks. Rummage through the fridge for leftovers, contemplate what mindless show you’ll watch as you eat, and you do not, under any circumstances, ask Kaori what happened.

You don’t have to. You knew what this was going to be the first time Ken spent the night—the way he looked mortified to be meeting you in the shared kitchen at seven a.m., wearing a look that begged you not to tell your roommate he was sneaking out.

I, uh, have an early class, he’d said. You know how it is.

Maybe you should’ve called him on it then. Issued a warning-but-not-really. She’ll get attached if you don’t tell her. She should know it’s different for you, if it is.

But you’d convinced yourself it wasn’t your place. Kaori wouldn’t want you in her business like that, so you stayed quiet, just nodded before watching him slip his shoes on and close the door behind him so quietly you wouldn’t have known he left at all if you hadn’t been looking. Gone, just like a ghost.

So, yeah, you know exactly why your roommate looks haunted.

“I’m a few episodes behind on this if you want to watch with me,” you offer, pointing at the television with the remote. It’s a lie—you’ve never watched this show a day in your life, which Kaori seems to know—but she contemplates it nonetheless. “Also, my mom mailed us some cookies. I think they’re in the fridge.”

“Why are there cookies in the fridge?”

You huff a laugh. “They were outside the door this morning before I left for campus. I don’t know—just saw who the package was from and was like, oh, this must go in the fridge.”

She nods. Grabs the container and joins you on the couch. Sticks her feet beneath your butt and doesn’t mention a thing.

The closest she comes is a few days later. Catches you right before you head out to campus and asks how tutoring is going.

“Not bad, actually.”

Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes when she says, “That’s good. I’m glad things are going well for you two.”

Lee Chan, Sophomore makes his unexpected return at your office hours on an unsuspecting Tuesday.

“Can I help you?”

He doesn’t answer right away, just helps himself to the seat across from you. “Maybe,” comes his cryptic retort. “I was thinking about signing up for that crypto course next semester.”

You narrow your eyes. “No, you weren’t.”

He sighs. Looks a little panicked, like he can’t believe that didn’t work. “You’re right, you’re right. I, um—I wanted to come say thank you.” He pauses. “You know, for that… email you sent.”

You blink. “No, you didn’t.”

Lee Chan, Sophomore cracks immediately. Thunks his head on your desk and lets loose a pained sound. It nearly sounds like he’s wailing when he says, “I’m sorry! They put me up to it!”

What you’re able to piece together is this: Lee Chan, Sophomore has become a bit of a celebrity in the Student Services department ever since he met you, Choi Seungcheol’s tutor. And, like any smart, previously unpopular university student would do, he took advantage of it. Might’ve stretched the truth a little to make it sound like he knew more than he did, so now here he is, angling for information the girls with the photocards may or may not have paid him to get.

“They want to know about his girlfriend.”

“His what?”

What you’re able to piece together is also this: the Photocard Girls are certain Seungcheol is dating someone, based on little more than vibes. You suspect these vibes are their three degrees of separation, considering there was an abnormal amount of Change of Major files formed after his enrollment, but you tell Lee Chan that you don’t know anything and, even if you did, you wouldn’t put his business out there like that.

But some part of you still has this inexplicable urge to protect Seungcheol, so you match their offer with interest and tell him to say there’s nothing to report—not that you didn’t know, not that he couldn’t get anything out of you. Seungcheol isn’t dating anyone.

You don’t know if it’s true, but you figure that if it isn’t, he still deserves privacy.

Which is a notion you have trouble explaining a few hours later, when Seungcheol strolls into your office with a grease-stained paper bag full of cheese coin bread, offering one to you with a proud smile that drops slowly when you just stare in return.

“What’s wrong?”

Your mouth opens, closes, opens again. Nothing comes out, even though it should be simple. Some sophomore kid was just in here angling for information or the Student Services department is taking bets on whether or not you have a girlfriend would both suffice, but you cannot bring yourself to say the words.

What you settle on is, “Sorry, I just… had an interesting meeting before you got here.”

“Oh. Are you okay?”

You sigh. Tilt your head back to stare up at the ceiling. “It was about you, actually.”

Seungcheol chokes, starts stuttering over words you can’t make sense of. Says, “Me? Why? I passed my last exam—I mean, barely, but I still passed. And that wasn’t your fault! I didn’t study enough! I’ve been losing my mind over my International Trade class, that shit sucks—”

“It wasn’t about your grades, Cheol.”

“Oh.” Then, slowly, a lopsided, pleased smile overtakes his face. “Haven’t heard you call me Cheol in a while.”

“Seungcheol,” you correct.

He seems to forget all about the meeting. Tries again to offer you a coin bread before he threatens to eat them all himself, so you acquiesce mostly to shut him up, say you’ll bring the extras to Kaori. For some reason, you tell him about how much she’d loved the cookies your mom sent, and the nostalgia sets him off, gets him talking again, asking if they were the yakgwa she used to make when you two were kids.

They were, but you can’t seem to tell him that, either.

Seungcheol: sorry it’s last minute - running late. can you meet me at my place instead?

Seungcheol shared a location with you

You’re halfway to replying—I don’t think that’s appropriate—before you sigh and delete it. Midterms are only a few days away and you don’t have time to argue over where your tutoring sessions will be, so if Seungcheol wants to meet at his apartment that’s where you’ll meet him.

You read over the midterm notes on the train. Once, twice, and then a hundred more times until they’re nearly memorized, all so you can ignore the voice in the back of your head saying what a bad idea this is. That you have no business being on your way to your ex’s swanky part of town or integrating yourself into his life beyond tutoring at all. You shouldn’t know where he lives. Maybe you shouldn’t even have his phone number or answer his texts.

Not that there’s much you can do about it now, two stops away.

Seungcheol greets you warmly, if not a little rushed. Apologizes for the mess once you step inside, although it’s less “mess” and more “haven’t finished unpacking,” but there’s enough clear space to study at the dining table, so that’s where you set up, determined to keep things professional.

“Sorry again about this,” Seungcheol says, placing a can of cola in front of you as he takes the seat across. “I had to meet with my father and lost track of time, I guess.”

“Oh. How’s he doing?”

Seungcheol sighs, leans further back in the chair as runs a hand through his hair. A light brown, now. “Same as he always was, I guess. Talked about the business, about my brother. Can’t get him to shut up about that stuff most of the time.”

“The business is doing good, though.” You cough, clear your throat. “My, uh. My brother interned there during undergrad. I don’t know if your father told you that.”

You don’t know why you say it, because it’s clear from the brief flicker of pain on Seungcheol’s face that he hadn’t known, that no one had told him. And it hurts you too that they felt the need to keep it a secret, to protect Seungcheol from you even in tangential ways.

“He didn’t,” he admits, “but I’m sure he was happy to see him. He was, uh—he was glad to hear you’re my tutor. Said you were always smarter than all of us boys combined.”

You laugh. Hope it sounds casual instead of strained. “Well, no need to prove him right. Come on,” you say, tossing a study guide in his direction, “let’s get to work.”

Everything is alright for a while—nearly an hour at least. He has the formulas memorized and attributed to the correct equations. He can explain supply and demand, preference and utility, but things start to fall apart around budget constraints and constrained choice.

The formulas get mixed up. He grows frustrated when he doesn’t know the answers to your questions right away. Rolls his eyes and gets a little snappy when you correct him, try to explain things differently in a way he understands. At first he’s able to temper it, collect himself before things truly start spiraling out of control, but the longer the two of you sit there the more it all unravels.

He snaps, you snap back, and you can’t figure out why. You’ve survived this long in Seungcheol’s orbit even though you never thought you’d be around him again, and perhaps it was bound to explode eventually, but…

It’s the familiarity, you realize.

You and Seungcheol aren’t friends, though you’ve been playing at it for weeks now: meeting outside of the library or your office, the personal conversations bordering on reminiscing, being in his personal space. You don’t belong here. You don’t want to be his friend—you can’t be, not for real or pretend.

“That’s not what I’m say—”

“Then explain it better,” Seungcheol fires at you, eyebrows creasing. “You’re the tutor here.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m trying, okay? All I meant was—your answer isn’t wrong, but I know Dr. Lee and he’s going to want more than that in a response.”

“Right—not good enough, like I said.”

“I’m just asking you to expand on your answer—”

“And I’m telling you that’s all I’ve got. I’m not like you, all right? I don’t have all this shit just floating around in my head all the time. I’m not smart, I barely have any idea what’s going on half the time, and you sitting here being condescending about it is doing fuck-all to help.”

You inhale sharply, taken aback at the hostility in his voice. Suggest calling it for the night, say neither of you will be productive if you keep going like this, and neither of you bother to apologize.

So much of your relationship with Seungcheol was marred by clichés.

The two of you passing notes back and forth during class. You in the bleachers of all his games, screaming along to the team chants, waving a sign around with his name on it. Not realizing you had a crush on him at all until he liked someone else and it made your stomach hurt. Childhood friends turned lovers.

Another cliché: that it’s starting to feel like that all over again.

Seungcheol sits across from you in the library, econ textbook cracked in half in front of him as he pays no attention. Keeps grabbing his phone each time it vibrates across the table. Can’t fight the smile that forces its way onto his face when he reads whatever’s there.

Stupid, you think—both to do this and to think it’d play out any other way. Seungcheol left years ago. Probably lived ten lifetimes while he was away while you were here in this exact spot doing this exact thing. Barely lived half a life, just stuck your nose in textbooks and forced your way through.

“Cheol,” you say, trying to drag his attention back to the study guide. No use. He’s typing away, presses his tongue into the fat of his cheek as he responds. “Seungcheol,” you try again.

Also fruitless.

You have no claim here, you remind yourself—not to his time, not to him. He’s only here because someone else mandated it. You’re only here because someone else mandated it, but it stings all the same. Another reminder of what used to be, of what ended regardless of what you wanted. Another reminder that the role you used to play in his life is not the role you play now. That the space you used to take up created a vacancy, and eventually it was going to be filled.

And if this was anyone other than Seungcheol, if you were more emotionally evolved when it came to him, it wouldn’t gnaw at you as much. All of this would roll off your shoulders.

But it isn’t, and you’re not.

“If you’re not going to listen, then—”

“I am listening,” he interjects, but he’s not looking at you. Not looking at his textbook or his study guide. Keeps laughing and smiling at his phone, and it’s sick how bothered you are by it. That it feels like your stomach’s been turned inside-out with jealousy; with annoyance, because you don’t want to be here anyway, don’t want to do this anymore, and you’re wasting your time on someone who doesn’t appreciate it.

Perhaps he never did.

“What are we discussing, then?”

Still not looking up: “Consumer theory.”

You laugh—more a huff of air than anything, grin sardonically out of one corner of your mouth. Seungcheol sees none of it. “Wrong,” you answer, already expecting the way he shrugs it off. “I’m gonna skip ahead a few chapters, though. Consider it a freebie for your business class.”

It must be your tone that finally grabs his attention. Cutting, precise, purposeful. Seungcheol lowers his phone, quirks an eyebrow, wonders where this is going to go. It’s clear he’s pissed you off, that you’re itching for a fight. It’s clear the years of silence are finally coming to a head.

“Let’s talk about ROI. You know what that is?” You barely give him a second. “Return on investment. A performance measure used to evaluate the efficiency of an investment or compare the efficiency of several investments. So, let’s say I make one-hundred-thousand won on a ten-thousand won investment: my ROI is 90%. Are you following?”

He nods.

“Great, now let’s try something a bit more hypothetical.” You suck in a breath. “Let’s say I invest years of my adolescence into someone. A friend at first and then something more. Let’s say I played cheerleader, supported every hope and dream he had—went to every game, cheered him on, helped him practice his English. Held his hand and talked him down when the pressure felt overwhelming, when the only thing that felt inevitable was failure. Now, let’s say all I got in return was a stuttered, awkward apology as he dumped me and walked out the door. Let’s say that guy showed up again after years of silence just to once again waste my fucking time.”

The thing about pain is it’s not linear. What hurt five, ten years ago might not hurt today, but it might tomorrow; what hurt yesterday may never hurt again. The thing about pain is it lets you stick your head in the sand until it can’t anymore, and that’s where you are now: that window of time between Seungcheol walking out the door on the assumption you’d never see him again before he bulldozed his way back into your life has been slammed closed, locked up tight.

So you don’t even notice you’re crying until the room goes deathly silent and you can hear the drip drip drip of tears on paper. Until you watch Seungcheol’s hands flex and unflex in mid-air, stuck in that liminal space, wanting to reach out but knowing he has no right to. Until your chest aches so bad you’re sure you’re either about to break into stardust or cease to exist.

Until you say, “What, Choi Seungcheol, would you say my fucking return on investment was?” and he has nothing to say at all.

Kaori invites you to a party.

Just something small to celebrate the end of midterms and a classmate’s birthday. Nothing out of control or raucous, not even the kind of thing that’d earn a second glance from campus security. I won’t even make fun of you if you leave before eleven, is how she sold it to you, in addition to a small amount of begging and bargaining and a powerful set of puppy-dog eyes.

After everything the two of you have been through, you find it hard to say no.

So here you are, nearly eleven o’clock on a Friday, a cup of cheap beer in hand. A friend of a friend of a friend is wailing into a karaoke machine and although your ears are bleeding, it does feel nice for that to be your greatest worry. You aren’t thinking about your classes or how you’ve been prioritizing everyone else’s academic success. You aren’t thinking about whatever’s going on between Kaori and Ken. You aren’t thinking about Seungcheol.

At least you aren’t, until he walks through the door.

You’re going to continue not thinking about him at all—not about the fact he’s alone or how good he looks in a simple black T-shirt that’s a little taut in the shoulders. You’re not going to think about the way the air shifts, like the universe knows he’s important and is willing to accommodate. You’re not going to think about how Kaori catches your eye across the room, recognizes him from all her internet searches, and the way she mouths oh my god he’s so beefy at you.

You’re not going to think about how guilty you feel that she doesn’t know, because if you do you’re certain it’ll take over.

You watch Seungcheol work the room; watch as he floats between conversations, as strangers fall over themselves at the sight of him. How eager everyone is to give him something and how reluctant he is to take them. You watch as he winds up in the same circle as Kaori and how she must mention you, oh, your tutor is my roommate, because there’s a question in return before he turns and meets your gaze.

You wonder why the distance between you feels more insurmountable now than ever before.

Seungcheol finds you in your office.

It’s not a Tuesday or a Thursday, far later than four to six in the evening, but he doesn’t even bother knocking before he’s barreling in, stifling your space with his bad energy.

You haven’t seen him in nearly two weeks. Not since the party, if that even counts. Hasn’t bothered to reply to any of your texts or emails, and that was just fine by you, if that’s how he wanted to act, but it isn’t until he’s brooding on the other side of your desk that you realize you’re still aggrieved, too. Feels a little too familiar, him leaving you behind and in the dark.

So you don’t mean to—typically have much more professionalism than this—but when he tosses a stapled stack of papers with a barely-passing grade on your desk and says, “This is your fault,” the words come automatically and without forethought.

“Fuck off, Seungcheol.” It’s not your words that take him by surprise; more so the roll of your eyes, the accompanying huff. The impression that all of this is beneath you and nothing more than a mere annoyance. That however affected you were two weeks ago is not how affected you are anymore. “That’s what happens when you blow off your tutoring for two weeks because you’re a coward.”

He laughs, incredulous; unable to help the sound the tumbles out of his mouth. “I’m a—I’m a coward?”

“Yes,” you reply, tone giving away nothing. All he sees is feigned nonchalance despite the hurricane you feel brewing beneath the surface. “This,” you continue, pinching the corner of the paper between your fingertips and disposing of it in the trashcan beneath your desk, “is all on you, but do please let me know if there’s anything else you’d like to blame me for. I’m all ears.”

You don’t miss it: the way Seungcheol’s eyes grow wide at your ‘I’m all.’ The way he thinks you’re going to punctuate that sentence with yours, and it nearly has bile rising in your throat. Makes you want to scream, rip at your hair. If the last few months have taught you anything, it’s that you are still hopelessly in love with the man across from you—the man that continues to leave before he’s left, always at your expense.

So, yeah—Seungcheol is a coward, but only when it comes to you.

But he doesn’t look much like one now, gripping so hard at the edge of your desk that his knuckles have gone white, baseball cap pulled down low enough his eyes are barely visible. He’s always been overwhelming, always carried himself with an exaggerated arrogance even when it wasn’t warranted, always took everything so seriously, and maybe that’s why you’d thought he’d treat you the same way. Take you seriously. Wouldn’t just throw it all away on a maybe thing, and that’s why it's been years and you still aren’t over it.

Maybe Seungcheol is a coward, and maybe so are you.

Because not once since he’s been back have you been able to say what you mean. Can’t seem to tell him about the anger, the hurt, the heartbreak. Played it all off as petty nonchalance because you foolishly thought that would hurt him, that you’ve been reduced to simmering ash, no hope left for a fire.

“I could never blame you for a goddamn thing,” he says, voice so deep you could drown in it.

You so desperately want to know. You don’t want to know anything at all. You want Seungcheol to explain everything to you in detail and spoil the ending, but only if it’s guaranteed to be happy. Enduring another loss like the first time—you’re not sure you can take it. Not after you two have crossed paths like this, because you’ve never quite believed in fate but you think that has to mean something. That so much time and life had transpired and you two came back together.

Today, though, it doesn’t look like you’re going to get any answers.

Seungcheol straightens, looms at full height. Digs into the pocket of his sweatpants and pulls out a thumb drive. Wordlessly, he hands it over, and then he’s gone just as abruptly as he’d arrived.

Again.

Kaori wants to spend the weekend moping, and you can’t come up with a good reason not to join her.

She doesn’t mention Ken once. Not when she’s sobbing over A Silent Voice and Toradora! after that. Not when she keeps glancing at her phone every couple minutes to see if she has any texts. Not when you—only halfway paying attention between grading and your own assignments—suggest ordering something for delivery, maybe that new burger place down the street you heard was good, and Kaori shuts it down so vehemently you can only assume it was Ken’s favorite place.

Kaori just cries over the man with the big dick she never expected to take so seriously, and not even your stonewalling makes her feel ashamed of it.

And there’s respectability in that kind of openness and vulnerability. At least whatever she’s feeling is honest; at least she can admit she’s sad. You think watching Kaori process her breakup might help you process yours too, years too late, so you suck in a breath and ask, “Can I tell you something or is now not a good time?”

Kaori looks over at you. Dabs a soggy tissue at her eyes. “Well, I guess it depends,” is her answer, and she doesn’t shy away from how waterlogged her voice sounds. “If you’re going to tell me you’re a Takasu and Kawashima shipper, maybe, but if it’s anything worse I’m not sure I could take it.”

“I—what? Who even are they?” She gives you a half-hearted thumbs up. You sigh in response, sink further into the couch. “It’s, uh.” Clear your throat. “Do you remember when we met sophomore year? At that party? And I told you I wasn’t looking for anything and you said, and I quote, why not, I have a sixth sense for this kind of thing and I know that guy will have a huge—”

She hides her face behind her hands. “Ew, god, yes I remember that. My dick whisperer era. How embarrassing.”

“Right. And I told you I wasn’t looking for anything because I’d just gotten out of something.”

“Not really by choice, if I remember correctly. I told you if it was quiet it should’ve been loud, and then you never talked about it again.”

You nod. “I—yeah, that sounds like something I would’ve said.” You suck in a deep breath. “Listen, this is probably gonna sound bad considering I did never talk about it again, but—”

“Hey,” Kaori says, nudging you with her foot. Meant to be comforting, somehow. “It’s okay. There’s a lot you don’t know about me, too… most of which I’m not sure you should, actually.”

A laugh forces its way out, gives you a nice reprieve from the anxiety of the conversation you’re about to have. The need to explain it all, the need for advice. Maybe it’s not her—or anyone else’s—business, but you think you’ve kept this to yourself long enough. You and Seungcheol loved each other, once, and it seems foolish that no one knows.

Maybe Kaori had been right. Maybe love should be shouted from the rooftops; exist out in the open. Maybe something hidden in the shadows can never thrive in the light, and you knew it back then, deep down, but now it seems so obvious.

You think back to a few days before the library. Think about how things didn’t feel good but they felt okay. Think about the frustrated crease between Seungcheol’s eyebrows as he stared down at his textbook and how all you’d wanted to do was smooth it. Think about how you’d rolled your lips and tried not to laugh; how you thought it’d take a miracle to help Seungcheol pass this class.

Think about: What is the difference between the short-run and the long-run from the perspective of production theory?

Think about the short-run of your and Seungcheol’s relationship—that you’d burned bright and fast, even though it’d felt like a million years. Hadn’t dared to consider the long-run because anything beyond that bubble felt impossible.

Think about: Which of the following is not a property of isoquants?

Think about the way Seungcheol’s eyes lit up when he knew the answer. That they’re always linear, he said, and you smiled at his enthusiasm, raised your hand to high-five him and dropped it when he hadn’t noticed.

You think about the explanation—isoquants can be linear when inputs are perfectly substitutable—and what those graphs look like. Downward sloping, left to right. Think about how the graphs change when the isoquants are perfect complements.

L-shaped. Less straight as the inputs become poorer substitutes.

You know what your and Seungcheol’s graph would’ve looked like back then.

So it’s easy, almost, to tell Kaori everything. You tell her about growing up in Daegu, about the smell of the azaleas at Biseulsan in the spring. You tell her about how your parents had befriended the neighbors, how they had a kid your age, that that kid was Seungcheol—yes, that Seungcheol.

She’s able to anticipate the rest from there, but you fill in the blanks of what she can’t: being sixteen and falling in love, holding hands, the clandestine notes. All those football matches and how your throat would be hoarse from cheering. How nauseous you’d felt applying to university in Seoul, how excited you were when Seungcheol said he was coming with you. That, after you arrived, it felt like you were living in fast-forward. Barely any time to breathe or adjust; no time to just be you and Seungcheol. You had to be a student, someone responsible; Seungcheol had to be a phenom.

“Could you feel it was going to happen?” Kaori asks, now sat ramrod straight, all her attention on you. “Like, did you know?”

“I don’t know,” you admit. “Maybe I did? It’s hard to say now, all this time later. I know things definitely felt different, like life was pulling us in opposite directions.” You laugh, bitterness coloring the edges. “You couldn’t go two blocks without seeing him on some billboard, and I was just… normal, you know? I wasn’t some rising star athlete like he was, I just went to my classes. How was I supposed to compete with something like that?”

Your roommate hums, leans back into the pillows as she stares up at the ceiling. “I don’t think you were. Maybe that’s why Seungcheol was worried—maybe he felt like you were losing your own identity feeling like you had to keep up.”

You want to push back, argue that you weren’t, that you didn’t, but the truth is that it’s possible. That the shadows created by Seungcheol’s dreams were so massive you wouldn’t be surprised if they unintentionally swallowed you up. “It still wasn’t his choice to make,” you say, voice barely above a whisper.

And Kaori already knows all about your hurt, listened as you explained it all and laid everything bare. So when she says, “Sometimes that’s just how it goes, though, babe,” it doesn’t feel condescending. “We do the best we can with what we’ve got at the time. You can say now it wasn’t Seungcheol’s choice to make, because it’s been almost five years and you’ve made a life for yourself separate from him. But the—god, this is gonna sound so patronizing, I am so sorry—but you guys were so young. No one has it all figured out at that age.”

She snorts, runs a hand through her messy hair. “Shit, I’m nearly halfway to thirty and I still don’t know anything.” Adopts a frown. “What do you want now? Do you want closure? Want to try to fix things and become friends?”

“I don’t know,” you admit, biting at a hangnail. “He actually, um. The other day when he stopped by my office, he left me a USB drive? And before you ask, no I did not already look at it.”

“A USB drive? Who does this guy think he is, James Bond?” A pause. “Are you gonna look at it, though?”

You do.

Not until the silver, midnight light creeps in through your bedroom curtains and you’ve stared at the ceiling long enough; waited long enough for texts that never came, for divine intervention to, well, intervene. It never did—fair enough—so you decide to take fate by the reins. Grab your laptop, instant headache from the screen, stick the drive into the port.

It takes a second for it to load, but when it does: dozens of videos, organized by date. Vlogs, by the look of them—some from before your breakup but the majority of them from after.

You’re not sure what you expected, but it wasn’t this.

You click on the first one: a month and a half before both of you moved to Seoul. A fresh-faced Seungcheol appears on your screen, cheeks still round with adolescence. He’s in his room back in Daegu, can’t get the camera angle right. Nostalgia hits you like a ton of bricks as it pans to the side, to the wall behind his bed, and you see all his old posters. Mostly football players you couldn’t name, some girl group he used to love, a few movies. Just below them are some of the notes you’d written him in school, and they’re all you can focus on as he talks about how excited he is for the move.

The next: a few weeks after you’d started classes. By then, Seungcheol was well into the swing of things with Seoul FC. Already a big fish in a small pond, tryout offers from European teams starting to roll in. You can hear yourself in the background stressing over your first exam, wishing a generational curse upon your calculus professor. In the video, Seungcheol laughs, whispers like he’s telling the camera a secret as he talks about how nervous he is for his future. I don’t know why, he says, but it just feels like everything is about to change.

There’s a long pause between that one and the next. You understand why when you look at the date: three months after your breakup. Your hands hover uselessly above your keyboard. Whatever answers you’ve been looking for the last few years are probably in this video, but you can’t bring yourself to open it. Not right away, at least.

You click on a different one at random. Seungcheol’s somewhere in Europe, judging from the language on the signs behind him. Snow falls quietly—whenever he filmed this, it must’ve been early. No one else is around, and he cracks a joke that it’s a good thing, people would probably think he was crazy if they saw him. He doesn’t tell you where he’s going but he narrates the entire walk: points out a cafe he’s grown to love. The way to get to his practice stadium from where he’s standing. Pauses near a restaurant and laughs ruefully, shakes his head, says, I don’t know why I’m telling you this, but one of my teammates set me up on a blind date here and I got stood up. You’d probably think that was funny.

(You do. It also makes your chest ache.)

One from two years ago: Seungcheol in a hotel room, clearly nervous. He raises his hand to wave at the camera and you can see the corners of his nails bitten raw. Dark circles beneath his eyes; cheekbones more pronounced than you’ve ever seen them. On the screen, Seungcheol sighs, rakes a hand through freshly-bleached hair. Sucks in a deep breath as he says, I’m so nervous. I’m so—so fucking nervous and I don’t. Fuck, I don’t know what to do. I want to call you because you always knew what to say but that’s so fucking selfish. God, we haven’t spoken in years, and it’s my—that’s my fault, I know, so I brought this all on myself. I just want to hear your voice.

Another from a week after that: the color’s returned to his face, and he’s recording from what looks like a penthouse apartment. Sleek, modern; a small white dog napping on the bed beside him. He smiles, looks like he got his teeth fixed, looks like he’s no longer carrying around the weight of the world. Talks endlessly and excitedly about some tournament. Talks so fast you can barely keep up. Talks around words tinged with languages you don’t understand.

Seungcheol wins a championship. Records a drunk vlog from the same night, hair soaked through with god-knows-what—water, champagne, you don’t know. But he looks radiant. Looks like the culmination of two decades of dreaming. He looks happy, free, at peace. He looks like the reason he let you go, why he had to go away.

You scroll to the bottom of the files. Pause at the last video, dated seven months before the term started.

“Hi,” he says, and you can immediately tell everything is all wrong. Seungcheol’s in the dark, face only visible enough to see the tears tracking on his cheeks. “This is going to be the last one of these I make. I don’t know if you, uh—I’m sure you aren’t paying attention to me—my career—anymore, but. I, um. I got hurt. Ruptured my ACL. They’re not sure I’ll…” A sob escapes him. Has you wanting to climb through the screen to hold him, thumb away his tears, tell him everything is going to be okay. “They don’t know if I’ll ever play again.”

Seungcheol no longer looks happy, free, at peace. “Maybe you’ll be happy to hear that,” he continues. “Maybe it’ll help you to know I threw away our relationship for nothing.”

Cut to black.

The sudden silence is deafening. Has you desperately clicking back to the video you’d skipped, the one from just after your breakup. Seungcheol looks the same in that one, too, like the life has been drained out of him.

I don’t know why I’m doing this. It’s not like I’ll ever show these to you now, since I…

I’m sure I owe you an explanation. To be honest, I don’t know what I’m doing, I just—things have been so hard, and I’m still trying to make sense of it all. I feel like my life went from zero to a hundred before I could even blink and now I’m scrambling. I didn’t think it was fair to—to drag you through that. Me being away, moving to an entirely different continent. I have faith we could do it, I just. I don’t know, baby, I don’t…

You deserve to have your own life. Be your own person. I’m so scared that the world will never see you for who you are—so beautiful and intelligent and kind. You don’t deserve to be reduced to my partner. And if you ever see this, I know you’re gonna roll your eyes. Probably call me a mean name because I took the choice away from you, because you think I’m trying to be selfless and heroic, and you’d be right. It’s not fair, and I wish I could tell you I’m sorry.

I wish I could just… pluck out my brain and give it to you, because even if it killed me to do it, at least it makes sense to me. And I don’t—I don’t want you to think I’m not hurting. I’ve been sick to my stomach since I left. I know I’m making a mistake, I know I am, I just—how do I do what I think is right in the long-run when it’s not what I want right now, or ever?

I don’t want to get over you. I don’t want you to get over me, and that’s how you know I’m not acting selflessly, because you should. I want you to always be happy, I just… wish it was with me.

So, I’m going to keep making these. I’m going to take you along for the ride, wherever it takes us, because you should be here but I can only hope you can one day understand why you’re not. I’m so—I’m so sorry, I don’t…

I’m sorry.

I love you.

You fall asleep and dream that you were the one meant to meet him at that restaurant.

The first thing you do is make a call to your mother.

“Could you send another container of yakgwa?”

On the other end of the line, your mother tuts, motherly intuition audibly kicking into overdrive. Is probably wearing that all-knowing, sly grin she always does when you try to be coy and evasive. “What happened to the last container I sent?”

“Ah, you know Kaori loves those. They barely lasted an hour after I told her what was in there.”

She hums an acknowledgement. Sounds like she takes a sip of tea. “I remember someone else being quite fond of those cookies, too.”

“Well, they are the most popular cookies in the country, so.”

After haranguing you into admitting they’re for Seungcheol and not your roommate, your mother promises to send them quickly. A few days at most, which buys you enough time to figure out how you’re going to approach the man in question.

The vlogs have turned your entire world upside-down. Answered questions you hadn’t even known you had. Took all that anger and resentment you’d been holding onto and set it free, and now you’re just left with… a void. Want to mend things, and it makes you wonder if such a thing is even possible, if it’s too late, but you don’t let those thoughts get very far.

Instead, you let them spur you into action. Have you sitting in front of your laptop at your desk, office hours long since over, silence creeping in the more the department empties. The thrum of the airconditioning and the tick-tick-tick of the clock are all the only company you have.

You worry if it’ll show on camera, how out of sorts you feel: sweating from the nerves, dabbing at your hairline; cheeks warm to the touch. But you suck in a breath anyway, steel yourself. Look at your webcam and the daunting red circle…

And start recording.

He hadn’t gotten it at first. Not really.

There’d been a container of yakgwa outside his door with his USB drive taped to the top of it. No note—not that he needed one to know who it was from, but he wasn’t sure what it was. A goodbye? A please fuck off forever and never contact me again?

He’d just taken them inside. Ate too many of the cookies while feeling sorry for himself. Maybe had a glass or two of wine to compound the issue, and never, ever considered contacting you. Didn’t think he could bear it if you never wanted to see him again, but he just…

Well, he was drunk and alone and he missed you, and he’d rewatched all those videos he recorded a million times before when he was like this, so what was a million and one?

It’d been the same as every time before: he smiled at the happy parts, cried at all his old wounds. Wanted to reach through the screen and strangle his past self for including that part about the blind date, because he never wanted to date anyone who wasn’t you, why would he say that, felt mortified at the thought of you watching that—

And then there it was.

All the way at the bottom. A new video. One that hadn’t been recorded by him—

Hi, Cheol, you say, and that’s all it takes to reduce him to a sobbing, yearning mess. I’m not sure what to say here. I don’t really record much—sometimes for lectures when the professors are too busy, but never anything personal like this, but I watched every single one you made for me and I thought I should return the favor.

I wanted to tell you everything I’ve been up to since you left, but it hasn’t been much. I got my degree. Tutored a lot in undergrad—the same thing I’m tutoring you in now, actually. I was good at it and it felt good to have something that was mine, you know? I almost moved for grad school. Thought for a while I was going to wind up in New York, but then my parents divorced and it felt like too much, too scary, so I stayed. Kaori also stayed, so we got an apartment together. It’s not much, definitely not as nice as your place, but it’s good enough.

I don’t think I ever told you, but she was seeing a guy for a bit and he was… obsessed with you, to say the least. Thought you were the coolest person in the world. They aren’t seeing each other anymore. Ended pretty badly, but—speaking of which, maybe steer clear of Student Services for a while, too.

Sometimes it felt like failure that I wound up staying here. That I had scholarships from all these far-away, prestigious places and didn’t take advantage of them. That I gave into my fear. And now… I don’t know. Maybe there’s a reason I stayed behind. Maybe there’s a reason you ended up back here, too.

Whatever happens—I don’t want you to think I still blame you. Kaori says we do the best we can with what we’ve got at the time, and I understand now that’s what you did. Even though it hurt me, you were trying to protect me. I get it now. And I’m sorry you had to go through all of that alone. I can’t imagine how hard it must’ve been to go to all these places you didn’t know. To have to deal with your injury, the loss of a dream.

You said in one of your videos that you just want me to be happy, and that’s all I want for you, too, whatever that looks like.

Here’s my address if you ever want to come by to talk.

I love you, too.

—and then he’d been up and out the door, feeling stone cold sober, running to the front of his building to wait for his ride.

Felt like the drive took hours. Must’ve hit every red light between his apartment and yours. Took the steps two at a time just to get to your door faster.

There’s a man already standing outside your door when he gets there. One that looks shocked to see him, stars in his eyes, and when Seungcheol says, “Oh, you must be Kaori’s ex,” he looks more like he wants the earth to swallow him whole. Embarrassed in front of his idol.

He knocks on your door and gets no response. Knocks again, harder this time, and he has to try really hard to stifle his laughter when your voice yells from the inside, “Fuck off, Kenji, I already told you she’s not here!”

“It’s me,” Seungcheol yells back.

There’s quiet again. Just enough time for it to feel like his heart is going to beat right out of his chest and follow Kaori’s ex down the hall.

Then you’re yanking the door open—slowly, so slowly, like you’re scared it’s not actually him. Your eyes are brimming with tears when they meet his own, and he doesn’t let himself think, just goes on instinct, when he grabs for you, hands on your cheeks, and presses his lips to yours.

Somehow you taste the same.

Somehow you taste like redemption.

You taste like home.

Seungcheol kisses you until the tears slow. Kisses you until the universe realigns, until he could map your mouth in the dark. Kisses you until all you’re all he knows again.

When he pulls away, you’re gripping at his sweatshirt, don’t want to let him go. He presses his forehead to yours, offers up a million more apologies, starts talking nonsense. Says he’s going to drop microeconomics, what the hell does he know, he barely has a passing grade anyway, what does it matter, he’s such an idiot—

And then you say, “You came back,” and nothing else matters.

“I always will.”

(Later on, as you’re trying to steady your breathing, slick with sweat, your thigh thrown over Seungcheol’s hip as he stares down at you, dopey smile on his face, you say, “Choi Seungcheol, don’t you dare drop that class. I have worked my ass off to get you to barely-passing.”)

if you’ve made it this far thank you so much for reading! i am still very new at writing for seventeen, so i hope this was acceptable. i'm now going to throw myself into the warped tour vernon fic and will hopefully not go another 7+ months without posting anything. 😭

i would love to hear your thoughts! <3

[gojonanami]

❝ 𝐈 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐀 𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐇 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐄𝐄𝐋𝐒 !! ❞

❝ PROF. GETO IS SO HOT AND NOW HE’S YOUR THESIS ADVISOR !! ❞

✧ pairing: professor!geto x f!reader (yuta x f!reader) (part six of the prof geto series)

✧ summary: just when you had moved on, suguru is back in your life as your thesis advisor, and what choice do you have but to deal -- deal with lingering feelings from your breakup, but also yuta's. and through this, you both find out what you all owe to each other.

✧ warnings: 18+, nsfw, smut , fluff, but also angst depictions of student/teacher relationship (only ok in fiction not irl!!!), reader is a grad student, but age is vague, post breakup, dealing with exes, insecurity, semi-exhibitionism, desk sex, fingering (f! receiving), handjob (m! receiving), oral (f! + m! receiving), sex (p in v), creampie, multiple orgasms, amateur's take on moral philsophy and ethics, fanart by @ / kyrraen (pls go follow them, they are so talented)

✧ w/c: 25,305 | part one | part two | part three | part four | part five

Suguru never had believed in fate before — before he met you. 

And now it seemed fate had its own plans for the both of you — pulling you together, even when he had tried his best to push the two of you apart. Try he had, and in the end, you both ended up back where you had started — seated across from each other with a pile of papers littered with red pen. 

Except now he himself had found himself littered with you — your tie pin you had given him, the way his fingers wanted to smooth your brow with a kiss as it furrowed while you flipped through your proposal, and how his heart felt whole from the moment you walked in the room. And he knew he would be littered with your marks all his life, more permanent than ink — and he would never be able rid himself of them. 

Or of you. 

When Yaga had come to him with the news, it was already too much to handle. He was being re-assigned to Tokyo to handle duties for both schools for a time — until someone stepped up to handle Kyoto. Yaga didn’t trust anyone else — and since Suguru had worked at Tokyo longer, it made sense to have him go back. 

But then the question of you — the reminder came on the form of your email during their meeting — and you came into his world again the same way you did before — an email for a meeting. But it wasn’t for him. 

Not yet at least. 

It was hard to know what to do, or what you would want. Yaga could have you re-assigned, but the thesis you were working on was in Suguru’s specialty and he knew half the reason you had asked Yaga was to have a department head listed on your thesis. And to rob you of that wasn’t a choice he wanted to make for you. 

He’s done enough of that to you. And he had done it for your future — and he would do this for your future, if you wanted him to. 

You’re speechless when he breaks the news to you — as he expected you would be. But his surprise comes when you reply — he expected anger, frustration, a straight out refusal to work with him — but he did not get any of those — he only got quiet acceptance. 

“Fine, should we stick to the same schedule that Yaga and I agreed to?” And Suguru takes a minute, leaning back in his chair, “what?” 

“I just…I didn’t expect you to accept so readily,” he replies softly, choosing his words carefully, “in my email, I said you could take time to think about it or we could procure a different advisor—“ 

“Professor,” the word sticks in his chest like a right dagger that barely misses his heart, “out of everyone who works in this department I know you are the only one who is capable of pushing me to be my best, even when I don’t ask for it,” you add under your breath, “especially when I don’t ask for it,” 

A hollow chuckle is stuck in his throat, “If you’re sure, it’s your choice,” and he’s looking for a few notes and edits he had written out for you for the schedule you sent along previously. 

“It is my choice,” you echo, your eyes meet his, as he looks up from the papers strewn about the desk, “and I choose this,” and he knows all too well what you mean by your deliberate choice of words— and he did love you for your cutting tongue. 

Even when it was used against him. 

“If you do, then can you choose to come to my old office?” And you’re blinking, brow furrowing — and his cheeks burn, “I left your schedule there — I had a few notes regarding my own schedule,” 

You raise an eyebrow, a flicker of a smart remark on the tip of your tongue that you seemingly swallow, as you gather the proposal into your bag, “let’s go,”

The walk over is in relative silence, the campus mostly quiet with the impending end of the semester at bay — as he forces his gaze forward, but that doesn’t stop his traitorous eyes from sneaking glances all the same. Why was it that he was a lighthouse and his eyes were spotlights only made to find your ship on the dark waves of the sea. 

And you stop in your tracks, a glance at your face doesn’t give him the answer — but another face does. 

“Yuta?” And he’s holding your lunch bag — the same one you insisted on taking with you, refusing to spend more money on the overpriced lunch on campus. And the realization hits him all at once, and he’s suddenly toppling headfirst into the waves. 

“You forgot your lunch,” Yuta offers an awkward smile — and Suguru’s eyes find your face again, right before he goes under — the same soft look you gave him. 

Used to give him. 

And he lets the water overtake him. 

~~~

“You forgot your lunch,”

And you never thought a rushed morning would lead to the most awkward moment of your life. Yuta glances between you and Suguru, as you step forward to take your lunch from his hand, your fingers intertwining with his, as if to ground yourself. 

“Yuta, this is Professor Geto, he taught one of the classes I took and he’s taking over as my thesis advisor,” and you’re only lucky Suguru is able to tuck away emotions so easily, a polite smile on his lips as he offers his hand to Yuta, “this is Yuta, my boyfriend,” 

You can’t meet Suguru’s gaze as you say it — but you wonder what you would find — hurt, anger, or nothing at all? And you couldn’t figure out which would hurt the most. 

“It’s nice to meet you,” Suguru says, before shaking his hand, and Yuta nods. 

“Likewise,” and Suguru turns to you, hands slipping into his pockets, while yours remained laced with Yuta’s — but how long ago would it had been intertwined in his? “On second thought, I’ll email you my edits to your thesis schedule, I’ll leave you both to the rest of your day,” he gives a stiff smile, before heading on his way. 

And he knew this was a future of his own making — the consequences of his own actions. 

He gives a bitter chuckle. Consequentialism — the morality is centered around creating the right consequences — and wasn’t it right? Right for you to be happy with someone your age? Right to be with someone who you can hold their hand and be with? Right to be with someone who can give you everything and anything you want? 

“I understand the intention of consequentialism, but it just feels so pointless,” you had said while the two of you sat watching TV on the couch, your legs thrown over his lap, the comfortable warmth of your head resting on his shoulder. 

“That’s not where I thought your mind was,” Suguru had chuckled, pressing a kiss to your forehead, but still he indulged, “the point is to get as much good as possible out of a decision correct? The most happiness?” 

Your brow remained furrowed, “But the problem is the cost of it — it can come at the cost of your own happiness if it’s creating the right consequences,” 

“That’s more utilitarianism—“ and you shrug. 

“I understand it’s more complicated, but I don’t see the value in making decisions like that — doesn’t it defeat the purpose because you’re doing it for the outcome — without considering your feelings or the others? You’re nothing more than a happiness pump,” 

And as he sneaks a glance back, watching you and Yuta stand there still, fingers still intertwined, his fingers squeeze the handle of his bag, is that why it feels so wrong? 

He arrived back at his office, fingers turning the knob and finding an empty tomb — the walls stripped down to the bare, a thick layer of dust that clung to the surfaces, the couch he had in the corner of the room likely relocated to another office — that he thought he had finally left behind. But here he was again — right back where he started. 

He dragged his finger through the dust on his desk. Was he nothing more than a happiness pump? Giving himself pain for the sake of others’ happiness — and was the outcome worth it? But he’s swallowing down his pain — a bitter consequence he had to take — because he knew — he would take any pain, if it meant you were happy. 

And you were. 

Right? 

~~~

Yuta knew — he did even before he had started to date you. Or rather, he had suspected. But now he knew.  

The first time he saw the two of you bump into each other, he knew because of the way Geto looked at you — and even the way you looked at him — the hurt flickering in your gaze, even when you refused to look at him. 

Professor Geto has been much more than a professor to you — he was your boyfriend, the same one Yuta had envied for so many months. Only for him to be back in your life again. And he felt like he was right back to where he had started in your life again — a friend. 

And there wasn’t a thing wrong with being your friend — but now that he was more than one, he knew he only wanted even more of you — and to give more of himself. If you would let him. 

But when your fingers curled around his, ‘boyfriend’ slipping from your lips, assuaged his anxiety for a moment, but as he watched your eyes find the back of Geto’s head after he left, it all came back. 

Your fingers squeeze his, “Thank you for bringing my lunch, Yu,” and it brings him back to the moment, and your face is so readable in this moment — as if to make up for the times he couldn’t make sense of you — searching for an indication that he knew, an implication of his emotions, a question unspoken to ask if he knew. 

And he did. 

“Of course, baby,” he presses a kiss to your forehead, and he wants to tell you he does, wants to ask you why you hid it, why you felt you couldn’t be honest, and why you look like you’re still as heartbroken as the day he ran into you outside this building, “I have to go, but I’ll see you later,” but he doesn’t ask. 

“Yuta—“ but he’s only pressing a sweet kiss to your lips, fingers cupping his cheek. 

“I love you,” and your lips curl into a small smile. 

“I love you too,” and it was enough, he thought, as his fingers parted from yours, and he turned to leave. 

It was enough, for now.  

~~~

How do you tell someone something they already know? You snuck glances at your own boyfriend after dinner, as the two of you settled in to watch something to unwind. The day had gone by as expected, but the crawling anxiety only grew as more time passed, the words wanting nothing more than to leave your mouth. 

Why was it you when you had so much to say you couldn’t say it? And now when you had to explain, no words could leave your lips? 

God, how the fuck did you catch yourself in this mess? Your ex as your thesis advisor — was this karma for being unethical? A cruel consequence of the choices you made? Maybe fate? No, it wasn’t fate. Things were better without Suguru in your life, simpler and easier. And you were happy — but now this, this just had the potential to ruin everything. 

But only if you let it. 

And the longer you went without discussing this, the more damage it would be. It was a secret you had chosen to keep — you didn’t think it was pertinent, especially with Suguru in Kyoto. It was a detail you could spare, at least until after you graduated, 

But now it couldn’t wait. 

It was a piano hanging by a string that’s already snapped and it was on its last fibers, swinging back and forth, waiting to see whether you would push Yuta and yourself out of the way — or whether one or both of you would get crushed in the process. 

The walk back to your apartment is an exercise in coping mechanisms to prevent panic or anxiety from settling fully into your skin, holding the string together with your arms seemingly, ready for it to tear you apart. 

But it doesn’t. 

“I have to talk to you,” you say once you and Yuta are sitting on the couch, one leg tucked under the other to prevent you from shaking it, or running away for that matter, “it’s nothing bad — well, I mean it’s not—“ you cut yourself off, shaking your head, “just know I love you, and that hasn’t changed—“ 

And his lips find yours, cutting off your frantic thoughts with a sweet kiss that only leaves you wanting more, but also leaves you with more questions than answers. 

He pulls away, a small smile on his lips, “Breath “ and you sigh, taking a breath, “and I love you too,” your fingers interlace with his, “what is it?” 

But you don’t even know where to begin, except at the point, “You know the ex that broke my heart before we dated?” And he’s nodding, “Professor Geto is—“ 

“Is your ex,” he finishes, and you knew he had figured out, but you hadn’t expected it to come out so matter-of-factly, “I had a feeling and this morning confirmed it,” 

“I’m sorry,” you shake your head, “after he moved, I never thought he would move back, much less become my thesis advisor,” you bury your face in your hands, “and I don’t want you to think I was hiding it. It’s just with the relationship being taboo, I didn’t think—“ 

“You were trying to protect yourself and your ex, it’s understandable,” he squeezes your hand, “you couldn’t have expected this to happen,” 

And you’re lifting your gaze to his, “How are you so calm? How are you so…okay?” 

He gives a sigh, “it’s hard, I’m trying to stay rational for you — for us,” you lean against him, “what are you going to do? About your thesis?” 

“I think I’ll have to take Suguru as my advisor. I don’t have much of a choice,” you bite your lip, “I could take another, but no other professor has the same specialization as Yaga, except Geto, and I know he’ll give me good feedback,” 

“But?” You rest your head in your hand. 

“But having to spend that much time with my ex? Having to work on something so important to my career with him? Having to put you through that?” you feel more lost than when you began this conversation, “I don’t know what to do. I already agreed to it, but I think it’s only sinking in,” and you turn to him, “and then there’s you,” 

“What about me?” and you shake your head. 

“How can I put you through watching me spending hours with my ex over the next semester?” And Yuta shakes your head. 

“A decision important to your future shouldn’t just be based on me, it should be about you,” and you purse your lips — another reason why Yuta was so sweet, as you lean against him, burying your face in the crook of his neck. 

“I don’t deserve you,” he chuckles, running his fingers through your hair, “I’ll keep him as my advisor for now, but if you have a problem, please talk to me okay?” You lean back to look at him, “please?” 

“Of course,” and his lips find yours in a sweet kiss, “and you always deserve me — because I chose you.” You kissed him, his arms curling around you, as you leaned into his touch — the one place that always felt safe. 

And you didn’t know that he just hoped — you’d choose him too. 

~~~

Fuck. How was it you found yourself before Professor Geto’s door yet again? 

Winter break had flown by and now you found yourself back in the office you thought you had left behind not so long ago. Even if it felt like forever. You had spent your time split between working on your thesis, with the edits to your outline that Suguru had provided you, and with Yuta — who was more endlessly understanding than you could have hoped to imagine. And even today, as you headed off to meet Suguru in his office, he had nothing but soothing words for your nerves, sweet kisses, and a promise for a good meal when you got home. 

You hovered before the door of his office — no matter what had happened throughout these months, why did it always feel as if you always ended up here? Pulled against your will into a rotation around him — one that would have you stuck into a constant push and pull — and just when you had let go of his grip, you were pulled back in. And as your fist hovered next to the door, bracing to knock, you weren’t sure if you were ready to fall back in. 

But what you didn’t know as you stood before the door was that the man behind it was more anxious about this meeting than you were. 

~~~

“You’re early,” Suguru glances up from his paperwork, his top of his pen pressed to the seam of his lips, “for once,” 

Suguru himself had nearly been late this morning — ever the hypocrite, he supposed. He could barely sleep the night before, spent catching up on the work piled up for two department heads while the Kyoto campus makes potential temporary candidates jump through hoops. And then there was the other reason, his meeting with you — and all the complicated feelings he didn’t wish to entangle himself in. And yet he always fell deeper into your web, as if he didn’t willingly ensnare himself to begin with. 

He didn’t even know Yaga was sick, but he had seen the change in him. The subtle differences in his demeanor, the bags around his eyes, and the creeping slowness that came with illness. But it still hit like a gut punch to hear it from his mouth, and for him to ask to take over duties for him was a double edged blade of honor and complication. 

Yaga had given him the option to turn it down: to keep managing everything from Kyoto — but he accepted anyway — accepted because he knew that you’d be out of a thesis advisor. And he would be left unable to help from Kyoto with the in person role an advisor played. 

And so he was here. 

When he finally had gotten to lay down, eyes fixed on the familiar ceiling fan again — as he had managed to get his old apartment back by some miracle — and he hates how this place is a husk of itself without you here. But even with you here before him, his eyes snuck at glance at you, it somehow was worse being with you — when he was nothing to you. He could bear to not be your lover, but he couldn’t bear the weight of your hatred, or worse, your indifference. 

You cross your arms, your laptop bag draped on your shoulder, “You’ll never let that go until one of us is dead will you?” 

“That’s assuming we wouldn’t haunt the other,” he replies without missing a beat, as you take a seat across from him, eyes taking in his office. The same set up from before, if not a little less ostentatious and obnoxious — a few missing pictures and awards tucked away, the missing luxury sofa, and the lack of leather bound books lining shelves, instead minimally decorated with a few select titles — including What Do We Owe Each Other, prominently displayed. 

“I have better things to do than haunt you,” you scoff, pulling out your laptop from your bag, “did you forget to finish unpacking?” And he doesn’t offer even a look up at your remark. 

“No, just decided to take a certain person’s advice and try to take a less pretentious approach to my office,” his lips curled in that damnable wry smile of his, “plus not everything has been sent back from Kyoto yet,” and he leans forward, plucking your revised thesis outline from the neat piles lined up on his desk, “but my office decor isn’t why we’re here,” he flips through his notes on your draft, “the outline is in good shape, have you started on your draft?” 

You pull a stapled stack out to slide to him, “I have fleshed out some of my main points and I wanted your thoughts before I dove further,” and he takes it before scanning through it, silent as he peruses the contents. 

His eyes flit up, “You didn’t have to wait for my approval—“ 

“I know, but I value your opinion,” you grumble, eyes averted as you admit it, a graze of your teeth against the bottom of your lip. It draws a small smile from him, hidden away behind his closed fist pressed to his lips, “as my advisor,” you add, and he nods. 

The meeting finished up with much else, as you slide your laptop and things back into your bag. And for the first time your eyes meet his. 

“Have you been sleeping okay?” and he’s blinking a moment, as you continue, “you look tired. You should sleep more instead of working,”

He furrows his brow, “I am slee—“ 

“You have bags under your eyes, Professor,” you roll your eyes, “listen or don’t, but I rather my thesis isn’t re-assigned last minute because you ran yourself into the ground,” you say before turning to leave. 

“I expect your next draft by the beginning of the next week,” and you pause, the click of the knob as you pull the door open. 

“I’ll have it to you by the end of the week.” And you’re gone, door shutting behind you, and he leans back in his chair, a smile that he can’t quite hide on his lips. 

Maybe he wasn’t quite nothing to you after all. 

~~~

“I’m home, baby,” you say, as you walk in, the burden of the day still in the process of sliding off your back as you passed through the threshold of your apartment. You stripped yourself of your cost and your shoes, hanging your bag up, “Yu?” 

You checked your phone with no text or call from him — he said he would be at your place, and that’s when you spot a familiar mop of black hair from the couch. Your lips curl as you round the couch, only to find him fast asleep, his work spread out around him. His first day back seemed as stressful as yours, and yet he hadn’t complained. 

His bags were dark — a product of a bad night’s sleep — a running trend for today seemingly. You ran your fingers through his hair gently, knowing he wouldn’t wake simply by that, but you heard the quiet mumble of words you couldn’t catch. You glanced at the kitchen and found dinner prepped but not made. You smile softly, as you take the throw blanket and gently spread it over him, before pressing a soft kiss to his forehead, and then rising to your feet. 

You’re almost done cooking curry when Yuta stirs, the smell of the stewing beef and spices waking him, as he lifts his head, back of his hand rubbing his eye, while he glances at you with the other. 

“Hey sleeping beauty,” your lips curl, doing a bad job of stifling your chuckle at the sight of his black hair askew, “dinner is almost ready,” 

“Dinner? When did you get—“ and he picks up his phone to check the time, a small groan stuck in his throat, “why didn’t you wake me when you got home?” 

“I would have,” you wipe off your hands, as you make your way to the living room, as Yuta swings his legs off the couch, scrubbing a hand down his face, “but you’re so cute when you’re sleeping,” and his cheeks flush an ever so subtle pink — even after this time together, it was so easy to fluster him, “plus, it looked like you needed it,” 

Your hand brushes his cheek, and he’s leaning into your touch, your other hand running fingers through his hair to straighten it out, “I did,” he mumbles, “it was a long day,” 

“Want to talk about it over some rice and curry?” and he bites his lip, before he leans in to press a sweet kiss to you, delighting in the desperate look he gives you when you drag your tongue teasingly against the seam of his lips only to pull away, “don’t pout,” you drag your thumb down his lips, “I’ll kiss you plenty after dinner,” 

“Promise?” And you drag him to his feet and he’s walking to the bathroom as you’re opening cabinets to take plates out, only for his arms to wrap around your middle, pressing his face into the crook of your neck. 

You chuckle, biting back the shiver that runs up your spine at the warmth of his touch, “what’s that for?” 

“Thank you,” he murmurs, meeting your gaze with umbra eyes that has you lost in the only inky black sky you craved. 

“Of course, Yu,” you murmur before his lips find yours again, and you just wished you could live in this moment, as he parted from your lips only to press another kiss to your cheek, but you supposed you could— 

—For now at least. 

“She’s what?” Maki stares at Yuta as he rubs the back of his head, her words nearly ringing out in the empty conference room, “she’s spending a bunch of time with her ex and you’re ok with it?” 

Yuta has made a mistake — the mistake of being twenty minutes early to this student government meeting only to find Maki here alone, scrolling on her phone. Her eyes flitting up only for her to tilt her head and bark: 

“Oi, what is it now?” And Yuta didn’t know if he liked being so seen by her. 

Especially now that he was being judged for his decisions — or rather, raked over the coals for them. 

Yuta purses his lips, “I’m not exactly okay with it, but I don’t know what to do. She has to work on her project with him — I guess, how could I object?” And how could he? Your omission made sense, you were only trying to protect your reputation— and your ex’s by extension. But it didn’t make it sting any less. 

“Doesn’t she have another choice? Couldn’t she work with someone else?” Maki crosses her arms, eyes narrowed, as if she can detect the holes in his lies by pure reflex, “aren’t you worried she’ll go back to him?” And voices every worry almost if she’s ripped it from his mind itself.

“I am, she does have other choices, but I couldn’t be the one to make her choices for her—“ 

“But you couldn’t tell her how you felt about it?” Maki shakes her head, pinching the bridge of her nose as if this conversation is giving her a headache — or more likely, he’s giving her a headache, “how do you feel?” 

Yuta chews his lip, leaning on his arm on the table, “I don’t know, I understand it’s just a project — it’s something for her future — I don’t want to make things more complicated for us,” he mumbles. 

“You mean for her—and for your relationship,” Maki crosses her arms, tilting her head, “Yuta, if you can’t be honest with her, what’s the point of this relationship?” And people start to file into the room for the meeting, so she hisses in a whisper, “you need to figure out what you want — and how to tell her how you’re feeling because it’s going to eat you alive or drive her into her ex’s arms — either way, you won’t be in this relationship,” 

And on that bleak note, she gets to her feet to corral everyone into their seats, leaving him to simmer in her words. His phone lighting up nearly on cue with a text from you— 

Can’t make the meeting this week, babe — Geto rescheduled my meeting with him this week for now, so I’m headed there 

A hint of irritation pricks at him — it had to be today, during the only time that they had together at school? 

Another message comes through. 

I’ll see you at your place after the meeting - love you 💕

He locks his phone, tucking it away in his pocket — as Maki starts the meeting. 

It was fine — he would see you at home. It didn’t matter — Geto had only these meetings, Yuta had much more of you. It was fine. 

He forced his gaze forward, a gnawing dread in his stomach. Right? 

“What do you mean it was expected?” 

You were starting to remember the reason why you hated this man so vehemently when you first met him. His nearly smug expression made you want to leap across the desk and strangle him — though you knew the consequences of that action wouldn’t turn out well for you — nor the proximity for that matter, “what I wrote—“ 

“Is what others have written in papers time and time again,” he cuts you off, and you slump back in your chair, as you flip through the red inked comments he had so thoughtfully ripped apart your first few pages — the precise cuts and slashes enough for red ink to look like blood, “your thesis needs to be a unique take—” 

“And now it isn’t unique enough?” you grumble, crossing your arms, as your cheeks burn, “soon you’ll be saying I’m rambling again,” 

“No, I was able to rid you of that habit a while ago,” you glare at him, a smile pulling at the corner of his lips, “I would be concerned if you started to regress,” 

“Well, at least it would only be academically,” the words spit like venom from your mouth without a thought, but the hurt that flickers across his face is one that seemingly has too much thought behind it, “sorry, that was inappropriate,” 

“It’s fine,” the hurt is gone from his expression, as unreadable as it always was, “to get back to our discussion, I know you want this paper to be published by journals, and in order to do that, you need to have a perspective that hasn’t been explored before—at least not fully. Your outline reflects that, but your paper is regurgitating ideas that you’ve read,” he’s handing you a list of papers and books, with some noted passages, “read some of these materials, it might help give you some ideas to rework your paper,” and then he adds, “and you knew I’d say this,” 

You knit your brow together, “What?” 

He leans against his arm propped against the top of his desk, “Why else would you want me to see if you were going in the right direction? You always have an idea what you want to write, of where you want your paper to go — and you never wanted my greenlight for a long time now,” 

You hate how he can still see right through you — you hate how easily he can pinpoint your problem without you uttering a helpful word. Even before, it always felt as if he was the only one who saw you, without you having to explain a single thing. 

“You’re right,” and he hated how right he was, “I wasn’t sure where I was going,” this thesis had been weighing on your mind day and night, pricking at your nerves each time you stared at the blinking cursor of the document, “I still don’t,” 

Suguru murmurs your name softly, his gaze as gentle as it always has been for you, a part of you hoped — only for you, “As I’ve always said, the only reason why I push you is because I know you can do more. This thesis would be outstanding for many scholars, but I know you can do more,” he tilts his head, small smile on his lips, “and I know you still can,” 

“What if I can’t?” The question slips out before you can even think it, and he raises an eyebrow. 

“There is no ‘what if,’ I know you can do it,” and you bite your lip, “i don’t have any doubts,” 

“Not even one?” You reply, an eyebrow quirked. 

“Not when it comes to you,” and he said just what you wanted to hear, but you hated it all the more — because how did he know you so well? How did he know you so well and yet not know to talk to you before breaking your heart? 

But it didn’t matter now. And you couldn’t trudge up these feelings now, or maybe ever. 

“I’ll read these materials and rework it,” and you begin to collect your things all the while, getting to your feet. 

“Good,” and you catch sight of his smile in the reflection of your phone, “it’s what you owe yourself.” 

And your eyes meet his for a moment, so why couldn’t he give you what he owed you before? 

“Thank you, Professor.” 

“I’m back,” you call out in Yuta’s apartment, tucking your keys away into your bag, as you slip your shoes off and shrugging off your jacket, but you hear nothing in response, “Yuta?” But not a sound — no quiet voices of the TV, the clatter of dishes and utensils in the kitchen, and no sign of him in the bedroom either. 

You check your phone, as you sit on the edge of the bed, creaking under your weight, and you see his text: sorry baby, Maki took the group out for dinner after, you’re free to join us. And the address is sent underneath. 

But the text was well over twenty minutes ago, and it would take you longer to get there — which meant dinner would nearly be over. You laid back on his bed on your side, typing a reply. 

Sorry Yu, just saw this :(. I’ll come next time. I’ll make something up fast and probably lie down. I’ll see you at home. 

You curl up on the bed, placing your phone down with a sigh, eyes fluttering shut. Your nose turned into his sheets, Yuta’s scent flooding your senses, and you could nearly feel his arms around you. Almost. 

God, you missed him — especially you two just kept missing each other like this — and it made it all the more important you stayed awake. 

Your eyes flutter open, the sweet siren of sleep growing all the more tempting, a late lunch sitting like stones in your stomach and the need for the sandman’s relief growing headier. 

And before you knew it, your legs were tucked under the comforter and your eyes succumbed to their own weight. 

Your soft breaths filled the silence of the apartment, and even as Yuta came in an hour or so later, only to find you sprawled out messily in his bed, phone still in your hand, did he chuckle. His hands are gentle as he guides you into a normal position for sleep that wouldn’t fuck over your back, putting your phone on charge, and pressing a kiss to your forehead. 

And as he leaves the room to shower, not hearing the quiet murmur of his name leaving your lips. 

“You have to try a little,” you’re nearly waving your ice cream cone in front of Yuta’s face, soft serve dripping onto the pavement, and the soft pink swirl threatening to topple over in front of your eyes, but the risk of losing your beloved ice cream was not as important as advocating for it, “c’mon it’s so good—” 

“Baby, the ice cream is supposed to be your treat for all the progress you’ve made on your thesis, not a taste test, and I have my own flavor—” but as the ice cream hovers in front of his face, Yuta tastes it — the subtle sakura flavor lingering on his tongue, “it’s good,” he concedes, “but not as good as my matcha,” 

It had been a lot to tear you away from your work — it had been weeks in the making of trying to get you to take a break that wasn’t you falling asleep on the couch with your laptop and notes strewn about or a mindless TV break. And the times you both were supposed to have together often ended with one of you being busy or falling asleep. He barely remembered the last time the two of you had spent together that didn’t involve takeout or the couch. 

You pout, “Sakura is so much better,” you grumble, licking at your ice cream, trying to stem the excess melting off the sides of your waffle cone, and he chuckles, as a little of your ice cream sticks to your nose. 

“More for you then right?” he’s pulling a tissue out to wipe your nose and lips before kissing them, “Mm, it’s sweeter on your lips,” and he knows your cheeks are burning as you avert your eyes, biting your lip.

“You’re the worst,” and he laughs, as he wraps his arm around your middle, “but I’ll say you’re right about today. This date was definitely needed,” you lean into his touch, still working on your ice cream, “I’m sorry I’ve been so busy,” 

“You don’t have to apologize, it’s not just you that’s busy—” 

“I know, but it’s mostly been me,” your eyes find his, and he wavers under your glance, “I know we haven’t had a lot of time together, and I promise, it’s only going to last a little longer, once I’m done with my thesis I’m all yours,” 

And it’s hard for him to believe that — but he tries, because he knows you are. 

“I know,” he presses a kiss to your forehead, “I’m just glad we got to do this today, I just feel like we keep missing each other, and it just…it’s been bothering me,” 

And you kiss his jaw, before softly smiling, “You’re not alone,” and his lips find yours again, and again, ice cream starting to run down his fingers and palm, but he could care less about anything else but you at this moment, “You’re gonna make me drop my ice cream,” 

“I’ll buy you another,” and you laugh, kissing him this time, and he melts just like the ice cream into your grasp, your arms wrapped around him tight, “now who’s making our ice cream melt?” 

“You said you’d buy me another anyway,” you nuzzle his neck, “plus I have to leave space to eat you up later,” and you giggle as his cheeks burn, “you blush so easily still, thought you would be used to my teasing by now,” 

“Don’t think I’ll ever get used to it, still feels like a dream,” you pinch his cheek in reply, a smirk on your lips, as you kiss the skin that you pinched. 

“Now, it’s not a dream, is it?” And right as your lips were about to meet his again—

RING. RING. RING. 

Your brow furrows as you ignore it at first, before a sigh catches in your throat, “hold on—“ you check your messages, your brow furrowing, “fuck,” you swear under your breath. 

“What’s wrong?” And you’re tossing your ice cream in a nearby trash can, wiping your hand with one of the tissues the ice cream place had handed you, before texting back. 

“Geto wants to meet today about my thesis. Apparently some departmental meetings got pushed around, and today is the only day he can meet in person—“ 

“Do you have to—“ and you’re shaking your head in exasperation, burying your face in your hands. 

“I have no choice. It’s the only time until a week and half from now, and I can’t wait to get this feedback, otherwise it will throw off my entire schedule—“ 

“But this is the only time we can meet,” he cuts you off, voice catching on the words, as his tongue is caught between holding it and wagging it, “I miss you, baby, we haven’t seen each other in weeks because of our schedules, because of your thesis—“ because of him, “when will our relationship take priority? When will I be important enough to matter?” 

“Yuta,” your voice breaks, “of course you matter to me—“ and your phone vibrates again, cutting you off, and he takes a beat and a breath. He swallows thickly, this wasn’t the right time for this. 

But when would it be? 

“Go,” he says, and your eyebrows knit together, lips parting to refuse, “I’m okay, really. We’ll talk when you get home,” but he’s stepping towards you, as he presses a kiss to your forehead, “promise, we’re ok. Just go. I’ll call you.” 

“You sure?” He wasn’t. He wasn’t sure if he should let you go or stand his ground — but, his fingers cupped your cheek, and kissed your lips — but he was sure that he loved you. 

“I’m sure,” and he wanted what was best for you — and he watches you leave after you say your farewells — even if it wasn’t best for him. 

You shouldn’t have agreed to this. 

Agreed to take this meeting over your date. Agreed to meet in the lecture hall instead of his office. Agreed to have him as your thesis advisor. Agreed to even take a course with him to begin with. You were several steps too close to regret being born, but your real mistake was ever pursuing this man to begin with. 

That was your mistake — and now you are reaping what you sow. 

Literally. 

“Your lecture was compelling — I have so much to learn from you,” you stood outside his lecture hall as students filed out quicker than usual, without the typical quorum that formed after every one of his classes — only to find the reason that a single person commanded his attention, “I didn’t realize how wonderfully interesting philosophy could be as a topic,” her voice already grates on your ears, the elongated syllables of her words nearly enough for you to roll your eyes into the back of your head so far that you were they would get stuck. 

“It’s a fine line between interesting and dry, I’m glad I could walk it for you, Mei Mei,” and you could hear the smile in his tone, the saccharine sweetness enough for you to choke on and die of excess sugar, but unfortunately you don’t, so you have to hear the rest of this conversation. 

“I’m so glad I took Satoru’s advice to see your lecture, it was definitely eye opening,” and you furrow your brow, “he’s been asking me about you — he told me if I stopped by to have you call him,” 

You purse your lips — Satoru? 

A sigh in his voice as he speaks “He sent a real messenger this time? I get his texts, I have been really busy with my duties—“ 

“You know what they say — about all work and no play?” You hear the click of heels against the floor, as she assuredly steps closer, “maybe I can help you with the play—“ 

You knock on the door then, hand possessed, as you spot the woman with whom the voice belonged — her long silver locks tied into a braid that hung past her shoulders, her dark eyes finding yours and brow arched in curiosity, and wine stained lips curled. 

“Professor, I’m sorry to interrupt, but our meeting?” Your voice was laced with irritation you didn't intend to have, “I have a class after this, so unless you’d like to reschedule?” 

Suguru’s lips part, only for Mei Mei to speak first, “I’m sorry about that — that’s my fault — old friends you know?” Her head tilts, as if to say, no, I know you don’t know, “and you are one of Suguru’s little students?” 

“I’m his former T.A. and he is my thesis advisor,” and his girlfriend, you want to add — ex girlfriend, rather, but the words are as taboo as your feelings are, “I’m sure Professor Geto wouldn’t mind speaking to you after our meeting if you could wait,” 

And again Suguru opens his mouth to speak, but she cuts him off again, “Oh I wouldn’t mind waiting at all, not for him,” she walks past, “I’ll wait for you in your office, Suguru,” and you have to force your expression to be neutral, a knot in your gut, and a fist clenched and hidden around the handle of your bag, “I’ll make myself comfortable,” 

The lecture hall door closes behind her, the click of the door brings silence between the two of you, “I apologize if—“ 

“No, I should be sorry for interrupting,” you cut him off, your throat tied into knots, a distinct dull ache in your chest that surely shouldn’t belong to you — not after all of this, “I should have just rescheduled—“ 

“No, I’m glad you interrupted,” he says, “we have an appointment and she really is only a—“ 

“You don’t owe me an explanation, Professor,” and the title seems to cut this time, slicing through his mask, fraying his calm demeanor and leaving behind a deep frown, “it’s your business, not mine,” not anymore. 

His mouth opens and close, before he speaks, “Maybe not as a professor,” he says softly, taking a step forward, “but I think I do as your—“ 

“I’m not ‘your’ anything—“ you interrupt him, taking a step back,  “I’m only a student, and your advisee, nothing else, Professor Geto,” you’re turning to leave, “let’s reschedule after all, I have somewhere to be,” 

You had to be somewhere that wasn’t here — here with dredged up emotions that had no right belonging to you. Ones that you thought you had moved past, ones that shouldn’t hurt you the way they do now, and ones that you don’t know how to stop from spilling from your lips. 

“You’re not just—“

“Did you hear that she would wait for you?” you don’t turn to look back at him, “I wish you could have done the same,” you give him a second, one second longer than he gave you when he broke up with you, to reply, but he says nothing, “I’ll email you a few times to meet next week, just send me any edits you have on my pages.” 

The door clicks behind you as you leave the classroom behind, wondering if you had ever rid yourself of your feelings, or if you had simply buried it— 

And now, you are starting to unearth it — and your world may crumble underneath you along with it. 

There was something wrong with him. 

But there always was — when it came to you. 

Suguru stared at the email you had sent later that week, opting to skip the in person meeting again for the third week in a row. The semester was over half over — and now the other department head had started in Kyoto, so he had a little more free time — and yet he couldn’t use it to help you, at least not really. 

Your thesis was shaping up — you were on the right track now, and he knew your paper would need little edits before being submitted for peer review. And when it did, a journal would be lucky to publish it. By that standard, he could take a more hands off approach — but he never wanted to be hands off, not with you. 

He wanted nothing more than to take you into his arms, fingers trace the curve of your cheek as he’s done countless times before, and press a kiss to those lips that consume his consciousness. 

But he couldn’t. 

Not when he was the one who had broken your heart, when you had managed to piece it back together, and when you had found happiness with someone else. 

Something he wasn’t sure he could ever do. 

Mei Mei was an unforeseen complication — a donor that made some generous investments in the university — trivial with the amount of wealth she possessed, mostly due to Satoru’s convincing. And Satoru was the reason she had decided to sit in on his class — and he was stuck entertaining her, while his best friend was away on his sabbatical. And he couldn’t resist an opportunity to fuck with him while he was away — his apparent revenge after Suguru had avoided his texts. 

And your reaction was—not what he expected. He pursed his lips, you were jealous right? That’s what you seemed to imply with your words — as if Mei Mei was a friend he would be interested in. The pot calling the kettle black — when you were the one to move on first. A sigh caught in his throat, not that he had any right to complain. Not when it was his fault.  

But when the only person he was truly in love with was in front of him — the pain in your gaze as fresh as it was the day he had broken up with you — it was hard to hold back, especially when he wanted nothing more than to—

And then there was a knock at his door, “it’s me,” your voice came through the wood, his eyes sliding to the time, it was late into the evening, “can I come in?” 

“Yes, come in,” 

“I apologize, I just had a few questions I wasn’t able to ask over email, and since I was on campus, I thought—“ 

He shakes his head, your rambles still as endearing as they always were — though you had kicked the habit in your papers, you couldn’t help but ramble in the way you spoke, “No need to explain, what can I help you with?” 

You lean back, hands folded in your lap, “Do you remember when we discussed the concept of a happiness pump as a criticism of utilitarianism?” 

“Yes, in class, we discussed it — the idea of someone who will do anything to make others happy, even if it makes them miserable,” he tilts his head, as he leans back in his chair, eyes betraying him as he watches your dress ride up ever so slightly as you cross your legs — he forces his gaze to your face, “do you plan on using it in your thesis—“ 

Your eyes could cut stone with its biting glare, “No, I don’t, I wanted to talk about it in context of why you broke up with me — do you plan on being a happiness pump for the rest of your life? Or is that simply for me?” 

His mind moves slowly as his words do, “what—“ 

“Because it’s only for me, it’s flattering — if it’s what you do for everyone, well, it’s just exhausting,” you scoff, twirling a strand of your hair with your finger, “especially when your idea of what will make others happy is so misled,” 

“And how’s that?” He says through gritted teeth. 

And you’re rising from your chair, “You think my happiness means to make yourself miserable, when it does nothing more than make me unhappy,” you’re rounding the desk, fingertips dragging over the edge of the surface, “do you want to spend the rest of your life miserable? Do you think that girlfriend of yours will make you happy?” 

“She’s not—“ and your heels clicking against the wood cuts him off. 

And you’re only drawing closer and closer, and he can’t bring himself to speak — words caught in his throat because he knew anything he uttered would break this spell, and he wanted nothing more than to succumb, “pumped full of unhappiness when it could very well be the opposite—“ and your hand is sliding up his chest, toying with the top buttons of his button-up, lips ghosting his ear as you whisper, “when you know I know exactly how to pump you, don’t I?” 

“Sweetheart, please, we can’t—“ and your fingers finding the buckle of his belt, a gasp lodged in his throat, as your hand grazes his tenting bulge, twitching against your thumb as it runs over the clothed tip, “fuck—“ 

“We could be so happy, like before,” your lips brush against his, and he crumbles under your touch — his resistance crumbles like a statue made to wait, and god, he’s waited so long for this — too long. 

His lips find yours in a bruising kiss, the way he’s wanted to since he had watched you leave that day — the way he should have, the way he should have grabbed your hand and stopped you, pulled you into his arms, and never let you go. 

And he never would again. 

BUZZ. BUZZ. BUZZ. 

Suguru jolts awake at the sound of his phone, a paper stuck to his face, drool sticky at the corner of his mouth. He tugs the paper away, rubbing his eyes, as his heart slowly retracts from his throat. 

A dream. He runs his fingers through his hair, leaning back in his chair, what the fuck was he doing? Sleeping at his desk again accompanied by wet dreams of you — he thought he had grown from this. But you always sent him right back where he started, his eyes falling to the bulge in his pants. He ignores it, gathering his things and tracing the edge of his desk as he rounded it to leave his office. He took a look over his shoulder at his office that he spent so much time with, he was sure of one thing — he flicked off the light — you would be the one to haunt him. 

For the rest of his days. 

“Baby, aren’t you gonna get up now?” Yuta murmurs in your ear, pressing sweet kisses to the skin behind it, fingers resting against the nape of your neck, “you said you have to practice for your thesis presentation,” 

You mumbled, burying your face in his neck, as the two of you lie entangled on the couch for your mid afternoon Saturday nap, “a few more minutes,” 

The semester had been going by far too quick, days slipping into weeks, and now there was just over a month left in the semester. And soon you’d be graduating — his fingers raked gently through your hair — and he didn’t exactly know what that meant for the two of you. 

He still has a year left in his program, and you were going to be moving on — though you weren’t sure exactly where. And he would be here — but what then? Would it be a long distance relationship ? Would you look for opportunities here? Or would it be something else? 

He didn’t want to think about other possibilities. 

So many of his friends had warned him not to date while in grad school — that it would only end in heartbreak, and the more significant fact that it would always end. Your face nuzzled into his neck, warm breath still warming his skin, as he pressed a kiss to the top of your head — and he never wanted to be apart, not from you. 

“Baby,” you mumble, “what time is it?” And he can’t help but smile at you, as he reaches for his phone. 

“It’s almost four-thirty,” and you groan softly, wrapping your arms around him tighter, “you still have time before you have to go practice don’t you?” 

“No, I reserved the classroom until seven, if I don’t go now, I won’t have enough time to practice,” you kiss his neck, “I have to get as much practice in this month before doing my defense,” You untangle your limbs from his and haul yourself to your feet, his body already mourning the absence of your heat. He watches you make your way to the bedroom to change, the door still open as you strip your shirt off.

His gaze admires you as you do, shifting to sitting up, his chin leaning against the back of the couch, “When is your defense again?” 

“It’s in three weeks,” you sigh, as you tug a shirt over your head, “I’m so nervous, I have to start practicing now or I’ll drive myself insane,” and you’re stripping off your shorts in exchange for some jeans, “my advisor, many of my professors, students from the department, and maybe some undergrads might attend,” you turn, as you finish changing, catching his admiring gaze with a slight smirk, “and unlike you, they won’t just be interested in staring at me,” 

“I think some of them definitely will,” he smiles, and you walk over, leaning down to press a sweet kiss to his lips, “at least, I’ll be, if you let me,” 

Your lips curl, “Oh yeah? I think I’ll be distracted if you keep giving me this puppy dog look, baby,” you kiss his nose, “might make me walk over in the middle of the defense and kiss you,” 

A soft chuckle leaves his throat, “That would cause a scene, but I could also be some moral support — a friendly face,” 

“More than friendly, you’re selling yourself short, Yu,” you kiss him again, and he can taste the lingering salt and butter of the popcorn you two had ate earlier during your afternoon movie turned nap time, “but I think having you there would make me more nervous, so is it okay if we just have dinner to celebrate or cheer me up after?” 

His brows knit together, “You don’t want me there?” but Geto gets to be there? The unspoken feelings he can’t find in him to voice, the words lodged in his chest, ricocheting off his ribs if only to free themselves from his anxious heart to spill from his lips — but they don’t. 

“I do, Yu, of course, but I think having you there will just make me more nervous, I’ll just keep looking at you instead of addressing the whole audience, and…” you bite your lip, “with Professor Geto already having to be there, I think I would spend the whole time worrying about the two of you together than about my defense,” 

And his heart sinks — your ex gets to be there, but he doesn’t? At one of your most important moments? He knows logically the only reason you ask because you can’t ask Geto — but it doesn’t hurt any less. Does he always have to be the nice one? The mature one? Couldn’t he argue with you?

No, but he could ask. 

“Do you think I’ll make a scene or that he’ll—“ and you’re shaking your head, your fingers cupping his cheek. 

“Of course not. I know you would do nothing but support me, but still forcing you two of be in the room together,” you press a kiss to his forehead, “even if you say it’s okay, I know it’s still hard,” his lips part, but you add, “and it would be awkward for me too. And I can’t do anything about Geto, but I can ask you,” 

You could always ask him. He would do anything for you — but did his feelings matter as much to you? 

“Of course, I understand,” your lips curl, and you’re pulling him into a hug, you rake your fingers through his hair. 

“Are you sure?” You murmur, pressing your forehead to his, “you can tell me if you’re not okay with it,” 

He could tell you that he’s not — he could tell you that it’s important for him to come, for everyone to see that he was important to you, for him to see that he was important. But it wasn’t about him. This was your defense, shouldn’t you have a right to have who you want there? 

Even if it wasn’t him. 

“It’s fine baby, I just want to support you,” he kisses your lips, “but I’ll plan something special for after you pass your defense — because I know you will,” 

You kiss him again, softer and fuller this time, as your fingers run down his cheek, “You don’t have to plan anything — I just want you, and maybe some food,” and he chuckles, as you place butterfly kisses all over his face, “I love you,” 

And he knew you did — you loved him — and that was enough, right? 

“I love you too,” and you’re pulling away, as you pull on your shoes and grab your bag. 

“I’ll be home by eight, should I grab dinner?” and he leans back on the couch, nodding, “I’ll see you when I get home okay?”

And he was the one you always came home to — the one you wanted to come home to — and that was enough. 

“See you soon, baby.” 

For now. 

You enter the lecture hall, the door closing behind you with a click that rings in the silence. 

Of course. 

Of course you ended up with the lecture hall you had with Suguru’s class. You round the podium at the bottom, and give a terse chuckle, how had it been so long but so little time? How many days had you watched him lecture here — only to end up falling for him after? Even despite how much you hated him — it was so easy. 

And still so hard. 

You set up your phone to record yourself, if only so you could fine tune your presentation, and see any spots that you struggle. You prop it up, making sure it’s framed correctly on the desk directly in front of you. You run through your presentation once, noting spots for improvements or thoughts for potential questions people could pose during your defense. 

You flipped through a few pages of your notes — wondering how this semester had flown by. 

The rest of your thesis was completed over email — brief email exchanges and your thoughts exchanged through notes scrawled on the pages he scanned to you. It was better this way — you didn’t have to see him. You didn’t have to see the smile on his lips that you didn’t put there, a stray lipstick mark on his collar that you didn’t stain, or the happiness in his voice that you didn’t cause. 

No, you didn’t need to see that. 

But you didn’t know why. 

Why did the idea of him moving on irk you when you had already moved on? You weren’t vindictive — your fingers drumming against the podium — you wanted him to be happy, to find someone who made him happy — maybe in all the ways you couldn’t. But the stubborn thought remained — the same one that kept you up crying every night after he broke your heart and haunted you even in your happiest of nights — that he could have had it all with you — but he didn’t. And now here you both were, fake smiles plastered in front of each other whenever your paths crossed, as if those lips hadn’t murmured ‘I love you’ before in the quiet of the night. 

But why did it matter? You were happy with Yuta, you had moved on, and yet — when you saw Suguru with her, it felt as if the stitches holding your heart together had come undone, and you were back — right where you started. 

But it didn’t matter. Either way the thesis was complete, and now all that was left in front of you was the defense, then you would be done — with this project, with your degree, and with Suguru. 

But would you ever be done with him? 

There was a knock at the door, and you turn only to find Suguru leaning against the frame, “Sorry to interrupt,” 

Apparently you would never be. 

Your shock lasts a moment, before your eyes flicker back to your stack of papers, “Do you need something?” The question comes more bitingly than you intended, but you don’t bother to gauge his reaction, focusing on mindlessly rifling through your presentation. 

“I forgot my notes for tomorrow’s class,” he says, quiet steps ringing in the silence of the lecture hall, “didn’t mean to interrupt,” and you’re gathering your notes, catching a glimpse before you step back from the podium, “are you practicing for your defense?”

“I am,” your answer is as terse as your emails, eyes fixed anywhere but where Suguru stood, as he pulled his file from one of the shelves inside the podium. 

“Do you need any help?” He asks, and you almost want to ask: ‘haven’t you helped me enough?’ But you don’t, only shaking your head in reply. The silence drags on for far too long, “can we talk?” 

Your muscles tense, a bow drawn taut for an argument, but you would draw blood first, “What is there to talk about, Professor—“ 

His calm facade cracks, irritation seeping in like poison through the fractures,“You don’t need to call me that—“ 

“I do,” you cut him off, “because that’s what you are. My professor. Nothing more,” and it’s a line in the sand you’ve drawn since you’ve met again, one he hasn’t dared to toe, much less cross, until now. 

His voice is broken, “We were so much more,” yes, you both were. He was everything to you as you were to him — but that was before. And this was now. 

“Operative words are key, Professor — ‘were’ is past tense,” 

“But we’re here now, aren’t we? How long are we going to avoid discussing this?” 

You scoff, “am I the one who avoided it? Do I have to discuss it now on your terms — when you didn’t even give me a chance to make my own decisions before?” Your fingers curl into fists, “you broke me, you broke me and now you come back wanting to talk as if you didn’t do the breaking to begin with? You don’t get to come back when I’m fixed,” the bottled emotions burst at the seams of its lid, the contents more vile than when they were placed inside, resentment fermented into rage. 

“I know,” he says softly, “I’m not trying to come back, not if that’s what you don’t want. I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m sorry I left you. I thought it was the best for you—“ 

“Because you know better than I do?” You give a bitter chuckle, “do you know infantilizing it is to have someone make your decisions for you? I know what I wanted, Suguru, and I would have chosen you, every time—“

“That was the problem,” he cuts you off, “I wanted you to choose yourself,” 

“Do you not understand that choosing you is choosing myself too? Because it would have been a choice for me, for us, for us to be happy,” 

And those words seem to sink in the silence, his eyes averting from yours, a hand scrubbing down his face. 

“You’re right,” he finally says, “I’m sorry,” his words are quiet, but heavy — a rock sinking slightly into near still waters, “I wanted you to have everything, but I didn’t take into consideration what that meant to you,” he says, “I suppose I didn’t consider what I owe you,” he adds, and you shake your head, a small smile on your lips. 

“Shut up,” a chuckle leaves your lips despite yourself, cooling the white hot anger to warm wistfulness,  “I wish it could have worked out,” and he nods, a small frown on his lips. 

“Me too,” 

“But maybe it was for the best,” and his eyes find yours, as you step back to the podium to place your papers down, “it was never going to work between us. It was already too complicated to begin with, and when we finally got together, there was a time limit,” you find his gaze again, unreadable, “maybe it was for the best we moved on,” he doesn’t reply, “I should get back to work,” 

He nods, as he turns to leave, casting a glance back over his shoulder,  “Let me know if you need help with anything. Practice or otherwise, has the final formatting of your thesis been approved?” 

“It hasn’t yet, but I believe I followed the guidelines correctly, so there shouldn’t be an issue,” you say, and he nods, as the door clicks open, as he turns the handle, “thank you again, for everything,” and there’s far too much that can encompass everything that he did even in that word, but you meant it all the same. Everything he did had led you to this moment, and you would never be ungrateful for the impact he had. 

“Of course, I’ll always be there for you, anytime,” his eyes find yours, lips curled in a wanting smile that wishes to say more, “even when I actually do move on.” 

And he’s gone in a moment, the door shutting behind him, as your gaze is fixed on the place he just stood — lips parted.

What? 

“Professor,” you stop him, fingers reaching for him, even as you promised you wouldn’t — wouldn’t put yourself here again, wouldn’t find yourself falling into his grasp again, but here you were again — you never learned your lesson. But you wondered if that made you a bad student or him a bad professor, “what do you mean?” 

He’s turning only for your hand to grasp onto the sleeve of his jacket, your name leaving his lips but you cut him off. 

The question wavers on your lips, “Are you not with—“ 

“No, I’m not. She’s just a friend, like I said,” he runs his fingers through his hair, “I know it’s ironic for me to be the one to break up with you, and not have moved on, but, I haven’t,” his fingers brush against your own holding his jacket, before slowly intertwining, “I don’t know if I ever will,” 

“Well, some philosophers believe in endurantism — the past is dead, and we live here and now — we can’t do anything about what happened then — we’re whole right now, and not defined by what happened then, or what happens in the future,” your fingers squeeze his, “if we let this go, we could just exist now — the past erased and the future unclear — but we’re no less whole, are we?” your fingers slowly let go of his — but his don’t. He only clings to your fingers still, stubbornly laced. 

“Perhaps you aren’t,” and he’s gently tugging you closer, you don’t find yourself resisting, but instead leaning into his touch, “but I always find myself clinging to my past — when you’re contained within it,” he lifts your hand to his lips,  “what future do I have without you?” He presses a soft kiss that steals your logic, “and what present is worth being in that I don’t get to spend at your side?” 

“Suguru—“ and he sighs, as draws closer to you, breath warming your lips. 

“Been so long since I’ve heard you say my name,” his lips ghost your jaw, barely not brushing against it, “my name doesn’t sound the same unless it’s leaving your lips,” 

“We shouldn’t,” but even so, the back of his hand lightly drags against your why shouldn’t you? Not when it felt so good, not when it felt this right, and your lips graze his, “Suguru,” you’re murmuring, the faint lingering taste of coffee on his lips, “fuck—“ 

RING. RING. RING.  

Your eyes flutter open to find yourself in bed alone, your hand reaching beside you only to find more of your blanket and more pillows beside you, as it dawns on you. 

A dream. Of course. A sigh stuck in your throat — no, you had watched him leave that night without another word, even though you had so many to say, but none at all. And even now, you didn’t know what to say — to Suguru, to yourself, or to Yuta. 

So you said nothing. And instead, you’re left with an aching in your chest as you grab your phone to find a text from Yuta— 

Had to go in early today— I’ll see you for dinner, baby 

You lock your screen and place your phone on the nightstand, before turning back around to bury yourself in bed — as if staying in bed would bury your feelings along with yourself—

Because that’s not whose text you wanted to see. 

“You’re home,” Yuta says when he walks through the door to find you lying on the couch and scrolling on your phone. 

“No ‘hi you’re home?’” And Yuta snorts, as he strips off his clothes, and walks in to place a kiss on your lips, burying his face in the crook of your neck, drawing a giggle from your lips, “I missed you too,”

“I thought you were going to practice today. Your defense is the day after tomorrow. I didn’t think I’d get to see you out of a classroom until tomorrow evening when it was done,” you run your fingers through his dark locks, “thought I’d have to pry you away from your notecards,” 

“Ha, ha,” you kiss his cheek, brushing your nose against it, “I thought it would be good to take a break tomorrow, and I’m just exhausted after all the practice I did tonight,” you sigh, and he’s on the couch beside you, wrapping his arms around your middle, “this seems like a much better use of my time,” you settle into his arms, “how was your day?” 

Yuta shrugs, kissing your shoulder, “Better now,” and you chuckle, rumbling against his skin, sending a shiver up his spine as you lean over, his cheeks a pretty flush that only makes your lips curl, “it’s been too long since we got time like this. I don’t even know where to start,” he nuzzled the side of your face. 

You turn your head to kiss him fully, lips sliding against his, voice a quiet murmur, “then let’s make our time count,” your sweet kiss grows deeper, your tongue at the seam of his lips that he parts for you. You swallow his moan with a smirk on your lips, your body moving against his slowly, his tenting erection catching on your clit through the far too thin material of your shorts. 

“Fuck,” you murmur, as you slowly begin to grind on his bulge, the delicious friction too much for him as well, head lolling back against the couch, “Yu, s’good,”

“Mm,” Yuta parts from your lips, panting as your lips press eager kisses down his neck, a desperation he hadn’t sensed before from you,  “baby, slow down,” and you almost don’t seem to hear him, as your fingers find their way between your bodies to touch him through his joggers, “ngh, you don’t need to—“ 

But you seemingly do, as your thumb flicks against the tip, a soft hiss escapes his lips, “like that, pretty boy?” You’re murmuring in his ear, “gonna make you feel so good, because you’re s’good f’me,” 

And you’re slipping his joggers and boxers down to free his cock, stroking him from base to tip, lovely beads of precum dripping down his length and your knuckles. 

“Fuck,” he’s covering his face with his hand, his fingers grasping at your hips, before eager fingers slide between your thighs and underneath your underwear, drawing a lovely gasp from your lips, “wanna make you feel good too, baby,” as his fingers circle your dripping entrance teasingly, a smirk on his lips, as he sinks one then two fingers in knuckle deep—

“Yu—“ your hand stills for a moment as his fingers work their way against your drenched insides, “fuck—“ and you’re melting into his arms — and maybe this was just what you both needed. 

“This was so nice,” you mumble against his chest later, pressing soft kisses against his skin as the two of you laid entangled in the afterglow, “it’s been too long,” 

He hums, “It was perfect,” his fingers skim down your cheek, “you know we could have this every day,” and you chuckle, the corner of your lips curled mischievously. 

“Do you have the stamina for that?” you tease, painting a heated flush across his cheeks, as he rolls his eyes. 

“I mean, we could go to sleep like this every night, and wake up together every morning if we moved in together,” and you blink at him, his nervousness overcoming him as he begins to backpedal, “w-we don’t have to! I just thought I’m ready for the next step with you. And I want to—“ 

You cut him off with a soft kiss, pausing his worries and anxiety in the syrupy sweetness of your kiss, before you pull away, “I think I need some time to think about it,” 

And he nods, “take all the time you need, baby,” pressing a kiss to your forehead, but a thought still niggles into the forefront of his mind that he can’t help but dwell on— 

Would you say yes if it was Geto asking? 

It always seemed that you were ready when it came to him. Ready to be with him, no matter what the consequence, willing to make it work — but with him, it felt as if he was always the one chasing, and you were reluctantly within his grasp. 

As you drew closer into his arms as the two of you settled down to sleep, his fingers running softly through your hair, he wondered how long it would be until he felt as if he wasn’t the one desperately holding onto you, even as you seemingly always slipped away. 

Even as he held you against his chest, heartbeat under where your head laid. He knew you were the one who had his heart. 

He could only hope you wouldn’t drop it. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” it wasn’t supposed to be like this, but it was always like this. No matter how well prepared you felt, something always managed to go wrong at the last minute. It was always when you were lulled into a false sense of security, only to have a rude awakening—

And this time it came in the form of an email rejecting your thesis formatting as incorrect. An email that came in that morning, but you had slept through, choosing to sleep in past noon after last night. And when your eyes fluttered open, Yuta was gone already for the day, you rolled over to check your email when you saw it. 

Fuck. 

You barely had time to text Yuta what had happened before rushing to the library to seek possible help from the librarians — fuck, you would have paid every overdue library charge if necessary. You didn’t want to wait another semester to present again. It would be more time wasted, more time spent working towards something you’re already for, more time spent in this place that you didn’t want to linger in any longer. 

How had you managed to fuck it up so bad? Now every one of your citations and in text citations would need to be redone, along with reformatting by 5:00 PM today. And it was already 2:00 PM. 

But maybe you were going to have to, as you rushed to pull the library door open, only to find it was closed this weekend due to scheduled maintenance. 

Double fuck. 

Your eyes burned with tears that you didn’t want to shed right now. You had no time to cry. You had no time to panic. But it was all you wanted to do — just crawl into bed and cry. 

You were turning back around to leave, when you nearly ran into— 

He steadies you, his fingers brushing your shoulders, as his lips part to greet you, but his brow furrows when he sees your expression, “what’s wrong? Are you okay?” 

And that wasn’t the right question to ask. 

Tears slip from your eyes before words can, as Suguru blinks, concern flooding his face, as his hand finds yours and he takes you to his office nearby. It takes a few minutes for you to calm down (several tissues later) and you finally explained to him what happened. 

His hand never leaves yours. 

“I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to waste another semester here, I can’t do that. I want to graduate—“  

“Listen, slow down for a second, ok?” His voice is soft, soothing your anxiety like a balm, even as your nerves flare as your eyes flicker to the time again, “There’s time to fix this and go get it resubmitted before 5:00 PM. But, even if you do have to do another semester, what’s so bad about that?”

You shake your head, biting your bottom lip, “I can’t waste time like that. I already said I was graduating. If I have to stay another semester,” more tears trail down your cheeks, your nails digging into your knees, “how could I face anyone after how hard I worked?” 

Suguru whispers your name, his fingers brushing against your cheek, “what’s another semester? Nothing will change. No one will view you any differently. But the more important thing is how you view yourself — and you know how hard you worked. You’ll be fine,” 

You’re wiping your tears, sniffling, unable to meet his gaze, “How do you have so much faith in me?” 

He gives a brief chuckle, “It’s you — how could I not?” And your eyes finally lift to meet his, as his thumb rubs lightly back and forth across your cheek, before he clears his throat, “we have time to get it resubmitted,” 

“‘We?’” and he stands up to grab a copy of your thesis and the error notes you had shown him. 

“Well I can’t have you do it, otherwise you’ll end up submitting it late,” and you huff, a watery chuckle leaving your throat, “come on.” 

“Suguru?” You call softly, as he turns, blinking at the sound of his name, “thank you.” 

“Of course.” and he smiles that damnable smile that made you fall for him — your heart squeezing and thudding against its bony cage, an aching that left you longing — a glance at your phone with Yuta’s notification that sent that longing sinking like a stone into the pit of your stomach. 

No. It wasn’t that. 

It wasn’t. Not if you let it be. 

“I’m sorry,”

It had been quiet for sometime as the two of you made edits — him on the actual physical copy, while you edited the digital. The quiet scrape of his pen against paper and the clack of your keys are the only sound in his office. The very same one that the two of you had built your relationship from, and now here you were again. Except there was no banter, no smiles shared, nor even a knowing glance exchanged. 

There was only silence. 

Until you spoke first. 

It was a silence you weren’t accustomed to — a layer of awkwardness that had settled between the two of you as if to bandage the honesty that had shredded the false student-professor only relationship you had superimposed on top of the two of you. 

Only for you to claw your way out — and claw him open as well. 

But no bandage can seal a gaping wound for long, and there was only one way to deal with a bandage effectively, by ripping it off. 

His eyes draw up slowly from the pages in front of him, glasses perched on the tip of his nose so precariously that you wanted to push them back, “You have nothing to be sorry for — and you know it’s better to thank than apologize — I’m always here to help,” 

But that wasn’t what you were apologizing for. 

“I meant for the other day,” you say softly, guilt was crawling at your throat. 

His gaze grows heavy, “There’s nothing to apologize for that either. You were right,” he adds, “I made decisions for us, when it should have been a discussion — especially when I said it was for you—“

“I wasn’t sorry I said it,” you gently cut him off, fingers knitted together in your lap, “but I’m sorry for where and how I said it. It wasn’t the time or place for that.”

“It’s really ok,” he tells you, a glance at his face telling you that it really was, “I would have yelled at myself far sooner, and nothing you said wasn’t true,” his hand tugs at his tie, loosening it, his fingers wrapped around the fabric, “I wish I did it differently,” 

You shouldn’t ask the question but it falls from your lips before you can stop it, “What would you have done differently?” 

And he gives a smile worthy of melancholy’s grasp, “I would have kept my promise to you,” and you know which one he means without him needing to say, “I would never have left you, if I hadn’t been too busy being a happiness pump,” and those words stir warm coals in a fire you thought was long put out — but somehow burns still, a flicker of a promise for a spark. 

One you couldn’t stoke. 

“Well, you make an excellent one,” and he scoffs, “no really, I’ve never seen someone so unhappy trying to make someone else happy before,” 

“I wouldn’t say, ‘so unhappy—’” his pout is far too cute for your own good. 

“Can really tell your life fell apart without me,” you say completely teasingly, as your lips curl, only to find his eyes on you still, “what?” 

He only shakes his head, “only regretting not giving you lower than a 99 on your final paper,” and you gape at him as he bites back a chuckle, “I am the department head, maybe I could—“ 

“You mess with my grades—“ and your phone goes off — it’s Yuta. A text asking if everything was ok, before his face lights up your phone screen, and you’re not quick enough to avoid the awkward moment where Suguru sees it, “sorry I—“ 

“Go take it. I have plenty to get through,” 

“But—“ but he’s already back to reviewing your citations as if nothing had happened as you pick up the call, screech of your chair as you get up to take the call, “hey, yeah I can talk—“ and the door is closing behind you as you step outside. 

You don’t see the way he leans back, scrubbing a hand down his face to rest at his lips, “What am I doing?” 

And he really didn’t know — as always, when it came to you. 

“You’ll do amazing,” Yuta pressed another kiss to your lips, as you did the final adjustments to your outfit for the defense, “I can’t wait to celebrate with you,” 

“I know, I can’t wait for it to be over,” you sigh, pulling him into your arms, your chin perched on his shoulder, “you still haven’t told me what we’re doing,” 

He chuckles, his fingers cupping your cheek, “I told you it’s a surprise, so telling you would defeat the purpose,” you turn away to look at yourself again, “you look perfect,” 

“You’re just saying that because you’re too nice,” you grumble and he laughs, as you bite your lip, meeting his gaze in the mirror, “I’m sorry about not having you there,” 

And he feels a twinge in his chest, he had spent the last few days not trying to think about that. It wasn’t important that he was there — it was important that you’d be coming home to him. That’s what mattered — or that’s what he kept telling himself. 

“It’s okay,” he intertwined his fingers with yours, and squeezed your hand, “I’ll be here after, waiting for your good news. Because I know it will be,” and his arms pulled you against him, and he can’t help but wonder why he doesn’t want to let go. 

Even if you were ready to go. 

You barely remembered what you said. 

You remembered how your stomach turned and twisted in knots you didn’t know were physically possible as you made your way to the building where your defense was being held. Your fingers kept twiddling with your phone, checking the location and date listed in your email a million times to ensure you hadn’t missed your defense already or that you didn’t imagine your citations were accepted. You were sure your clothes would wrinkle from the sheer anxiety cladding through your veins, the vibration of nerves enough to beat creases into your freshly pressed clothes. 

And you remembered seeing Suguru right when you walked in. He stood behind the table with the other members of the committee, chatting — and objectively, you hated how unfairly pretty he was. His long, inky hair tucked into a neat bun today, choosing to wear a crisp white button down, opting for no tie, but a off white sweater vest and black suit jacket over his shoulders, and lips curled in a small smile that only grows warmer when he catches sight of you from the corner of his eye. And it must be nerves, the way your heart flutters within your chest and the way that heat clings to your cheeks — nothing more. 

Your eyes slide to him again — no one else. 

You remembered how people filled into the classroom that you were defending your thesis in, as you shuffled around the front, setting up your presentation and notes for talking points. You spotted Maki, Panda, and Inumaki walk in, undoubtedly Yuta’s doing, along with a few of your other friends from the program. Your hands shook ever so slightly, even as you wrung them — a nervous habit you had picked up before large presentations or important milestones. 

And then as people took their seats and it was 4:00 PM, it was time for your defense. You took a breath for a second — and your gaze finds not your friends, but Suguru’s. He offers you a smile, a look that tells you that he believes in you — always more than you ever had. 

So you begin. 

You don’t remember what you said — but you remember speaking as you did a million times before in practice. You remember making an adlib or two that draws a few chuckles from your audience. But what you mostly remember is the few glances you stole from Suguru who listened intently, a mouthed encouragement when you took a pause. 

And soon you were answering questions after concluding the main part of your presentation. You are fielding them from professors and students alike, until there was only time left for one more. There was silence for several moments — it felt like hours, the committee conferring and speaking amongst themselves. 

“I think I can take one last question,” and your eyes darted over the group, finding no hands, until one slowly went up — one you were familiar with, “Professor Geto?” 

Of course he would have a question — no less, the last one. 

“I just had one comment about your thesis, not a question,” and with how he had poked and prodded at the fire of your work from the moment you met him — the way he pushed you head first into the flames, if only to temper the best version of your work, and of yourself. And even though you had burned yourself one too many times, you couldn’t help but reach for it again and again, “after conferring with the committee, congratulations, you passed your defense.”

The audience claps and congratulates you, a sea of shaking hands and kind words while you recover from the defense. But as the crowd disperses, you find Suguru walking towards you. 

A silence settles over the two of you for a moment — a want to speak lingering between you two, but no words said. Why was it always when you had so much to say you found none of the thoughts you wanted to express? There wasn’t enough time — but they would never be.

But he breaks it first. 

“Congratulations on your defense. You did wonderfully,” he says, hands tucked into his pockets, as you bite your lip, cheeks burning. 

“No remark about me being on time? Or any little criticisms? I’m shocked. You’ve lost your edge, Professor,” he chuckles, shaking his head. 

“Oh, there will be time for that later,” he replies, his hand slipping out from his pocket only to be placed gently on your shoulder, “but right now, I just want you to know I’m proud of your determination and grit, but mostly, I’m proud of you,”

His name almost slips from your lips as your mouth opens and closes, words stuck in your throat, “Thank you. It means so much,” especially from you. But you can’t say that, “I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done for me,” 

“You don’t owe me anything,” and you chuckle, gaze finding his own, just as it always did. 

“Don’t I? I think I owe you a drink, I never did buy you one after all — purely for networking purposes,” you add, “and a thank you for saving my ass on these citations,” 

And he’s shaking his head, “All I did is what you what have done for anyone else,” 

“And you wouldn’t?” And he shrugs. 

“For a student? Maybe. For you? Always,” and you bite your lip, gaze falling,  “what is it? 

“Why?” ‘Why for me?’ was the question you wanted to ask but you couldn’t push the words past your lips even as they rested on your tongue. 

But he knew the words. 

“You know the reasons,” he says softly, “I know you have nothing but amazing things ahead, and I’d do anything to see you reach your goals,” 

And he would. He did.

“I can agree with that,” a hand clasps your shoulder, Yaga gives a small smile, “good job,” 

“Professor Yaga, oh my god,” you grin, resisting the urge to hug him, “how are you? Are you feeling better?” 

“I’m well enough. Treatment has been honestly shit, but my son is doing a good enough job looking after me,” Yaga rubs the back of his head, “that and balancing classes hasn’t been easy for the kid.” 

“Your son goes here?” Professor Yaga points at a familiar cluster of three, “Panda?” You didn’t really see a family resemblance but you supposed you didn’t have to. 

He nods, “but I’m not here to talk about him,” he holds his hand out to you, “I’m very proud of you. I know you have a bright future ahead. I apologize I couldn’t help—“ 

“You did too much. Thank you Professor Yaga,” and then others are calling for you, “if you both will excuse me,” 

“Of course, I need to speak to Suguru so it’s just as well,” and your attention is pulled, but the corner of your eye still watches him, watches him leave the leave — leaving you behind here. Just as it should be, your gaze sliding back, as your fingers rested against your chest. 

So why did it hurt so much? 

Yuta was late — it seems he always was, when it came to you. 

Even so, this time it was somewhat purposely, but he still had tried to be on time. He wanted to at least hear the very end of your defense, if not in sight, then outside the classroom. But he had run late, trying to straighten out reservations he made at a restaurant you’ve been wanting to try for months. He had finally convinced them to bring out a cake as if to celebrate your birthday, but for your thesis. It was silly, as Yuta half walked half sprinted to the room of your defense, only to find it was over. 

The doors to the lecture hall had been opened after your defense finished, some people filing out, while others lingered to speak to you or others. Yuta held the bouquet of flowers behind him, scanning the group for you — and his eyes fell on you — with Geto. 

You were both off to the side, speaking alone, his hand clasped on your shoulder, before slipping off. And it was clear from the way he looked at you — that he felt the same for you as he always did. And you—

You looked the same, as you always did, when it came to Geto. 

Yuta’s fingers squeeze at the base of the flowers, plastic crinkling under his grasp. He hadn’t asked why you had stopped meeting with him for your thesis — almost a relief to have your correspondence all over email, and not to face dealing with the weekly meetings. He hadn’t asked, but he could assume some sort of argument happened, a discussion, a confession maybe — something you hadn’t broached with him. And a part of him really didn’t want you to. He didn’t want to have the boat rocked on him — but—

As he watched you become pulled away when another professor joined your conversation, and Geto was pulled away out of the room by that same professor — Yuta saw your eyes follow Geto’s back. The two walk past Yuta without notice, engrossed in their conversation, and Yuta catches a few snippets of it before they’re out the door. 

And he turned back to you — he knew he may have to be the one to rock it. Because the ship had already begun taking in water — and it was either he grasped onto the side with white knuckles and went down with it, or he let it go, letting it fall into the wreckage. He glanced away from you, starting to walk off towards the exit — because maybe this ship wasn’t made to sail, but to sink. 

And he couldn’t let himself drown — even for you. 

You checked your phone again as you left — no phone calls, not even a text back. You bit your lip as you made your way back to the apartment. You had already called him three times, but your anxiety was getting the better of you. He had told you he would meet you after the defense, but there wasn’t any sign of him. 

You opened the door to your place, keys jingling as head inside to find him sitting on the couch. You put your things down, as you head to the living room. 

“Yu? Are you okay? You weren’t picking up—“ and you see a bag of his things packed, “Yuta?” 

“Sorry I made you worry, baby, I just thought,” he sighs, unable to meet your gaze as he looks in front of him, “I thought I could wait, but I can’t,” 

“Yuta, what? What’s—“ 

Your name leaves his lips, cutting you off gently, as he finally looks at you, gaze heavy, “we need to break up.” 

You don’t have words. 

No, you have one word. 

“Why?” You ask, as you take steps forward to sit beside him, as your mind struggles to keep up — your certificate still in your hand, the excitement of being done all but extinguished. 

“I’m sorry, but don’t you know why?” He asks softly, and your eyebrows knit together, shaking your head, 

“What are you talking about?” And you’re wringing your hands, fingers nearly in knots, a sigh parting your lips as you try to soothe yourself, “Yuta, I know I’ve been busy this semester with my thesis, but it’s done with. And we can go back to—“ 

“We can’t,” and it was so final — so definitive — and without a way for you to have a choice. Yet again. Were you doomed to repeat this cycle? Again and again. With no change in the outcome. And you don’t know what to say, as you scrub a hand down your face. 

“Okay then,” and your name slips from his lips, as you cross your arms. 

“You don’t understand—“ and your chuckle is so bitter. 

“How can I when you haven’t explained? All you’ve said are cryptic things that I’m supposed to piece together what? What am I supposed to know?” Tears slip down your cheek, forcing your voice to stay steady, the stress of the last few months crashing down around you just as your relationship did, “I know that I haven’t been the best girlfriend. And I’m sorry. I really am,” your voice breaks, “But I tried. I tried to communicate. I tried to spend time with you, even when I didn’t have a minute to myself. You knew I’d be busy. You knew that going in and still—“ 

His voice is gentle, so gentle that it infuriates you — gentle even when he’s hurting you, “It’s not that—“ 

“Then what is it?” You snap — you were tired of running in circles — you needed an answer, a tangible reason why. 

“Geto,” you blink, as the confession settles over his face, “it wasn’t your schedule. It was who you spent it with,” and you’re staring for a moment, expression crumbling under the weight of the truth. 

“Yuta, Yu, no—“ you step towards him, but he only sighs, running a hand through his hair, “it was only for my thesis. Nothing happened between us. I promise,” 

“I trust you when you say nothing happened,” but his eyes lift to meet yours, “and in a way nothing has happened, because you still love him,” 

“yuta—“ 

“I know you love me, in some way,” the words leave his lips slowly, cutting you each syllable, but you can’t imagine how deeply and how long he’s been cut by these thoughts already, “but not like you love him—“ 

“That’s not—“ 

“You know before we started dating, I talked to Maki about how I feel, and I told her I was afraid that you would never look at me the way you look at him,” and the mended pieces of your heart break apart with new cracks with the way his voice wavers, “but all this time, and still, you haven’t. Even today, when I waited outside of the lecture hall, I saw you both together — and I know,” he breaks off, biting his lip, “I know it was him congratulating you, but the way you looked at him hadn’t changed—“ 

You’re shaking your head, “Yuta, no, no, it’s just a look. I don’t even know how I look at him, but it doesn’t—“ 

“I do know how you look. It hasn’t changed,” he’s swallowing, his eyes fall to the floor, “and it’s not just that. Do you see a future with me?” 

“Of course—“ 

“When I brought up moving in, you said you’d think about it, but have you?” you open and close your mouth, fingers grasping at the fabric of your clothes, “have you thought about what happens after you graduate? Or what’s next for us?” your silence is answer enough — sinking in for you, as it already did for him — slipping in between your ribs like a well placed dagger — and it had stabbed him all the same too, “you love me, but I don’t think you’re in love with me,” 

“Yuta, I do, I do love you—“ and he draws close to you, fingers cupping your cheek. 

“But the world doesn’t stop for you when I come near? It doesn’t feel as if I steal your breath when I hold you like this? Does it feel as if you don’t wish to spend a moment without me?” 

“Love doesn’t always have to—“ 

“But it does — to some extent,” he pressed a kiss to your forehead, “you imagined your future with him didn’t you? Didn’t even want to spend a moment apart?” And he gives a terse chuckle, “we have to break up,” 

You don’t want it to be true. You want to fight him, argue, convince him he’s wrong, that the explanation he’s pieced before you is falsified — a distorted version of how you felt conflated by misunderstandings. 

But you can’t. 

“Yuta, I—“ and he shakes his head, “no, I’m sorry, I didn’t, I didn’t mean—“ your eyes burn with tears, “I’m sorry,” 

He smiles softly, pulling you into his arms, “I knew we had rushed in, but I didn’t want to wait, because I thought I’d lose my chance,” 

“Yu—“ he kisses your cheek, “I do love you, I do,” and he nods, lips curling sadly, before he pulls you into another hug. 

“I know. I love you too.” 

But it wasn’t enough — and it wasn’t right. 

Not for either of you. 

You don’t know how much time you spent in bed after that. The semester had closed out, and you had curled up under your sheets — seemingly a new tradition you had of ending a semester with a break up. You wondered if graduating would end it — and if it didn’t, you might have to reconsider going for your Ph.D. — if only to avoid this pain again. 

You stick your head up out of your blanket, glancing at the light pooling in from the window — because time went on no matter how you felt, and the sun rose each day, despite it all. 

Yuta had grabbed his things and left a while after. You still could feel the brush of his fingers against your skin as he squeezed your hand one last time. 

“You’re still my best friend,” you had told him, forcing your voice to stay even, and he chuckles, a smile on his lips. 

“You’re still mine too.” 

But even so you hadn’t heard from him in a few days — but you couldn’t blame him. You could only blame yourself. It had become so exceedingly clear that he was right. And you didn’t know how you hadn’t seen it. The anger still lingered, but anger was only the remnants of your love for him that still stubbornly clung to life, despite your efforts to move on. 

But moving on wasn’t as simple as finding feelings for someone else — not when you were only ever truly in love with one person. 

You were still in love with Suguru. 

Despite it all — you hadn’t gotten over him, and you weren’t sure you ever would. If months weren’t enough, would years be? Would you ever get rid of the feelings you had for him, wrapped around your limbs, and had snuck into the crevices of your heart. An invasive species that perhaps you would never eradicate. 

But you couldn’t go back now. Not after everything that happened. Not 

Your phone goes off, lighting up on your bedside table before beginning to ring, your fingers slipping from inside your cocoon of blankets. You grab your phone — Professor Yaga? 

“Hello?” 

He greets you with your name, “I hope you’re doing well — I just wanted to reach out to congratulate you again on your successful defense,” you smile, sitting up as you do. The two of you make small talk as he discusses his recovery, reporting that he’s doing well. 

“Thank you so much Professor Yaga, for everything, really,” and he chuckles. 

“Thank you for being so understanding of my situation — it was difficult, but I’m glad Suguru stepped for in me so well, and I’m sure he’ll do well in Kyoto—“ 

“He’s going back?” the question spills from your lips before you can even hold your tongue, “I didn’t know you were—�� 

“I’m not returning yet, but even if I do, I don’t think I will be returning as a department head. So I gave Suguru the choice to stay department head here or move to Kyoto,” and he adds, “I did give him the choice to stay here or move back to Kyoto,”

And your throat is dry, “Oh I see. That’s good for him,” a silence settles over the call for a moment, before Yaga speaks.

“He hasn’t made a decision yet,” Yaga says, and he’s staying for graduation so if you’d like to thank him in person since I interrupted your conversation, II know on good authority that he’s in his office right now,” and he adds, “it’s not too late if someone were to speak to him now,” 

You blink, “Professor Yaga—“ 

“You’re all but graduated so I’m allowed to say this — I wish you both the best. But I know Suguru has never been happier than when he was with you,” you bite your lip, “so for both of your sakes, you should go talk to him,” 

“Thank you, Professor, for everything.” And you hang up without much to do, grabbing your bag and keys before heading out the door. 

He was right, fingers squeezing around your phone — it’s what you owed him — and yourself. 

Suguru sat back in his office, finally done with his papers for his philosophy class. The sun had long fled the sky, along with most staff and students. The end of the semester had come quick, and with it came a quiet and deserted campus with nothing but his grade book and the buzzing of the fluorescent lights in his office to keep him company. 

Not that he was craving company. 

He loosened his tie, unbuttoning a button or two on his shirt and on his cuffs, and then rolled his sleeves up. He was insane for still insisting on teaching a class amongst the insanity, though he did have another professor step in to co-teach the course. He didn’t know why he had stuck to that sticking point when it was illogical — but, as he gazed down at the stack of final papers strewn in front of him doused in his red ink, he knew it wasn’t a logical reason. 

He was rifling through the graded stack, adding the scores to his grade book. This semester has been a mixed bag, a mix of grades — from high to low. Some of the papers were insightful, others were clear that they had only taken this class as a course to blow off. But even of all the high graded essays, not one of the papers compared to yours. 

But of course, no one compares to you, and that’s why he needed to leave. He knew that. He wanted you to be happy — even if that didn’t include him. And after this semester, it couldn’t. Being around you was an exercise of torture — Tantalus who had been starving for decades to get a taste of food, only to be hungrier after that morsel. A bite of the apple only makes you want to devour it, core and all. 

It was just as Aristotle had said — desire was made of both rational and irrational, and his longing for you is rooted in the rational — because yes, perhaps his body craved you irrationally and carnally, but that was far overshadowed by the need for you after experiencing you for himself. This self made inducement would be the death of him, and Aristotle himself would call him a fool. 

But he didn’t need him to — because he was. A fool and a coward, just as you said. He sets down his pen, leaning against his hand, as he looks over at the blank reply email to Yaga with his cursor blinking. It would be for the best if he left for Kyoto again. So you didn’t have to see him again. 

And then there was a knock at his office door. He paused, eyes flicking up only to hear your voice through the door, “It’s me,” 

He hates the way his breath catches at the sound of you, heart picking up as his eyes flicker to the somewhat late hour and back. No words on his lips except the one thing he can say. 

“Come in,” 

And you do — you always liked to tease him that he was the one who was unfair when it came to how he looked, but to him, it was you that was unfair. Your hair askew, chest rising and falling quick, clothes a little disheveled and yet, you were always the most gorgeous person he’d met in his life. 

You shift in the entryway of the door, squirming seemingly under his gaze, “Is this a bad time?” 

Time never was in either of your favor, not ones that she found beguiling, except in a way meant to deceive. But time and time again, he allowed himself to be tricked — if only for a moment with you. 

“No, not at all. I just wrapped up grading the final papers,” and you give a soft chuckle, as you close the door behind you, before taking careful steps forward, eyes finding the stack nearly bleeding from his careful cuts and slashes. 

“How many red pens did you use up? Fifty?” 

“Oh, only forty-nine this time, trying to be more conservative with my usage,” and you scoff, more of a chuckle than a sneer, “plus, I didn’t have a student write several pages over the limit this time—“ 

You gape at him, and he has to bite back his smile,  “It was one page, and you said I could,” 

“Bullied into it was more like it,” 

“Don’t know of a case where a student could bully a professor into anything,” 

“They clearly haven’t had you in their classroom,” and then he adds, a soft smile on his lips, “but I suppose I could see them enjoy being bullied by a student as passionate about the subject — even if my office hours suffered for it,” 

“You loved those office hours,” and he wants to say, yes, when you were there — but he can’t. He told himself he wouldn’t cross that line, “and I did too,” you add, and his eyes find yours — but maybe you would cross it instead, “you remember what you said about not being my professor anymore?” 

And he did — all those months ago at the end of the first semester you had spent in class together, and he’s nodding, mouth impossibly dry, “Well I’m as good as graduated, so you’re definitely not my professor, not anymore,” 

Your name slips from his lips, brow furrowed, a question almost, as if it can’t be what your words implied, but you’re shaking your head, as you pull a folded paper from your bag, unfolding it before sliding it across his desk. 

His eyes fall on it, and it’s the note he had written all those months ago — asking you for a drink, and for so much more. He had admired your determination, your wit, your beauty, your intellect, and so many other things he didn’t have space to say — 

“Suguru,” and his eyes find yours, and god, why was it so easy to get lost in your heady gaze? “We had said we didn’t want to hurt each other — but I don’t think that’s something that can be avoided. You hurt me,” and he nods, lips parting ready for an apology, “but I’ll probably hurt you — and I probably have already,” 

“Sweetheart—“ the pet name falls from his mouth as if it’s second nature, “I—“ 

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” and the corner of his eyes burn with tears — is this a dream? Because he swears, it would be the cruelest one so far, “I can’t stop loving you, and I’ve tried to—I’ve tried to move on,” 

“Maybe it would be for the best,” but you’re shaking your head, as you’re slowly rounding his desk, and the truth can’t help but fall from his lips, “I don’t deserve you—“ 

“What did I say about making decisions about us without me?” And he sighs, resistance crumbling as you draw far too close — and he couldn’t bear not to reach out, “you have to take responsibility for your actions, don’t you?” 

“Sweetheart—“ 

“You said you haven’t moved on — is that still true?” 

His fingers reach across the chasm he had carved between the two of you, his fingers tracing the curve of your jaw and the swell of your cheek, just he had wanted to for all these months. And just a taste, a brush of your skin, he’d never let you go again. 

“I never could — not from you,” his voice wavers, “every day I missed you — I never wanted to break up with you, I just couldn’t bear to be the reason that you ever hold yourself back from getting something you wanted,” and he gives a bitter chuckle, shaking his head, “who knew I was the one doing that by leaving? And I’m so sorry, I am so—” 

And your forehead pressed against his, his words nearly swallowed with a sob, as he squeezes his eyes shut, tears burning a trail down his cheeks, that you gently thumb away before cupping his cheeks, “I want to hear something other than an apology,” 

His flutter open, lips brushing against your cheek, “I love you, I always have, sweetheart. I never stopped—” his voice breaks, a crack in the dam enough to spill the truth from his lips and tears from his eyes, “and I promise I’ll never break my promises anymore — that’s a contradiction, but—“ and your fingers find purchase on his cheek, consuming the words on his lips with your touch, “I promise, I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you,” 

Your lips curl, eyes watery as you kiss away one of his tears, “Is that a proposal?” you tease, your other hand slides back through his black locks, twisting one strand around your finger, “seems a little fast for that when you haven’t even kissed me properly yet,” 

He snorts softly, clearing his throat ever so slightly, “If memory serves me, we’ve done a lot more than kiss before,” and he’s daring closer, as you lean down, your legs pressed against the lip of his desk, “nearly in this office,” and he’s slipping up from his desk, his breath stolen from his lungs by the whisper of your perfumed skin, and his logic eroded by the heat of your body against his. 

“‘Nearly,’” you repeat with a soft hum, as your lips graze his jaw, “then why don’t we fix that?” your lips find his, a chaste kiss, barely a few seconds when you pull away half a centimeter, and he’s already leaning back in for another and another. 

The familiar feel of your lips against yours makes him wonder how he had survived without you for so long — falling for you was as natural as breathing and kissing you was needed as oxygen. But each kiss only sends jolt over jolt up and down his body, and he wonders if he were to ever stop again, perhaps his heart would too. 

Because all the time he had spent not with you was time spent living — perhaps breathing and existing. But no, he only felt alive when he was at your side — and in your arms. And especially against your lips. Delights in the way your lips part for him like muscle memory, tongue against yours — in a sloppy, desperate kiss that has every ounce of reason sucked from his mind (and likely into your mouth). 

He parts if only for air, a string of spit connecting your lips, that he thumbs away, “If I recall, you had something about me not being very ethical last time we did this,” he remarks, his lips parting before kissing down your jaw, your taste an addiction to his deprived lips — a desert wanderer ready to swallow you whole, “and now here you are,” he’s leaning back, as your hand is splayed back against the wood of his desk, your chest rising and falling, lips kiss bitten red and swollen from his own, “what do you call this?” His finger is toying with the top button of your blouse. 

“A student taking after her teacher,” your lips find his pulse, teeth grazing his skin as if to taunt him, to goad him to go further, but, and his fingers slip behind. your thighs and squeeze no goading was needed — he was ready to devour you. 

And he’s lifting you onto his desk, papers crumpling underneath and pens flung onto the floor, and a gasp caught in your throat as he pins you against it, before tugging his tie off. 

“Looks like I still have plenty to teach you.” 

“Sugu, fuck,” your fingers thread through his black locks, undone from his bun hy your own hands, your nails digging into his scalp. How long have you been in this office with him now? Half an hour? Almost an hour? Time had lost all meaning to you when he had kissed his way down your body. 

Burning kisses that had stolen your thoughts from your mind and left only him in its wake — how had you lived without him? Your fingers had found their way to the back of his neck, as his lips mapped the peaks and valleys of your neck and collarbone. 

“Fuck,” a gasp parts your lips when his teeth teases the juncture of your neck and shoulder, sucking and biting again and agin, until he’s left pretty love bites gracing your across your skin. 

And that sharp tongue of his dragged over the marks left blooming on your skin, as if couldn’t simply get enough of you, and he couldn’t. 

“Suguru, please—“ you’re whining already and he barely began, and the all too smug smile against the swell of your breast only told you he thought the same. 

“Patience, Princess, so needy f’me, aren’t you?” But he obliged anyway, fingers deftly unbuttoning your shirt. 

And now your blouse was nearly shrugged off, your bra undone with your pert nipples still sticky with his saliva and breasts covered in small marks from his teeth grazing your skin. And now he had tugged your skirt down and off, leaving you only in your underwear. 

“You’re making such a mess on my desk, sweetheart,” he clicks his tongue, as his large palms slide up your plush thighs and squeeze, drawing a lovely gasp from your lips, before he’s parting your thighs, “but it’s such a pretty mess when it’s you,” and you were so fucking pretty with your legs parted like this, panties translucent from your juices leaking from your dripping folds, even glossy against the wood of his desk now. And he would be sure to make a bigger mess soon enough. 

“Sugu,” your cheeks burn as he stares, your embarrassment melting into a gasp when his fingers drag against your clothed slit teasingly, up and down, so meticulously again and again, until his fingers are sticky with your pre, “ngh, please—“ 

Your plea is enough for him to snap, as he’s tugging your underwear away and off, tucking the ruined panties into his pocket with a glint of his amethyst eyes in the low light of his office. Pretty folds in full display for him, with your swollen clit and glistening slit nearly begging for attention, and he’s more than happy to oblige. 

And he’s running a finger down your lovely folds, gathering precum on his finger, far too slowly for your liking, as he takes his time to circle your clit, “All this just from a few kisses?” lust pools in his gaze with a flicker of amusement, “so sensitive just for me,” your need for him as plain as the juices that seep from your pussy, walls fluttering and aching for something more than the tip of his finger. 

“Suguru, fuck, I can’t,” your toes curl when he finally pities you with a kiss to your needy cunt, nose bumping against your clit teasingly, the friction making your thighs tremble, “please—” 

“Never thought I’d hear my quick witted T.A. beg for me like this, but I have dreamt of it,” you glance down at him, lips glossy with your pre, “I have to make up for time lost, time I wasted without you, princess,” and his thumb rubs at your clit, while his lips press sweet kisses to the flesh of your inner thigh, “it’s what I owe you, isn’t it?” 

“I—” your sentence lost to a moan as he drags the flat of his tongue up your slit, tip of his tongue teasingly lingering around your entrance, and your hips buck into his touch, warm palms coming down to pin you in place against his desk. 

You can barely stifle your moans, fingers flying up to press a hand over your mouth, as the tongue starts to flick and circle your clit, while a lithe finger teases your tight cunt, “I’m not one for sweets, but you may give me a sweet tooth,” and his lips close around your clit, sucking and licking, making your back arch, your arm behind you shaking as it struggled to keep your balance. 

“Fuuuuck, Sugu, I—” you’re panting, head lolling back when he finally sinks a finger into your fluttering walls, the wet squelch of your cunt and your barely contained moans filling up the relative silence of his office, “please—” and a second finger joins the first, a smirk on his lips as he kisses your puffy clit again, a groan when he feels the way your walls clench around his fingers, knuckle deep. 

“Gonna break my fingers at this rate, sweetheart,” he’s grunting, but even so he’s adding a third finger, the stretch far too delicious as it sends stripes of heat up and down your body and right to your spasming cunt, “what are you going to do when I put my cock inside? Our refresher lesson has barely begun,” and he’s enjoying this too much, and when his arms are hooking around your thighs, carefully lying you back on his desk, your hands slipping from his hair, and instead propping himself up on his elbows. 

“Sugu, wh—” and your back arches as he begins to thrust deeper into your cunt, a strangled gasp on your lips that melts into a moan as his lips close around your clit. You can barely make out the obscene noises that leave your lips, as his fingers fuck you open, before he’s sucking hard — once, twice, and then a third time— “I’m—“ 

You can barely find the words before you’re cumming, walls squeezing and fluttering around his fingers while he fucks you through it, lapping at your juices, his name on your lips again and again, until you finally come down from your high. He pulls his fingers away from your twitching pussy, only to bury his face in between your thighs again. 

“Fuuuck, Sugu—“ your moans are broken as your body arches into him, fingers finding purchase on his shoulders, sucking and licking your release eagerly, seemingly hellbent on tasting every inch of you. 

Pretty moans fell from your mouth, muffled as you clasped your hand over your lips, “can’t waste a drop, sweetheart,” he’s slurping and sucking at your cunt, and god, if anyone walked by his office, they would surely hear you both — hear the nasty squelch of your pussy and your barely muffled moans. 

How many times did you orgasm from his tongue alone? You had lost track. Each time he would bring you over the edge with the thrust of his tongue or the suck of his lips, and he would eat you out through it, only building to the next and then the next. 

“Sugu, please, I’m close, fuck—“ and you can’t even hear your own broken voice, not over the lewd sounds of his mouth sucking at your pussy, the coil tight in your stomach and ready to snap, until another hard suck makes you cum, hard.

Your fingers find their way into his hair, clutching at him desperately as you squirt all over his face, drenching him along with his desk, wood sticky and soaked with your release. He’s lapping at your cunt, thighs twitching from your orgasm, until he’s finally pulling away to glance up at you with dark eyes, his chin and mouth glossy with your cum and his spit. His tongue darts out to clean both, before wiping the rest away with the back of his hand, glazed over gaze half lidded with need. 

“S’good for me, Princess,” he’s pressing gentle kisses up your body, “so pliant, and yet you were so mouthy before,” and his lips kiss that mouth of yours, letting you taste yourself on his tongue, as he presses you further into the desk, his arm slinked around your back. And you’re pulling him just as close, hands grasping at the front of his button-up. 

And then you’re pushing him back, forcing him into his chair, as you get to your feet, before sinking to your knees. His breath catches, eyes watching you — your disheveled appearance, hair half mussed, and skin shiny with sweat, “let me show you how mouthy I can be.” 

“Imagine someone walked in now, see your pants down for your favorite student,” your tongue trailed up the underside of his clothed cock — and he could nearly cum looking down at you between his thighs, your kiss bitten lips pressing a sweet kiss to the head of his dick, thumbing at the leaking slit, licking your lips at the sight of the large stain of his precum on his cock, “Sugu, you’re so fucking big, can’t wait to feel this inside,” and his length twitches, a grunt in the back of his throat, as your fingers toy with the elastic of his boxers, snapping the waistband against his sensitive skin. 

And god, he’s fucking pretty like this. Black locks falling in front of his perfectly sculpted cheekbones with a lovely flush settled over his features 

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he’s panting, head nearly lolling back against the headrest of his chair, “gonna tease me after this long?” it’s half joking, half pleading, but you’re only clicking your tongue at him. 

“You made me wait much longer, Suguru — made me cry too,” and his gaze softens, lips parted with an apology that fades into a hiss, as you free him from his boxers, erection slapping against his still clothed abs, “but now I’m going to make you cry,” you press a teasing kiss to his weeping tip, flushed red with need, letting his white pearly release paint your lips, “until you’re begging to cum,” 

A strangled gasp caught in his throat, tracing the pretty veins and curves like it was made for you, “You’re so pretty, Sugu — all of this is for me?” Your fingers slowly stroking his length, his moaning music to your ears, as your other hand teasing his balls, “gonna cum down my throat already? Can’t cum this soon,” you cooed, his fingers digging into the armrests of his chair, and yet your fingers squeeze around his base, hips jerking into your touch. 

“Princess, stop teasing—“ his protests had fallen on deaf ears, as you bring your pretty lips to his aching tip, only to trace his slit with the tip of his tongue, salty precum disappearing inside your mouth, and fuck, it’s enough for him to nearly cum there and then, “please,” 

“Didn’t know you could be so polite, Sugu, when begging for your student to swallow your cock,” and finally you let his cock part past your lips, and his head falls back, eyes fluttering shut as your tongue swirls around his length. It was already too much for him — so much, just as you were, your tongue tracing and teasing his dick, while your lips sucked along the base. 

And you weren’t doing much better, the weight of his cock against your tongue makes your cunt ache for him, and sneaking glances at his fucked out form — muffled moans of your name as he covers his lips with the back of his arm, as his dark gaze watches you sink his cock into your mouth again. Your hand is slipping into your throbbing pussy for some relief, as you bob up and down his length. 

But he doesn’t miss it, a groan at the sight of you swallowing his dick whole whole riding your own hand, “Does fucking your mouth feel that good, Princess? Feel that good that you need to touch yourself?” And you’re moaning around his length, vibrations of sending shivers up his spine and a groan of your name from his lips, “So fucking good f’me, Princess — too good for me,” he’s grunting, as you let his tip brush the back of your throat now, making pleasure rip up his body, “sweetheart, please, g’nna fuck your throat if you keep that up,” 

And you ease off, letting his cock slap against your tongue as it slips out, “maybe I want you, Sugu,” you’re kissing and licking along his length, “want you to fuck my smart little mouth,” 

Fuck. 

You’re sliding his cock back in, his hips jerking against you as you let him sink all the way in, tip brushing against your throat again. And fuck, the wet squelch of your fingers inside you breaks him, as he starts to give an experimental thrust, a light one that has you moaning around him. He’s gauging your reaction, only for you to force his length down more, barely not blowing his load there and then, as you look up at him, a smile in your eyes as if you’re daring him. 

And he can’t hold back. 

He’s fucking your mouth, your tongue massaging up and down his length as he thrusts inside your warm mouth, his nails digging into your locks as he holds you flush to his body. The sight of you on your knees, taking his dick as drool and pre drip down your chin, eyes nearly rolling back with pleasure as you do, making his cock twitch in your mouth. 

“That feel that good, Princess? Wanted me to fuck this mouth that bad? I should do it more often if that’s what it takes.” he’s almost drunk off the pleasure, thrusts growing a little rougher as he grows close, “fuck, I’m close, baby, where—“ and your hands are sliding around to his lower back, holding him in place as your answer, “shit, sweetheart, you’re going to be the death of me,” and you suck around him as his tip hits the back of your throat again, and that’s it—

He spills, hot cum flooding your mouth and down your throat, as you both moan in unison, large spurts devolving into smaller ones, as he comes down from his high. You don’t waste a drop, swallowing every bit of it, as you finally pull away from his cock with a pop, the sight of your ruined lips with strings of spit and cum still connecting you to his dick is enough to have it twitching again. 

“Sweetheart, you’re s’good to me,” he’s gently pulling you up into his lap, his fingers running through your hair. “I don’t deserve you. I don’t—“ and you’re cutting him off with a soft kiss that steals the words from his mind, your eyes shiny with tears. 

“You do, you do because I choose you, because I love you, and I know you’re sorry,” you cup his cheek, before lightly pinching it, “and if you ever do anything that stupid again, I’m going to kill you and I’ll be ethically and morally justified,” and he chuckles, burying his face in the crook of your neck to press soft kisses to your skin, before pulling back to look up at you. 

“You have my permission to do that, because if I ever leave my soulmate again — it’s only the consequences of my actions,” and he kisses your forehead, before he presses his to yours, “and I don’t want to live in a world where you’re not by my side,” 

You kiss him slowly, wrapping your arms around him, slowly heat building as the head of his cock bumps against the length of your cunt — the sparks grow into flames, threatening to engulf you both. And you would let them if only for one more second of his touch. 

“Sugu, please, I need you,” you murmur, breathing in his pants as your noses bump, “need you inside me,” he cups your cheek, meeting in another kiss, before you’re lining yourself up, weeping cock bumping against your needy entrance. 

“Are you ready?” You ask, and it’s for more than just this moment, it’s for everything that comes after — for every second that you both get to live together, “our phones are off right?” 

He snorts, “I turned it off when you entered my office,” and you laugh, shaking his head, as he places a kiss behind your ear. 

“I did the same before I came in,” his fingers cup your cheek, as you lean into his warm palm, “just you and me?” You echo from your first time together, and his lips curl into the softest smile. 

“You and me, sweetheart,” and you’re sinking onto him, tip parting your spread folds as your walls swallow him whole, inch by inch, and his fingers grasp at your hips, helping you ease onto his cock, pretty lips parted with a quiet murmur of your name. 

And when he finally bottoms out inside you, he’s almost forgotten how good it felt — pleasure ripping up his spine as your hips are pressed flush to the other, “So deep, Sugu, fuck,” your walls are fluttering around him pulling even deeper, clamping down as if he groans, “I’m gonna move,” you manage between pants. 

You lift up to the tip before slowly beginning to bounce up and down, your moans filling his ears along with the squeaks and rattling of his computer chair. His eyes flutter open only to watch your breasts bounce up and down as you ride him, his hands reaching out to squeeze at the pillowy flesh, drawing a sharp gasp from your lips. 

“S’big, fuck, Sugu,” you’re moaning, a mess as you fucked yourself on him, but still not quite deep enough, and he begins to meet your thrusts with his own, making you fall forward holding onto him with a whine as he fucks up into you. The sounds of his balls slapping against your needy cunt ring in your ears, the grunts your pussy pulls from his mouth as he drives himself impossibly deep, “ngh, Sugu, fuck, s’good—,” you’re whining, back arching into his touch, nails digging into his shoulders, “please,” 

“That’s it, take my cock, pretty girl,” he murmurs, “so good for me. So tight, never going to leave this cunt at this rate, baby—“ 

And then they hear a door creak open and close nearby, freezing as they do, heart thumping against your ribs, but your wall flutters all the same, “think they’ll see us like this?” He teases, and his cock twitches in your cunt, “spread out and fucked by your former professor’s cock?” And you know he’s only goading you as the footsteps depart, but your walls squeeze at the thought, “want them to see how good you are for me? How well I’ve taught you to take this cock?” 

And he begins to fuck into you again, pistoning up into you, drawing more moans from your lips. He had taught you every inch and curve and vein of his dick, but this refresher would make sure you’d never forget. 

“Sugu, I’m close, I-“ and his hand is slipping between your bodies to rub at his clit right as his cock hits that spot that has you seeing stars as you cum hard around his cock. He watches the place your bodies meet, a white ring of cum around the base of his cock as your walls flutter around him. 

He fucks you through your orgasm, hips stuttering as he twitches inside you, “fuck, sweetheart, where should I—“ and you’re moaning as you manage to meet his thrust to notch him even deeper as he finally cums. 

His thick ropes paints your walls, as he rocks against you slowly, forcing his cum deeper and deeper, your name leaving your lips again and again — reverent whispers and promises muttered in your ear, as he finally stills underneath you. 

You’re leaning against him, mixed releases surely leaking onto his lap and the chair, both of your quiet pants filling the silence, until he’s breaking it. He kisses your lips again and again, before he stares at you — kiss bruised lips and the pretty sheen of sweat that clings to your skin, “It’s not fair you’re this perfect,” he murmurs, a thumb dragging down your lips, “how would I have ever resisted you?” 

“Luckily, the universe did that for us,” and he huffs a chuckle, “and you,” you add in a small whisper, and he frowns, nodding. 

“I did and I never will again, I promise, sweetheart,” he’s pressing sweet kisses to your burning skin, pulling you impossibly closer to him, your face buried in the crook of his neck, “I’m yours — yours to keep, yours to use, yours to love — you have my heart and my soul,” he’s cupping your cheek when you lift your head, “and I’ll never let go, because you’re the only answer to life I need, if you’ll allow to be yours,” 

“You were always mine,” your forehead pressed to his, “that’s never changed, and it never will,” 

“You always one up me, don’t you?” And you roll your eyes. 

“The student has to surpass the master someday, doesn’t she?” his lips curl. 

“Oh you’ve done that a long time ago, Princess,” his lips graze yours again and again, and soon enough you’re shifting on his lap, until the chair buckles under the weight and the seat travels to the bottom of where it’s wheels rested. The two of you are silent a moment, before a giggle escapes your lips, “I think you’ll have to get a new chair,” you murmur, and he’s chuckling, burying his face in the crook of your neck. 

“Why not the chair and the desk?” And you’re blinking before he’s lifting you up, before making you turn, pressing your front flush against the wood of the desk, “and if I’m getting new furniture, I might as well use this to its full capacity, shouldn’t I?” And he’s dragging his erection across your ass, “really make sure it’s broken,”

You gasp, walls fluttering as his tip teased your messy entrance, “don’t you need broken in—“ and he bottoms out in one thrust, as he presses his body against yours, lips pressing a kiss to the back of your neck, before his teeth dig into the sensitive flesh. 

And he smirks as he hears you moan under him, as he soothes the blooming hickey with his tongue, “No, I meant broken, sweetheart.”

“Suguru!” You called from his bedroom, as he smoothed his hair out in the bathroom mirror, a glance over his shoulder at the sound of your voice, “can you come help me?” 

And how could he refuse? He steps out of the bathroom to only find you struggling with your Hakama. The formal garment hangs uselessly around your front, your brow furrowed and lips pursed. 

He suppresses his laugh, forcing his tone to be even. 

“Does my incredibly brilliant girlfriend need help with her hood?” Your pout is enough for him to nearly break his promise that he wouldn’t kiss you when your makeup was done, but he doesn’t. Instead he takes the offending garment from around your neck, and you cross your arms. 

“I can handle reading Hegel’s works — The Phenomenology of Spirit was irritating but doable,” and you scowl at the Hakama in his hand, “but that thing was made to torture,” 

He snorts, “Consider it your last trial before graduation,” 

“No, my last is seeing if my thesis was peer reviewed and accepted for publication somewhere,” you sigh, “I still have to make the edits—“ 

“That can be a later problem, just focus on the moment right now,” he steps behind you after adjusting the Hakama and tying it around the back and front to secure it, before pressing a kiss to the top of your head, “and now you look both beautiful and properly dressed,” 

His arms wrap around your waist from behind, “Sugu, we have to leave soon,” 

“Just a minute, just let this sink in,” he kisses the side of your neck, “have I told you how proud I am of you?” 

“Hmm, just about every second of the last few days,” you lean against him, and nothing ever felt so perfect — his arms were the only ones you belonged in. 

And yet, why did that thought also hurt? 

“What is iy, baby?” Suguru murmurs, ever too perceptive as always, “something on your mind,” 

“More like someone,” you mumble, and you’re laying your head against his shoulder, “I can’t help but feel guilty — Yuta and I just broke up and I’m—“ you’re shaking your head, “I’m so happy, and I hate myself for it,” 

Suguru frowns, “I don’t know Yuta well, but I know he did love you, the same way I do, and I can’t speak for him,” but then he’s squeezing your middle, “but as someone who loves you, I’d want you to be with someone who could make could make you happy,” you kiss his head, “and isn’t that why he broke up with you? You both deserve that chance — even if it’s not each other.” 

“When did you get so smart?” and he pulls you impossibly closer, kissing along the neckline of your kimono. 

“Somewhere between my bachelor’s degree and being your professor,” he adds with his lips curled in a smirk, “though I’d err closer to the time of being your professor,” 

Your head against his shoulder, you lean up for a kiss, as he blinks, before melting into your touch, as you pull back with a grin, “it’s ok if I initiate the kiss,” you chuckle when you catch sight of his pout, “don’t worry I’ll be giving you plenty after the ceremony — and maybe something even more than a kiss,” 

“Is that a promise?” And you tug him close, pressing another kiss to his lips — your lips were already smudged, so why hold back. 

“Always, for you.” 

Yuta knew it was for the best. 

It had been a few weeks that he spent mourning his relationship — but he knew that it was the right choice for him. He had chased after you, it felt as if he was dogging your every step, waiting for you to notice him. And when you did, he still felt as he was your second choice — and that he would live in Geto’s shadow for the entirety of the relationship. 

And he didn’t want that. He didn’t deserve that — and neither did you. More than anything, he wanted you to be happy — even if that wasn’t with him. 

It was for the best. 

And the start to the new semester just proved that. He was starting his final year of his program, he had become the head of the student government (after Maki decided to step down to a more administrative role to focus on her degree), and he had even become a teacher’s assistant to one of his favorite professors. He didn’t have time to focus on a relationship, not when he should be focusing on his future. 

He entered the classroom that day, a little early on his professor’s request to set up the classroom with handouts, only to bump into someone, papers spilling from his hands. 

“Sorry, I—” he leans down to pick up the dropped papers, before glancing up and finds himself looking at just that—

His future. 

A few months later. 

“You’re late,” Suguru Geto remarks, as he shows you his watch on his wrist — the very one you had bought him for his birthday a few weeks before, “but I should expect that by now, shouldn’t I?”

You give a guilty grin, as you find your way to his side, sliding your hands up around his neck, “Yes you should, especially when your girlfriend is a very important lecturer who was kept by all her students — jealous?” 

And he chuckles, his hair tied up in a half bun as usual, your fingers toying with a strand again, before he’s lacing with fingers with yours to press a kiss to the back of your hand, “Very — because your students are stealing my time with my very intellectual girlfriend,” and he leans down to press a kiss to the hollow of your throat, “it sounds like it was a success — I knew it would be,” he adds, “but someone else wasn’t so sure,” 

You roll your eyes playfully, “Yes, yes, you were right — the students found my work interesting, or at least interesting enough not to fall asleep and ask questions—” 

“High praise,” and your lips curl into a smile, “What?” 

“I love you,” he grins back at you, a chuckle on his lips, as he leans down to capture them, his smile apparent against you, as he parts from you, a heat still present in the pit of your stomach, a need for him burning as it always was, “I love you so much, Suguru,” 

“I love you too, princess,” he’s rubbing his thumb back and forth against the length of your cheek, “Good thing too because otherwise, moving in together would be more than a little awkward,” and you pout, and he’s laughing before kissing you again and again, until he’s kissing your pout away with a languid kiss that has you melting into his grasp — breathless when he pulls away, lips utterly kiss ruined and red, “they should be calling us into the viewing soon,” he bites his lip,and you’re nodding reluctantly if only considering whether if you could sway him for another few moments alone. Instead you settle for burying your face in the crook of his neck, lips brushing against his leaping pulse, “you’re sure about moving to Kyoto? I had only chosen Kyoto to give you space—” 

You cut him off with a glance up and a raised eyebrow, “You’re the one who said I could choose, and I chose Kyoto because not only is it a good opportunity for you here to build your reputation as the department head, but because it’s a fresh start for us,” 

His fingers lace with yours, “Well if they keep asking you to lecture in Tokyo, you might develop a commute,” and you roll your eyes, before shrugging. 

“I can handle it,” you squeeze his hand, “as long as I'm coming home to you.” 

“And a cat or a poodle,”and you light up, grinning even wider, “we should ask if they allow pets,” 

“Really? We can—” 

“I heard poodles are a good choice of pet,” and you’re leaning up to kiss him, arms wrapping around his neck, “I made an appointment for at an adoption center after this,” 

“Mr. Geto?” a person comes out of the leasing office, “we’re ready for you both,” 

And you pull away, your fingers interlacing with yours and squeezing his hand, “Are you ready?” 

His lips curl in a smile, “I think we owe it to ourselves, don’t we? Especially they agreed to take us for our viewing after you were late,” 

And you chuckle, as the two of you made your way inside, “I swear you’re going to leave without me one of these days if I’m late enough,” 

“No, I’d never do that. I’ll always wait for you, sweetheart,” he holds the door open for you, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, “we have all the time in the world after all.” And you grin at him as you walk past him, his fingers reaching into his pocket. 

He had found out his answer to life — watching you greet and speak with the agent, before glancing back at him with a small smile and tilt of your head — his fingers toy with the ring box in his pocket— 

And now he just needed to know yours.  

END. 

Yuta’s own love story will be coming after Professor Gojo’s! 

✧a/n: wow i'm still in disbelief i finished this series. this is my first series on tumblr, and i truly hope you all enjoyed. this part was wayyyy longer than i expected. but i hope i did the series justice.

✧ taglist: @hatsunemitskislobotomy, @difficultdomains, @diogodxlot, @that-goth-bisexual, @dazailover1900, @aliyalala @ashhlsstuff , @blue041803 , @mwtsxri , @bblgumfairy , @sukunasleftkneecap , @xo-evangeline , @fiannee , @teatreeoilll , @chalametet , @ryukaver , @d1gitalbathh , @saga3ious , @seventhcinema , @satosugucide , @your-l0nely-star , @sokkasmoon , @deegausserr , @hyookka , @oggsyy , @littlebitb , @higuchislut , @ti-mame , @itoshisins , @cerene-dipity , @onionsoop , @sinlillith , @izzythenaive , @lalacute03 , @rxndou , @c-themoon , @xxrag-d0llxx , @hqtoge , @sugarxlumps , @hopeluna , @actualdeemon , @enchantedpendant , @serendididy , @soulstealercat , @neuviloved , @simply-a-s1mp , @satorusmochis , @lalacute03

[buckysdollbarnes]

you are in love series - part one

one look, dark room

PAIRING: tfawts!bucky x grad student!reader

Summary: Moving to NYC to go to grad school, your friend's dad has a connection with the owner of a rental building in Brooklyn where you can live on your own, for cheaper than you could get anywhere else. On a student's budget, you strive to still make your place your own by thrifting as much decor as possible. Meeting your quiet and somewhat secretive neighbor, James, you gain some free labor to help you move the random stuff you buy, and with that he may be growing to love parts of the modern world he has been missing. With you in a big, new city feeling alone for the first time and Bucky wanting to make a connection with someone other than Sam and his therapist, maybe online marketplaces and a turntable will bring you both what you need most.

warnings: mild language

word count: 4.7k

a/n: this is my first time EVER writing fiction, usually I only ever write academic papers so this is fun. :) I read over and revised this chapter so many times, so I hope you enjoy it! Feedback is always welcomed and I'm excited to start on the next chapter.

a/n: also!! sorry for it being so long genuinely just so much had to happen in this chapter for it to be set up the way I wanted, which I think I did well enough. lmk what you think <3

Why did I think carrying this by myself was a good idea? It might be cute and a great deal, but I don’t think I'll be able to feel my arms tomorrow. I might need to hit the gym again before I find more bargains like this. Hell, maybe I'll even invest in a neck towel, because this heat is unbearable. I’ve been searching for some larger pieces to fill my apartment, and this vintage bar cart should fit perfectly. Just five more blocks to go.

Moving here alone has certainly come with its challenges: being on my own in such a big city, dealing with a lot of stress, and managing on a tight budget. But I’m determined to make it work though and prove everyone wrong. Growing up, you see so many romcoms where the heroine leaves everything behind to chase her dreams in NYC, landing a job at a magazine or fashion house, living in a gorgeous high-rise, and meeting the perfect guy. It’s a beautiful fantasy really, but the reality is much tougher. New York isn’t a movie set; it’s a real city with real people, and you have to work just as hard, if not harder, to be here. I know that, but it feels like a majority of my people back home DON’T know that I know that.

I came here for school. In about two months, I’ll be starting my Master’s program at NYU. I don’t think I’ve ever been as proud as when I received my acceptance email. I worked my ass off in undergrad to earn strong recommendations and good academic standing, and seeing it all come together was a huge relief—until the reality of the cost hit me.

Luckily, a friend's dad has a connection with a landlord in Brooklyn and got me a good deal on a place of my own. It’s incredible not to have a roommate in this market, especially in a place where your bed doesn’t touch your stove, though it can be a bit lonely.

Finally, reaching the stoop, out of breath, you set the cart down on the pavement. Wiping your brow, you notice the street is unusually quiet for this time of day. The city never truly sleeps, but the residential streets seem to take occasional naps. A little breath of air somewhere where it feels like oxygen is running out sometimes. Light filters through the trees, momentarily blinding you, and you turn back toward the building.

“How on earth am I going to get this up to my floor?”

Carrying it down the street was one thing, but hauling it up the stairs is a whole different challenge. Plus, who knows when the building's maintenance has last been here, the steps might not hold up under the cart’s weight. They usually feel like they could give away holding one person.

Deciding that falling to your death and being crushed isn’t really how you want to go, you open the double doors and drag the cart into the lobby, using the wheels on one side. Passing the main desk where the worker, who looks completely uninterested, engrossed in a crossword puzzle, you make your way to the end of the hall and start pulling the cart backwards up the incline of the stairwell.

“Nah, I can’t,” you say aloud, after struggling up two floors, letting the cart rest on the landing. There’s still three more floors to go, but your body is clearly telling you the cart belongs right here. Maybe the universe wants it to stay here—who knows, maybe the entire second floor needs a communal bar more than you do.

“Excuse me,” a quiet but rough male voice comes from behind me. You turn around to see him—a guy you’ve seen around your floor a few times, though you’ve never talked. One of the neighbors. You quickly realize you’re blocking the entire staircase.

“Sorry! Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry. I’ll move this um — just give me a second.”

You shove the cart closer to the wall to make some space for him to pass, but he stays put, his gloved hands in his pockets. He’s definitely handsome—tall and solid, but not intimidating. His furrowed brow and tight-lipped expression don’t exactly scream “welcome,” but he’s still got a certain charm.

He shifts a bit, clearly wanting to say something but hesitating. Feeling a bit awkward under his gaze, you decide to try talking to him again.

“You can just squeeze by if you want. It’s just really heavy, so I’m taking a quick break before I try lifting it up again.”

After a moment, he seems to make up his mind and asks, “Do you need help?”

Looking back at him, you consider saying no. You pride yourself on being independent and capable, and part of you wants to insist you can handle it. But then you think about the struggle of getting the cart up the last two flights of stairs—only this time, it's three—and decide against it.

“You wouldn’t mind? You’re headed down, I’m sure you’ve got somewhere else to be.”

He gives a little smirk that makes you feel a bit dizzy.

“Well, I’m already here so.”

You nod slowly, a small smile appearing on your face.

“Sure, you can take this end, and I’ll get this o—” you start to say, but before you can finish, he’s already in front of you, lifting the cart with ease and starting up the stairs without breaking a sweat.

“Hey! Be careful, uh—,” you pause, realizing you don’t know his name.

He picks up on your hesitation and hesitates himself, considering whether to give his name. He’s wary of how others might perceive him, potentially recognizing his name from past news broadcasts or papers, still dealing with the shadows of his past despite his efforts to make amends. Not wanting to be dishonest, he chooses the safe option.

“James.”

“Be careful, James. I don’t want you tripping and falling on my account.”

“Won’t happen, doll.”

“What-,” you start, caught off guard by the pet name, “what if it does?”

“It won’t, see?” With the last few steps, you and James arrive at your floor. “Already here.”

He must have seen you around before too, to know where you live.

He gives you a quick look and then carries the cart to your door.

“This is yours, right?” He turns and looks at you expectantly. You rush over, fumbling for your keys to unlock the door. If he’s willing to move it all the way, who are you to turn him down?

You lead James into your apartment, wondering if it looks anything like his. The layout can’t be that different; it’s not exactly a luxury building.

He strolls further into the room.

“You can set it right here,” you say quickly. “Thank you for bringing it up for me. I was honestly thinking about giving up when you showed up.”

Setting the cart where you indicated, he straightens up, rolls his shoulders back, and gives you a look that feels intense.

“It’s no problem.”

His gaze wanders around your apartment, taking in the mix of vintage furniture and eclectic decor. On a student’s budget, you’ve filled your space with secondhand finds. It’s more affordable and personal that way. The place might not be filled with new things, but it’s entirely curated by you. Finding beauty in the mix of old and new is something you do well, and now, thanks to James, you have one more piece to add.

James’s eyes land on your turntable setup. He seems intrigued by your collection of records but doesn’t say anything, turning his attention back to you.

“I have to go.”

Your eyebrows lift at his abruptness. Sensing your surprise, he quickly adds, “I’ve got an appointment.”

You nod vigorously, urging him to go and thanking him again for his kindness. Feeling a bit sad that this chance encounter with your new neighbor is ending so quickly, you call out as he heads for the door.

“I’ll see you around then? Since you live here too.”

He turns on his heel, giving you one last smirk.

“Yeah, you’ll see me.”

As he heads down the stairs, you shut your door and lock it behind you. Wandering over to where James’s gaze lingered, you pull an album from the shelf, lift the acrylic cover on your turntable, and set the record down. You close the cover, push play, and let the needle softly drop onto the vinyl. As the music starts, your mind drifts back to James.

Embarrassingly, you find yourself hoping this isn’t a one-time encounter. You don’t know much about him beyond his name, but there’s something about him that makes you want to see him again.

“Two hundred bucks for this is crazy,” you mutter to yourself, staring in disbelief at the sofa you’re eyeing on Facebook Marketplace.

“People are practically giving this stuff away.”

Not wanting to miss out on such a good deal, you message the seller to check if it’s still available.

Since you got the bar cart about a week and a half ago, you haven’t picked up anything else. With the July heat blasting, just thinking about moving a sofa in this weather makes you want to rip off your skin to cool down.

You can’t help but think of James, who you’ve seen briefly in the hallway since your last encounter. He just nodded as he passed by, and that was it.

Your phone dings, snapping you out of your thoughts. The seller confirms the sofa is still available and offers to deliver it since they have a truck.

Excited, you reply with a yes, and they let you know they’ll head your way soon.

You get up to rearrange your furniture, making space for the new sofa. You don’t have much to move since you’ve been slowly collecting things. As you shift the pieces around, your turntable stops, signaling it’s time to flip the record. After you do, you take a moment to picture how the sofa will fit in the space.

Then it hits you—moving a sofa is way heavier than the bar cart. If you struggled with that, how on earth will you manage this?

“Independent woman, my ass.”

With the delivery imminent, you decide on the only solution you can think of. Without hesitation, you head to the apartment across the hall and knock softly on the door. You wait, hoping James will answer. After a moment of shuffling and then silence, you start to wonder if you should just try something else.

Just then, the door cracks open, revealing half of James’s face. He looks curious but not annoyed—no one usually visits him.

“Hey! James! Great to see you again! I hope I’m not interrupting anything, but I was wondering if you could help me out a bit? I just bought a sofa from this marketplace deal, and the seller’s coming to drop it off right now. He said he’d deliver it, but didn’t offer to help get it up to my apartment. I realized a sofa is way heavier than a bar cart, and you saw me struggle with that, so I was kinda sorta hoping you could help me bring it up here?”

After your rambling, you offer him a hopeful smile, waiting for his response.

A few moments of silence later, that smirk you’ve been missing appears on his face. Opening the door wider, he comments with a grin.

“You bought another thing you knew you couldn’t get up the stairs?”

“I honestly didn’t think it through. The deal was too good to pass up. I’m really sorry for bothering you. I can try to find someone else if you’re busy.”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t help, doll.”

The smile that blooms on your face is unavoidable.

As the delivery guy drives away, James shows you where to grab the sofa and effortlessly lifts the other end. He encourages you to take the lead, making sure the weight is on him as you both navigate the stairs. With minimal effort, you get the sofa up to your place.

After some awkward maneuvering, you finally get the sofa into your apartment through the thin door and set it down. You put your hands on your hips and exhale deeply, only to find James already looking at you with that same intense gaze from before. It makes you a little nervous.

You can’t help but feel grateful—there’s no way you would have managed this on your own.

“I could have handled the bar cart,” you say, nodding toward the cart now adorned with bottles in the corner, “but this? No chance. Thanks so much for your help.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he replies. “I wasn’t busy.”

As you look at him, you start to feel like you know him from somewhere beyond being just a neighbor. Maybe you’ve seen him around the city before you moved?

Brushing off the thought, you offer, “You’ve helped me out twice now, and it doesn’t feel right not to return the favor. If your whole evening consists of not being busy, why not stay for dinner? I promise I’ll cook something totally good and not poisonous.”

James looks surprised by your offer but quickly hides it.

“You don’t need to do that. You don’t owe me anything,” he says, not wanting you to feel obligated or uncomfortable. He worries that his presence might not be enjoyable.

He wishes he could be as charming as he was back in the 40s. Being friendly used to come easily, and if he were still the same person he was at 26, he wouldn’t have left so quickly after helping you on the stairs the first time. He wouldn’t have had a therapists appointment to go to and he wouldn’t have a hidden arm made of metal. He’d have asked you to dinner or for you to let him take you dancing instead in return for his brawn. Now, he struggles to make new connections beyond a few familiar faces, like Sam, and asking someone for a dance feels out of reach.

“No, no! Stay, I insist! It gets kind of lonely around here, doesn’t it? Why not have a friend dinner?” you press, hoping he’ll take you up on the offer.

Seeing your sincerity, though still feeling a bit miffed, he finally agrees.

“Yeah, sure. I can stay.”

James settles onto the sofa while you work in the kitchen. You’ve decided on making some stuffed ravioli and garlic bread—easy, delicious, hard to mess up.

Before getting into cooking, you switch out the record, letting new music drift softly through the space. Unbeknownst to you, James watches closely, paying attention to how you handle the records and the turntable. The care you take when putting a record back in its slip, taking a new one out of its dust cover, and gently putting it on.

Seeing you focused on cooking, James gets up and strolls over to your setup. He runs his fingers lightly across the spines of the record sleeves, feeling a surprising sense of comfort. He hadn’t realized people still used record players so often.

The setup looks quite familiar to him, with many aspects reminiscent of the record players he used back in his earlier days. In his life before this one.

As you finish preparing the pasta and pull the bread from the oven, you call out, “Hey, food’s ready!”

You glance back to see James hovering by the turntable. He quickly moves to the table and sits down.

Over dinner, the conversation flows comfortably. James seems to be relaxing a bit, his initial reserve fading. He’s still somewhat guarded, but what he does share is genuinely interesting. You sense that opening up is challenging for him, so you respect his pace and take whatever he is willing to give. Laughing with each other a few times and getting through some odd topics, he mentions that he hasn’t had a home-cooked meal in quite a while and thanks you with a smile.

After a pleasant dinner, you decide to bring up something you’d been curious about.

“You like records?”

Caught off guard by the question, James tries to answer without revealing too much about himself. It feels strange to be here, knowing you don’t really know who he is, but he worries that being too open might scare you away. He decides to keep his secrets for now, selfishly hoping to get to know you better before revealing more.

“Yeah, I used to have quite a few records as a kid. My ma would play them too, especially when she was cooking, just like you. I didn’t realize they were still so popular.”

Excited by this glimpse into his past, you push further.

“Oh, there’s definitely a huge market for vinyl. Lots of people who think it makes them superior, but also a lot who just love the physical aspect of it.”

“So which one are you?” he asks.

You laugh and reply, “Maybe a bit of both.”

You glance up at him from beneath your lashes, catching his rare smile.

“But really, I just like having it. There’s something different about the listening experience. It requires more effort than just hitting play on a playlist. It’s about choosing a full album and actually sitting down to listen. That feels more intentional to me, and that’s why I do it.”

James seems to ponder your answer, his expression softer than before. He then turns his gaze back to the turntable.

“So, since you mentioned you had records as a kid, do you not have any now?” you ask.

He shakes his head.

“Haven’t had any for a long time. Talking about it makes me miss them. Everything these days feels so complicated. I like simple things like that.”

Watching him as he looks away, you hesitate but notice the nostalgic shine in his eyes. You sense he might appreciate physical music even more than you do.

“If you ever get any and don’t have a place to play them, you’re welcome to use mine.”

He turns to face you, his expression unreadable.

“I mean, I know it’s not the most convenient offer, but it’s there. One record lover to another,” you add with a smile.

He returns your smile, saying, “Okay… thank you. I’ll keep that in mind, Doll.”

That night, Bucky lies on his makeshift bed on the floor, staring up at the ceiling and replaying the events of the day. You knocking on his door for help with the couch, inviting him over for dinner, and all the easygoing conversation you shared. It was such a stark contrast to his usual rigidity. He'd let his guard down just a little—letting himself smile or flirt ever so slightly.

He wishes he were better at this. It used to come so naturally. Hell, before he left for war, he’d gone dancing with both his own date and Steve’s at the same time. Now, he finds himself listening to you talk while struggling to share anything of his own.

He doesn’t want to pass up your invitation, especially since you’re inviting him into your space again. Clearly, his reserve hasn’t put you off too much.

“What would I even bring?” he wonders aloud.

All he’s ever listened to is 40’s music and big band. He doubts that’s readily available these days.

Rolling onto his side, he grabs the cell phone Steve had insisted he get before he went back in time to live his real life, without Bucky.

“You can do anything on here, Buck!”

Scrolling through the three contacts he has, he taps on the name of the guy who’s been trying to reach him for weeks.

“So, is there a valid reason why you haven’t picked up my damn calls?” Sam’s voice comes through.

“Sam, hi.”

“Did you finally learn how to click the screen? Is that why I’m hearing from you now, old man?”

“Look, I’m sorry. I just don’t like the thing. Too confusing,” Bucky says, grimacing as he fiddles with the phone.

“Okay, okay, what’s going on, man? You doing alright?”

“I’m fine. I just have a question and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t harass me about it.”

“Is it about wizards?”

“What?”

“Wizards. Is the question about wizards?”

“No, what the hell. Look, I had dinner with one of my neighbors tonight—”

“Was it a girl?”

“Does it matter?”

“Hell yes, it matters. And from that response, I KNOW it was a girl, so—”

“It doesn’t matter. She has a record player, which I didn’t know people still used, and she offered to let me use it, but I don’t have anything to play on it.”

“I’m not getting the problem.”

“I only like the stuff from the 40’s and—”

“Did you listen to that Marvin Gaye playlist I sent you?”

“Not interested.”

“C’mon, man, it’s good stuff. Give it a listen.”

“Not feeling it.”

“Alright, your loss, I guess. Still not seeing the problem though.”

“What do I bring? I can’t just bring around the stuff I know because where would I even get it?”

“Whoa, man, what do you mean, where would you get it? Just go to a record store and hit up the vintage section or something.”

Bucky pauses, mulling over Sam’s words.

“They have that?”

“Duh. You know, you could answer these questions a lot easier if you just looked them up on your phone—”

“Thanks, Sam. Talk to you later.”

Lying back down, Bucky decides that the next time he’s out to see his therapist, he’ll first stop by a record store to find something to bring over to your place.

Your easygoing presence was so comforting, and he found himself longing for it as he drifted off to sleep. He’d see you again soon enough.

Later in the week, as you wind down from a busy day, you focus on making your space as calming as possible.

You light some candles and turn on an orange floor lamp, the soft glow wrapping around you and setting the perfect mood to sink into your sofa with the book you’ve been neglecting.

You’ve just started settling into your reading when you’re jolted out of your half-nap by the sound of someone knocking on your door.

You get up and peer through the peephole, and there’s your dinner guest from earlier in the week.

Opening the door with a smile, you greet him.

“Hey James, unexpected visit! What’s up?”

His eyes linger on you for a moment before he speaks. You glance down and realize your outfit—shorts that really lived up to their name and a tank top—might not be the most guest-appropriate.

Brushing off your embarrassment, you look back up at him.

“I’ve got something I’d like to play, if that’s alright?”

Bucky’s mind races. Standing at your door, he worries maybe you only offered your place to be nice, and now he’s making a fool of himself. Of course, you didn’t want him there—he could barely talk.

Just as he’s about to get lost in his own head, your bright smile pulls him out of it.

“Oh my gosh, please, come in. What do you have?”

His doubt fades away as he sees your genuine excitement.

“Brought some Sinatra. Not sure if you’re into that, but I used to like his stuff when I was younger.”

You spin around abruptly, staring at him in disbelief.

“There’s no way you think I don’t know who Frank Sinatra is…”

Bucky stumbles over his words.

“Well, I mean, it’s not exactly new stuff so—”

“You think I wouldn’t know ‘Fly Me to the Moon’? ‘Singin’ in the Rain’? ‘New York, New York’? I mean, I even moved to New York—I had to get the romanticism from somewhere.”

“What are those?”

You pause, confused.

“Like, the most iconic Frank Sinatra songs. You are talking about Frank Sinatra, right? Not some other Sinatra I’ve never heard of?”

“No, you’re right, it’s Frank.”

“Then what do you mean?”

“I guess I don’t know those ones.” He admits.

“So, what era are we talking about?” You ask, reaching for the record.

As you grasp the sleeve, you notice a glint of light catching James’s bare hand. Realizing he’s not wearing gloves, confusion sets in before it clicks. You HAD seen James before.

Looking up at him, he seems frozen, obviously panicking. He planned to tell you eventually, but not like this. Not when you weren’t close enough yet.

He thought there is no way you are going to want anything to do with him now.

You thought there is no way was there's an actual Avenger in your apartment right now.

You’re frozen, just like him, but more in shock rather than fear.

“Do you… usually go by James?” you ask cautiously.

Hesitating, he shakes his head.

“What do you usually go by then?”

Bucky feels anxiety creeping up his back. You’re both still holding the record, and he can’t tell if you’re scared or just surprised.

“Bucky.”

You stay silent for a moment while Bucky’s nerves are on edge.

“So… metal hand…”

Clenching his jaw, he replies, “Arm.”

“You’re that Bucky.”

“Yes.”

After a long pause, you start again.

“You’re an Avenger and you didn’t tell me?”

Bucky hesitates, his discomfort visible. “I’m— I’m not an Avenger.”

“What do you mean? You’re totally an Avenger! Why wouldn’t you tell me? How did I not recognize you before?” you ask, laughing in disbelief.

Bucky’s taken aback. You really thought he was an Avenger? You’re not scared of him at all, which surprises him. You must not know much about his past if you’re still standing this close.

“No wonder you don’t know ‘New York, New York,’” you say, almost to yourself. “It’s from after your time! This is crazy, I—”

You’re interrupted by his response.

“Are you not scared?”

“Of course not.”

Bucky closes in on himself, panic evident. “If you really knew me, you’d want nothing to do with me. I’ve—”

“I might not know the version of you you’re talking about, but I’ve met James, who helped me not once, but twice  carry stuff he definitely didn’t have to up the stairs, stayed for dinner, has been very polite to me, and has given me zero reasons to be scared of him.”

He looks at you, his piercing blue eyes revealing an internal struggle. That one look holds more weight than his words. You can see the battle within him, torn between his past and the present moment.

“Listen,” you say, finally letting go of the record, “if you don’t want to stay, you don’t have to. But I’m not scared of you, and I actually like your company. So, regardless of whether you’re James, Bucky, or whoever, you’re still welcome here.”

You pause, adding, “And we can still play this if you’d like.”

Bucky struggles with his inner turmoil. The idea that you know who he is but still want him around is foreign to him. He doesn’t feel worthy of the kindness you’re offering, but it’s been so long since he’s received such warmth that it’s almost impossible to turn it down.

He’s not comfortable with his identity or his past, but in this moment, he wants to push it aside. If you don’t care, maybe he can allow himself not to care, even if just for a bit. Maybe he can prove something to himself, or even his therapist.

Handing you the record, he relaxes his face slightly. You’ve always thought him handsome, but in the dim light of the dark room, he looks almost ethereal.

You’re hoping he believes you because your excitement for his company tonight feels more significant than it probably should, but you’re okay with that.

“I’m Bucky.”

You smile warmly at this change. “Alright, Bucky. What do you want to do?”

He gazes at you deeply, his look sending a shiver down your spine and warming your chest. “Play it.”

a/n: well, hope this was alright. as I mentioned before, ive never wrote fiction before, but ive definitely read enough to get the gist.

[sluttywonwoo]

aemulus. (noun) latin for rival or competitor. thought to be the origin of the name emily.

park seonghwa is in no position to ask you for a favor. but being underqualified for something has never stopped him before.

pairing: academic rival!seonghwa x fem!reader

details: grad school/nursing school au, fake dating

word count: 8.1k

warnings: swearing, food allergy, smut (18+ mdni), oral (f receiving), multiple orgasms, unprotected sex, discussion of birth control methods

a/n: for @sluttywoozi's birthday <3 (just a month and a half late)

playlist

“I need a favor.”

“From me?”

Seonghwa tongues his cheek and looks around. “Is there anyone else in the room?”

You scoff. You aren’t friends with Park Seonghwa. You don’t even particularly like Park Seonghwa. You know the feeling’s mutual so why was he asking you for a favor?

“If you want something from me you should try being a little nicer,” you mutter, turning your attention back to the textbook on the desk in front of you. 

You hear Seonghwa sigh beside you before he tries again. “Sorry, yes, I need a favor from you. I need a date to this event Dr. Harvey is hosting for all of his graduate mentees next weekend.”

Date? You? Your face must be scrunched up into an expression of confusion and concern because Seonghwa puts his hand out to stop you before you interject. 

“Yes, it has to be you. I-I’m trying to secure a position on his research team next semester and I need an extra edge.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And I’m the extra edge?”

“Exactly! Dr. Harvey loves you. If I show up with you on my arm, the spot is mine for sure.”

“You really think it’ll be that easy? I haven’t taken one of Dr. Harvey’s classes since undergrad.”

You’re not even a student in Seonghwa’s program, the one Dr. Harvey was the head of. There just happened to be some overlap between your field of study and his that required you to take some of the same courses. 

“But you were his TA last semester, and you’re the top student in the department, after me-” you have to fight the urge to roll your eyes, “he brings you up in almost every meeting we have,” he continues, sounding more than a little annoyed, “when we’re supposed to be talking about my dissertation.”

Despite the non-case Seonghwa was making on his behalf, you couldn’t help but feel a little curious. “He does? What does he say?’

“Usually, it’s little comments about how you would do something differently, which is not-so-subtle code for better. If you ever decide to write a dissertation on microbiology, let him know. I’m sure he’d love to be your mentor-” Seonghwa stops himself there, taking a deep breath as if to physically shake the bitterness from his demeanor. “Sorry. The point is that he thinks very highly of you and it would really help me out if you were my plus-one to this thing.”

“And what exactly does ‘this thing’ entail?”

“It’s a little appreciation banquet for all of the students he’s mentoring. He said it’s at this hotel, I think it’s downtown, and it’s a dinner and drinks in the evening and a brunch the next morning-”

“Wait, it’s overnight?” You hadn’t meant or intended to interrupt him but the prospect of spending the night in the same room with Park Seonghwa was enough to make you panic and forget your manners. 

Seonghwa looks annoyed that you cut him off but holds himself back from responding with something snippy. Instead, he lets it go. Unheard of for him.

“Yes, but it’s just one night.”

“One night?” He nods. “And I just have to show up with you?”

“Well, you’d pretend to be my girlfriend. ”

Right. That had sort of been implied when he asked but you were hoping that wasn’t the case. It honestly sounded like a nightmare, but the idea of having something to hold over Seonghwa’s head was tempting. 

Doing him the favor was one thing. The execution of said favor was another. Were you going to be able to put on a believable act as Seonghwa’s girlfriend? It certainly wasn’t going to come naturally to you... but you were friends with a bunch of theatre kids. You could pull it off. Probably. 

“Okay, well, what’s in it for me?” you ask.

He blinks, clearly caught off guard by your question like he hadn’t expected to get this far. 

“What do you want?”

Oh fuck. You scramble to think of something worthwhile that he could be of use for, coming up short in pretty much all aspects.

“My dad’s getting married in a couple of months. Our little duet can have an encore then.”

Seonghwa grins and offers his hand for you to shake. “Send me the details. Pleasure doing business.”

-

It isn’t until Seonghwa’s already left the classroom that he realizes he doesn’t even have your number. He’s known you for years now but has never had to contact you outside of the context of school. Never had reason to. He could turn around right now and go back and ask for your phone number. You’re still in there. 

He lets his pride get the better of him, and with a quiet groan, he shoves his hands in his pockets and keeps walking. He’ll just email you later to ask for it. 

-

You iron out the details over text, once Seonghwa finally gets your number. You had made fun of him in your reply email for forgetting to get it back when he begged you to come with him in the first place, which only reassured Seonghwa that he had made the right choice that day. It would’ve been way more embarrassing to have you say that to his face. 

He asks you to meet him at a cafe the day before the event so you can iron out your story together. You look nervous, he notes, so he tries to break the ice. 

“Thank you for agreeing to meet here. I would’ve had you over to my place, but my roommates are kind of obnoxious.”

“That’s okay. Thanks for the coffee.” You gesture with your cup, shaking the ice around before taking a tentative sip. 

“Least I could do, considering.”

You shrug. “You’re already repaying me by going to my dad’s wedding with me, but I’m not one to turn down free coffee.”

“Fair enough.” He clears his throat. “So, how’d we fall in love?”

-

Seonghwa picks you up at five pm on Saturday. He makes some comment about you looking nice that you don’t really believe he means, but you return the compliment anyway. He does look good. Annoyingly so. He had told you it was a formal event but you hadn’t expected him to show up in a fucking three-piece suit. 

His hair is slicked back on the side to show off his undercut, and wire-rimmed glasses sit on the bridge of his nose, the reflection of traffic lights and street lamps shining in the lenses. It’s a little intimidating to be on his arm for the night when he looks like that, not that you didn’t also dress for the occasion, he just... looks so sharp. 

“Do you have everything you need?” he asks as you climb into the passenger seat. “Pajamas? Toothbrush?”

“I think so.”

“If you forget something we can probably grab it at the kiosk they have in the lobby,” he assures you.

You groan. “Yeah, but we’ll have to pay a small fortune for it.”

“That’s the price of convenience.” He puts the car in drive and navigates out of your apartment complex’s parking lot onto the main road. “You can pick the music,” he offers after a moment of silence. 

“But you’re the one driving.”

“Is that a rule?”

“Yeah, the driver picks the music. Have you never heard of that before?”

He shakes his head but hums thoughtfully. “No, but I don��t mind. I’m not picky.”

“Shocking,” you mutter under your breath. 

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

You plug the aux into the lightning port on your phone and scroll through your playlist until you land on something you deem to be neutral enough to play in the background. You can feel Seonghwa watching you out of the corner of his eye but you willfully ignore it. 

“Do you remember the story?”

You nod. “We only got together officially a couple of months ago. You asked me out by waiting outside the door of one of my classes last semester-”

“Which class?”

“Um...” you frowned, trying to remember. 

“It was pharmacology.”

“Right. Sorry.”

“Just be sure to remember that.”

“I don’t think anyone is going to be interrogating us about our relationship,” you scoff. 

Seonghwa takes a deep breath. “You’re right, I’m sorry. This is just important to me and it needs to be believable. If anyone were to find out that I tried to pull this shit off just to get on Harvey’s good side... I don’t even know what would happen to me. Like, would I get expelled? I definitely wouldn’t get the position, I-”

“Woah,” you cut him off before he can spiral any further, “we... don’t have to do this. You can drop me off back at my apartment and pretend like it never happened. I won’t make you go to the wedding...”

“No, no I need you,” Seonghwa insists, panicked. “It just... didn’t occur to me how stupid this idea was until now.”

“If you think it’s a bad idea we shouldn’t do it,” you reason.

“It is a bad idea,” he agrees, “but I don’t know what else to do. Jung Wooyoung is vying for the same spot and he’s way more likable than me.”

“That’s not true, he’s just more of a kiss-ass.”

“Same thing. Either way, I already told them I was bringing a plus-one so I can’t show up without you.”

You nod, holding back from suggesting other alternatives. Seonghwa seemed resolute on going through with it and it wouldn’t do any good to try and convince him otherwise. He was like you in that way. Stubborn to a fault. Trying to “fix” the problem would only start an argument and that was the last thing you needed right now. So you let it go, and it only killed you on the inside a little bit. 

-

Seonghwa checks into your room as soon as you get to the hotel. Since it’s late in the afternoon, it’s already ready, and you go up to drop off your things before navigating to the ballroom together. 

You try to ignore the single king-size bed in the middle of the room but it’s like it’s glaring right at you, taunting you in the reflection of the vanity mirror as you reapply your lipgloss. If Seonghwa notices your apprehension about it he doesn’t say anything. 

“We don’t have to go over the top,” Seonghwa reminds you in the elevator. “You don’t have to kiss me or be super touchy if you don’t want to. Some hand holding and familiarity should do it.”

“Are you sure?” 

He smirks at you. “I mean, if you want to kiss me, you’re more than welcome to. But it wasn’t part of our agreement.”

You stare at him. He had never said anything like that to you before. It felt like it had come out of nowhere. The smirk falls when he sees your reaction and he side steps away from you, clearing his throat awkwardly. 

“Sorry, I was, uh, I was kidding. It was, I wasn’t-”

The elevator dings to signal its arrival on the first floor before Seonghwa can finish whatever excuse he was stuttering through. He motions for you to exit first, putting his arm in front of the door to keep it from closing. When you turn back to look at him, he’s all calm and collected again like nothing even happened. The only evidence of ruffled feathers was the pressed set of his lips and the pink tinge of his cheeks. 

“Ready?” he asks, straightening his tie. 

“As I’ll ever be.”

He offers his hand to you and you take it, entwining your fingers with his. His thumb finds the back of your hand and draws absentminded circles. You’re not sure if it’s supposed to be comforting but it is. 

There are already a few people mingling when you and Seonghwa make it to the ballroom. You don’t recognize any of them but that was to be expected. Seonghwa had said that it was an intimate event, just Dr. Harvey, his mentees, and their potential plus-ones. Not everyone is here yet from what you can tell. You can’t hear Jung Wooyoung’s loud voice echoing throughout the hall so you figure he must be one of the late ones. 

The way the room is decorated reminds you a bit of Christmas with the opulent chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and the ivy garlands laid across the tables. All that's missing are the trees wrapped in lights and potted poinsettias in every corner.

Dr. Harvey is in the middle of a conversation with a couple of other students when he spots the two of you. He excuses himself and approaches you with a smile. 

“I’m glad that you both could make it!” he says, greeting you with a hug. 

He hugs your fake boyfriend next and claps him firmly on the back. Seonghwa coughs at the unexpected hit but plays it off easily with a chuckle. 

“When Park told me he was bringing you, I thought he was kidding. I couldn’t believe he finally got the guts to ask you out.”

Seonghwa stiffens next to you but keeps the smile plastered on his face. You, on the other hand, can’t mask your surprise. 

“What do you mean?” you press. 

“Oh, just that I sort of wondered if you kids would get together,” he explains. “You used to argue in my class all the time as undergraduates, but whenever we had group activities you would pair up anyway.”

“That’s because we didn’t trust anyone else with the work,” Seonghwa points out. 

You squeeze his hand urgently, trying to tell him to shut the fuck up before he ruins his chances with his big mouth. Thankfully, he seems to get the message and relaxes a little but you can tell he still wants to protest.   

“You didn’t even trust each other with the work,” the professor corrects. “You would bicker about every little thing under your breath when you thought I couldn’t hear even though you always sat in the front of the classroom.”

“I guess we are a little competitive,” you admit with a grin, looking up at Seonghwa with what you hope comes across as affection. 

“That’s an understatement, my love,” he agrees.

“Well, it’s nice to see that you’ve been able to turn that energy into something positive,” Dr. Harvey says. “What changed?”

“Well, we’d been seeing each other for a while and finally decided to make it official,” Seonghwa muses. 

And by ‘seeing each other’ he meant fucking. When you decided on your story that day in the cafe, Seonghwa had said it would make the most sense if your fake relationship budded from a friends-with-benefits thing- or acquaintances with benefits, whatever the two of you were. But of course, you couldn’t tell your professor that so you had to more so imply it by talking around the subject.

“Well, I hope that you being together means I’ll get to see more of your face. Park, you need to bring your girlfriend around the department some time. I’m sure the other faculty miss you too.”

Seonghwa nods. “I’ll be sure to do that, sir.”

“Great! I think some more people are starting to trickle in so I should go say hello, but please help yourselves to drinks while we wait for dinner.”

You both thank him and wait before saying anything else to each other. 

“I think that went okay,” Seonghwa sighs.

“Could’ve been worse,” you agree. 

He takes a quick look around before turning back to you. “Do you want something to drink, baby?”

“God, yes.”

At the bar, Seonghwa orders you both a glass of wine. It’s an open bar but there’s a little fish bowl for tips balanced on the edge of the counter so he deposits a couple of bills in it as he thanks the bartender.

He holds one of the glasses out to you with a half-smile. “Cheers.”

“To getting through the night,” you propose. 

“To getting through the night.”

-

Dinner is a choice between a chicken pasta dish, a beef and potatoes dish, and ratatouille that could be made vegan upon request. 

“Does the pesto have pine nuts in it?” Seonghwa asks the server when he reaches your end of the table.

“No, all of our options tonight are nut-free,” he replies. 

“Perfect, thank you. Did you want the pasta, then, baby?” 

“I- yes please.”

“And I’ll get the beef and we can share.”

“Sounds good,” the server says as he jots down your orders on his little notepad. 

You wait until he moves on to the next guest before leaning over to your date and whispering “I can’t believe you remembered.”

“Hm?”

“You remembered... I’m allergic to tree nuts.”

He shrugs like it’s no big deal and murmurs, “you almost dying in the middle of chem lab our freshman year is pretty hard to forget.”

He had a point. Still, you were surprised he remembered the girl that collapsed to the floor and had to be stabbed in the thigh with an EpiPen all those years ago as you. You’re not sure if you’d remember the details so clearly if it were the other way around. 

All of the dishes were pre-prepared by the hotel’s event catering staff so they were served almost immediately after the orders were taken. 

Dr. Harvey led the conversation, engaging each of his students about their studies and personal lives. He was even sure to include the plus ones at the table, making an effort to get to know them as well. That was why Dr. Harvey had been one of your favorite professors, why you’d agreed to TA for him when he asked. He genuinely cared about his students, wanted them to succeed and was willing to go the extra mile to help them do so. You still remember crying in his office over a failed lab report, remember how he had patiently walked you through what you’d done wrong until it finally clicked for you, how he ended up giving you half of the credit you missed back just for following up and showing how dedicated you were to learning the material.

Even now as he listens to his mentees talk about everything under the sun, he doesn’t want anyone to feel left out. 

A hand on your thigh startles you out of your zoning out. You had been trying your best to pay attention but it’s just so hard to stay attentive when Wooyoung opens his mouth. He’s been talking about algae for what you estimate to be the past twelve minutes- so in your defense, you never stood a chance anyway.

“Do you want another glass of wine?” Seonghwa asks, low enough for only you to hear.

You hadn’t even realized you’d finished your first one. It had probably happened sometime in the middle of Wooyung’s rambling. 

“Yes please.”

“Okay, be right back.”

He stands from the table and takes both yours and his empty glasses in one hand, using the other to push his chair back in. Thankfully, he’s back before you can be cornered by the others at the table. You can feel it, the curiosity your presence invokes from your peers. You only recognize a few of them but all of the sideways glances make you wonder how many of them suspect why you’re really here. Maybe you’re being paranoid. Maybe they’re just surprised Seonghwa managed to pull anyone at all... no, that couldn’t be it. He’s too hot, his personality alone wouldn’t be enough to deter anyone from going out with him. 

“What’s wrong?”

You take a sip from your newly refilled glass of wine and try to play it off. “Hm? What do you mean?”

“You’re making a face.”

“What face? This is just my face.”

“No, you’ve got that wrinkle in between your eyebrows. You’re worrying about something. What is it?”

You sigh and lean over to whisper in his ear. “I feel like your... friends think it’s weird that I’m here.”

“These people aren’t my friends.”

“I know. I didn’t know what else to call them- is that really the part of what I said that you think is important?”

“Why do you think they think it’s weird?”

“I don’t know, I just keep noticing everyone looking at me.”

“It’s probably because you’re pretty,” he suggests, which makes you want to change the subject entirely. 

He thinks you’re pretty? Does he think you’re pretty or does he think other people think you’re pretty? What would possess him to say something like that?

“That- no, it’s not that.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because I know what a dirty look is and I’ve been getting a lot of them. Do you think they’re onto us?”

Seonghwa makes a displeased sound in the back of his throat. “I don’t know. Maybe I underestimated the number of people applying for the same position as me.”

“Maybe, and maybe they know we haven’t always gotten along and are suspicious of why this is the first they’re hearing of us dating.”

“I guess we need to turn it up, then,” Seonghwa muses under his breath. 

“Wha- that’s not what I-”

-

After dinner, there’s a bit of mingling. You get the opportunity to formally introduce yourself to the guests you’ve never met before and answer the burning question on everyone’s mind as to why you’re there in the first place. 

Seonghwa’s hand is warm on the small of your back, making you wish you had decided against wearing a backless dress. Although, you suspect you still would have been able to feel the heat of his palm through the silk had it offered more coverage. 

“Didn’t think you had it in you, Park,” Hongjoong, you thought his name was, says as he wraps an arm around his own date. In her heels, she’s taller than him by an inch or so, and somehow it only makes the man more intimidating. “Thought you were too busy for dating, or was that just an excuse?”

“I am busy. But when you meet the right person, you make time. You of all people should know that.”

Hongjoong narrows his eyes almost imperceptibly and grins. “You’re right, we’re all fools for love, aren’t we?”

“It certainly seems that way.”

Seonghwa and Hongjoong continue exchanging semi-polite small talk until the latter’s date tugs him away, mumbling something about needing another drink. 

“I didn’t realize you were so popular,” you say under your breath once the two are out of earshot.

“Yeah, you’re not the only one who hates me,” he mutters. 

“And here I thought we had something special.”

Seonghwa gives you a half-smile. “Sorry to break it to you like this.”

“For what it’s worth, I don’t hate you,” you clarify, voice lowered. 

He can’t hide his surprise as his eyes widen. “Wait, really?”

You nod. “I wouldn’t lie about something like that.”

He straightens up a bit, stiffening, and you wonder if you’ve said something wrong. “Good to know.”

You each have another drink before the night ends. Champagne is served with dessert and Dr. Harvey proposes a toast to all of his students once everyone’s gathered around the table again. 

You clink your glass to Seonghwa’s and take a sip. The bubbles soothe your throat, making the lies you’ve been telling all night easier to swallow. 

You’re not drunk, you haven’t had that much to drink, but the alcohol is definitely making you feel lighter. People have started filtering out of the ballroom to go to their rooms but a few linger a little longer, taking advantage of the free booze and relaxed atmosphere. Your professor flits between the remaining students, continuing conversations that had been cut short during or before dinner. 

Soft music is playing over the speakers and a few couples are dancing to it. Seonghwa hadn’t said anything about dancing, it probably wasn’t on the actual itinerary, but he draws you out to the floor without warning. You want to protest but his hands are already on your hips and your chest is already pressed to his. You don’t think you’ve ever been this close to him, save bumping into each other in labs and accidentally spilling samples down your coats. Based on the number of times that had happened, you don’t expect Seonghwa to be particularly graceful. But he seems intent on proving you wrong as he leads you to the rhythm. 

“I didn’t know you could dance,” you murmur. 

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” he quips back. 

You quirk an eyebrow. “Yeah? Like what?” 

He seems to think about it for a moment before answering. “I love Star Wars.”

“I already knew that.”

“What?”

“You used to bring a Darth Vader thermos to class. The lid was his helmet.”

“Legos?”

“Lego guy keychain.”

“Animal Crossing?”

“You’d literally play it in class.”

Seonghwa smirks. “Wow.”

“What?”

“I just didn’t realize you were obsessed with me.”

“Wha- I’m not obsessed with you!” you sputter. “I’m just very observant! And you make your interests too obvious.”

“Sure, whatever you say,” he teases, making you roll your eyes. 

He spins you before you get the chance to argue again, extending his arm all the way and then whipping it back so that you’re stumbling into his embrace. 

“My turn, then?” he asks. 

You feel your face scrunch up in confusion before you can stop it. “What do you mean?”

“Your favorite color is pink,” he whispers, as if it’s some kind of secret. “You love The Lord of the Rings. You quote it all the time. You like to cook. You always brought your leftovers for lunch and everyone would ask how you made whatever it was because it smelled so good.”

You’re staring at him now, lips slightly parted in surprise. His gaze flickers down to them and then back up. He smiles. 

“You’re not the only observant one.”

A song is still playing but you’ve stopped dancing. It’s like you’re standing in the eye of a storm, surrounded by music and conversation that blurs and distorts around you. It all sounds muffled, but that might just be the ringing in your ears. You realize what’s about to happen a moment before it does but you’re still unprepared when Seonghwa kisses you. 

His lips are softer than you expected, not that you’ve imagined kissing him before... not that you ever wondered. His arms are still around your waist and he pulls you in closer, deepening the kiss. 

You’re stiff at first, unsure of what to do with your arms or your own lips, but you relax when you feel his tongue swipe at your bottom lip. He makes a contented sort of sound in the back of his throat when you open your mouth for him. It’s just slightly, just enough for him to get a taste, but he seems pleased nonetheless. 

Distant cheering in the background startles the both of you out of your daze, pops the little bubble you’d somehow found yourselves in. It’s then that you remember that you’re in public, and that you probably shouldn’t be sucking each other's faces off in the middle of this very nice ballroom in front of your peers. 

You part, both a little breathless. 

“I hope that was okay,” Seonghwa whispers against your cheek. 

“It was, yeah. It was okay. More than okay.”

“Good. I’m glad.” He grins, the upturn of his cheeks pushing his specs higher on his nose, making glimmers of light from the chandelier dance in the reflection of the glass like stars falling from the sky. One of his hands strays from your waist to take your own.  “Wanna get out of here?”

You’re nodding before your brain can fully process the question. “Yes please.” 

-

The journey back up to your room is a blur. You vaguely register bidding Hongjoong, Dr. Harvey, and a couple of other people whose names had long since slipped your mind goodnight. You’re not sure what you said, Seonghwa probably took the lead. 

Your cheeks are warm with embarrassment as you make your way out of the hall hand in hand. You feel like everyone knows what you’re about to do. And with a kiss like that in a crowded room, it wouldn’t be hard to figure out.

But did it really matter if they knew you were about to get your back blown out? It would only help sell the story to them even more. At least, that’s what you’re telling yourself, still not ready to admit that you’re not playing pretend anymore. 

The clicking of your heels on the marble sounds entirely too loud as you walk through the lobby to the elevator bay. The lights have been dimmed for the night, emulating the darkness outside. Only a few employees remain behind the desks, stationed for any late check-ins. The rest had surely clocked out hours ago when the rush ended.

“Do you have a key?” Seonghwa asks you, eyeing the purse you’d somehow remembered to grab on your way out. 

You did, but, “there’s one in your pocket.”

His hand comes to the front of his pants, feeling for the plastic card. “Right. Sorry.”

He uses the key to activate the elevator and then he uses it again to open the door to your room. The ride up had been silent, and a little awkward, both of you standing on opposite sides of the tiny room, avoiding eye contact.  

You wonder if the energy has shifted, if the moment has passed. Had he suddenly come to his senses? Was he already regretting kissing you? 

You don’t get the chance to ask either of these things, however, because he’s kissing you again as soon as you stumble into the room. It’s dark, so everything is a little uncoordinated, but it almost seems fitting for you and Seonghwa. 

He presses you up against the door, fingers fumbling with the ties on the back of your dress. It’s hard for him to undo them when he can’t see what he’s doing, too occupied with kissing his way down your neck. 

“Fuck this,” he gasps, breaking away. “Lift up your arms.”

You do, gasping as Seonghwa tugs the silk up and over your head. It’s the kind of dress you can’t wear a bra with so you’re left completely bare from the waist up. 

“Fuck me,” he breathes, running his hands over your body. 

“I’m trying.”

A beat lapses before Seonghwa lets out a quiet chuckle. You’re the one to pull him back this time, tugging at his suit jacket as you kiss him in an attempt to get it off his shoulders. 

“Let me, um,” he mumbles against your lips, feeling along the wall of the little hallway you’re standing in for something. “Let me turn on a lamp or something. I want to see you.”

The comment makes you feel shy but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t want to see him too so you let him go and only laugh a little bit when he trips over his suitcase on the way over to the desk.

“Oh, would you rather have it off?” he asks, noticing the way you’re holding your arms over your chest. 

“No, no, I want to see you too,” you assure him. “I just feel kind of weird being the only one naked.”

“Well that’s an easy fix.”

He makes his way back over to you, loosening his tie as he does. He leaves it hanging around his neck so that you can take it off for him. The satin feels heavy in your hands and you wonder briefly how it would feel tied around your wrists- another time, maybe. 

Seonghwa focuses on unbuttoning his shirt while you lift the tie over his head, hands brushing together as you work in tandem. 

You reach for his belt but he ducks out of your grasp with a grin, shrugging off the button up as he sinks down onto his knees in front of you. You barely register the feeling of his hands on your thighs. You’re too caught up with the way he’s looking up at you. He’s taken his glasses off, though you don’t know when- or where he’s put them for that matter, and is gazing up at you like painted the cosmos themselves. Like he fully intends on worshiping you. 

Park Seonghwa on his knees. What a sight. 

“Can I?” he asks, fingers gently wedging themselves in between your legs to part them. “Please?”

You nod. 

“I need you to say it.”

“You can,” you whisper. 

“I can... what?” Seonghwa presses. “I haven’t even said what it is I want to do to you.”

He’s taunting you now. It’s obvious what he meant when he asked you but he just loves pushing your buttons too much to stop, even when he’s on the verge of begging to taste your pussy. 

“You can do whatever you want to me,” you breathe. 

“Fuck.”

You nearly lose your balance as Seonghwa lifts one of your legs over his shoulder but he plants both of his hands on your ass and pulls you onto his face before that can happen. He groans at the first taste of you, even though it’s over your panties. You’re not sure whether he meant to leave them on to be even more of a tease or if he had just simply forgotten to take them off in the rush to get you on his tongue. 

They’re the seamless kind, the kind that aren’t supposed to show through thin material. You’d chosen to wear them with your dress instead of suffering through the discomfort of a thong all night. The comfort was a benefit. The sheerness was a drawback. You might as well not be wearing anything with how form fitting they were, especially considering how wet you already are.

Your hands are in Seonghwa’s hair and you’re trying not to pull too hard but you have to anchor yourself to something or you’re afraid your knees will buckle. 

“That’s it,” he praises, nose nudging your clit as he licks into you. It’s muffled but you can still make it out, if just barely. “Harder, baby.”

“Are you s-sure?”

He nods and the motion makes you want to cry out. “I won’t break. Promise.”

You decide to trust his word and tug a little harder. He moans and rewards you by pushing his tongue inside of you. He can only go so far with the fabric of your underwear restricting him but it’s enough to get you to whimper his name. 

-

God, you sound so pretty, it’s almost too much for Seonghwa to handle. You taste just as good as he’d always imagined, better even, and he’s losing all sense of control because of it. He can tell he’s making you feel good but this won’t be enough to get you to cum, at least, not as hard as he wants you to before he fucks you... if that’s where the night ends up going. He would be more than happy to have you cum on his tongue, kiss you goodnight, and then fall asleep beside you if that’s what you wanted.   

He manages to get your panties out of the way and to the side with his teeth before diving back in and sucking your clit into his mouth. You make a little surprised sound and melt into him even more. 

He wants to get his fingers inside of you too, but it would be difficult with the way the two of you are positioned so he pulls back and jerks his head in the direction of the bed. You help him to his feet and pull him in for a kiss, moaning at the way you taste on his lips. 

Seonghwa didn’t think it was possible for him to get any harder than he already is but you’re always going and proving him wrong. 

You release him after another moment and fall back onto the mattress, calling to him like a siren. You don’t actually say anything, but you don’t have to. The sight of you on the bed you’ll share with your legs spread and your thighs still glistening with your arousal and his saliva is all it’d take for Seonghwa to throw himself into the sea and drown in you. 

He takes off his slacks finally, just to give himself a bit of relief, and joins you on the bed as fast as humanly possible.

“Can I take these off?” he asks, running his fingers over the soaked patch of your underwear. 

“Please,” you laugh. 

You lift your hips so that he can pull them off of you and then he’s back in between your legs with your thighs clamped around his head so tightly he can’t hear anything aside from your desperate pleas for him not to stop. 

He doesn’t even realize he’s been grinding into the mattress until you’re cumming on his tongue and it takes everything in him to hold back from falling over the edge with you. 

“Hwa...” 

Your voice is so distant he doesn’t hear it until you repeat it. The nickname makes his heart do a little somersault. You’ve never called him that before. It makes him want to smile like an idiot and not fight so hard to suppress those pesky feelings he’s been harboring for you for God knows how long. He wants to kiss you all over and make love to you and give you a little house on his Animal Crossing island even though he’d have to rearrange the entire layout. He actually brought his switch with him, it’s in his bag and he could go get it right now and-

“Hwa!”

Fuck. Right. He pushes the aforementioned feelings down again, clears his throat, and plays it cool. “Hm? What’s up?” His voice cracks on the ‘up’ because of course it does. So much for playing it cool. 

“Can you fuck me, please?” 

He feels like he could fall through the floor. How the fuck could you sound so polite asking to get your back blown out like that? His dick twitches against his thigh and Seonghwa has to take a deep breath to steel himself before answering. 

“You sure you want to keep going? You want this?”

“God, yes,” you whine, leaning forward to try and pull him on top of you. “Are you going to make me beg for it?”

Tempting, but, “no, it’s just... I have to tell you something.”

Jesus, was he really doing this now? It felt like the worst possible moment to bring it up but he wouldn’t be able to forgive himself if he slept with you without coming clean. He’d already gone further than he probably should have, judgment clouded by lust and alcohol and the lingering scent of your perfume on your neck. 

You face falls, making Seonghwa realize he definitely should have worded it differently. 

“It’s not anything bad! I don’t think...”

“Just tell me,” you say flatly. 

“Um, remember in the car earlier today when we were going through our story, and you couldn’t remember what class I asked you out after?”

“And you yelled at me about it?”

“I didn’t yell at you-” he pauses, and squeezes his eyes shut. This was why he kept going back and forth over what he was about to say, why he was hesitating even now. “I reacted the way I did because... I actually was going to ask you out that night after your pharmacology class got out.”

“What?”

“I was there, waiting outside and I-I chickened out.”

You blink in disbelief. “You don’t... hate me?”

“Hate you? I never hated you!” You give him a look. “There was a bit of... animosity between us, but it was never hate! At least, not for me! Did you hate me?”

It’s your turn to feel exposed. That’s what Seonghwa thinks you feel anyway, from the look on your face. 

“No... I already told you I didn't! It was... what you described.”

Seonghwa narrows his eyes at you. “I don’t believe you.”

“I mean, like you said, it wasn’t hate. I just didn’t particularly like you. And I thought that was a mutual thing.”

“It was!” he agrees quickly. A little too quickly, maybe. “It was. For a while. And then it wasn’t. But I never said anything about it because I kept thinking it was just a phase I was going through. I thought I’d get over it and you’d never have to know.”

“But that never happened?” He shakes his head. “But you built up the courage to show up and ask me out that day. You had to have accepted it then.”

He sighs and rolls onto his back. “I guess I did, but like I said, I was a coward. When I peeked through the window on the door, I saw you laughing and joking around with your friends and I just thought about how it’s never been like that with us. And I thought it’d never work out because we’re... us. We bicker all of the time. We’re always competing. That didn’t magically go away when I realized I had feelings for you. So I thought you deserved someone who you’d actually get along with.” 

“Well, that should have been up to me to decide,” you say. 

“I know,” Seonghwa admits with a groan. Then, he bolts upright. “Wait, would you have said yes?”

“Probably.”

“What do you mean probably?”

“I mean, I would’ve liked to see where it went. I’ve always thought you were attractive.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, it’s one of the things about you that annoyed me.” Seonghwa scoffs. “Just being honest.”

“Well, if I’m being honest,” he counters, propping himself up on his elbow. “I kind of like it when we bicker.”

“Don’t tell me it turns you on.”

“Only sometimes.”

You roll your eyes at him. “You’re sick.”

He shrugs. “It’s only because you’re so hot when you’re mad at me.”

“You must be really horny right now, then,” you mutter. 

“You’re mad at me?” 

“Yes, I’m mad at you! You’ve been keeping your little crush on me a secret all this time! And you chose now to tell me?”

“I know, I’m sorry. I have the worst timing.”

“Understatement of the year.”

Seonghwa figures he deserves that one so he lets it slide even though it chips at his pride. “Wait, so... what does that make us? If we feel the same way, shouldn’t we give it a real shot?”

You groan, putting your hands over your face. “Can we talk about it after you fuck me stupid? I’m still so wet I can’t think about anything else.”

“Oh yeah, right.” He sits up and rolls back on top of you, caging you in. He presses his thigh between your legs so that you can grind on it as he kisses you again. “Are you sure arguing with me doesn’t make you horny?” he teases. “Can feel you throbbing against me, baby.”

“I’m horny because you’re hot and your dick is hard.” 

And because you like him, Seonghwa thinks giddily. 

“We can talk about it later, then,” he surrenders, reaching down to pump himself a few times. “As long as you’ll say you’re mine.”

You tilt your head to the side as you process his request. “Yours?”

“Mine.”

“You want me to be yours?”

“If that’s something you want.”

“It is something I want.”

“Then say it.”

“I’m yours.”

“Fuck,” Seonghwa hisses, grinding against you. He’s not even inside of you yet and he feels like he could explode.

“Please, Hwa,” you whisper and reach down to line him up yourself.

“Wait fuck, I don’t have a condom.”

“I have an IUD. It’s okay,” you assure him.

“Are you sure?”

“As long as you’re clean.”

“I am, I haven’t been with anyone since last year, and I’ve been tested.”

“Me too.”

“Then we’re good?” he asks. 

“We’re good.”

“Perfect. Deep breath, baby.”

Seonghwa’s arms threaten to give out the instant he begins to push himself inside of you. He should have been the one to take a deep breath. He already knows how you taste so he really should have been more prepared for how good you would feel but then again Seonghwa had always been a bit Icarian in nature so his overly ambitious attitude is pretty par for the course in light of everything. 

“Hold on, just... just give me a second,” he stutters.

He swears you clench around him purposefully, playing it off with a meek “sorry, it was an accident” when he glares at you. He wouldn’t put it past you to turn this into a competition too, but he wants to remember your first time together as something special. He wants to be in the moment with you, wants to make you cum over and over and over on his cock until you can’t say anything but his name. He wants to make tonight all about you. He wants to make every night about you, but he’ll have to start with tonight. 

“Are you okay?” you ask him, voice so sweet he almost has to pull out so he doesn’t end what’s barely started. 

“You feel too good,” he admits, dropping his head into the crook of your shoulder. 

“If you cum now, we can just go again, right?”

Right. He forgot about that. He needs to stop thinking with his dick. 

“Yeah, right. Right.”

“Fucked out already?” you tease, brushing his hair out of his eyes. 

“It’s you,” he pants weakly. “How can I not be?”

You open your mouth, probably about to say something smart in reply but he rolls his hips just as you do, pushing himself deeper inside of you. The words seem to dissolve on your tongue, your mouth falling open in a moan instead.

“What was that, baby?” he asks, moving even faster now.

You answer in mumbled nonsense. Seonghwa smirks down at you and leans forward to kiss the point where your neck meets your collarbone. He thinks about what a hickey would look like there, what kind of attention it would draw from everyone tomorrow morning. 

He can’t dwell on it for too long, though, because you’re yanking him back up by his hair, warning him that you’re about to cum.

“Already?”

“It’s you,” you repeat his own words back to him, and he feels his own stomach tense up in anticipation. “You and your perfect dick.”

Okay, so, less romantic than his sentiment but the structure was still there. It made him feel warm inside nonetheless. 

“Can I cum, please? Please?”

“Do you think you can be quiet? We don’t want a noise complaint, remember?” 

“I c-can be quiet.”

You’re lying through your teeth and Seonghwa can tell, he’s known you for so long now that he;’s memorized all of your tells. But he’s right there on the edge too and he wants nothing more than to cum with you.

“I’m close too, baby. Shit, can I cum inside you? Please?”

“God, yes- please, give it to me...”

He kisses you as he cums, managing to swallow some of your moans and cries of his name as you cum even harder than you did the first time. He’s sensitive by the time you finally come down from it but he doesn’t pull out. 

“Can we lay like this for a second?”

You nod easily, letting out a soft laugh when Seonghwa drops his weight on top of you. “I don’t think I can move anyway.”

“Not with that attitude, you can’t.”

“Oh my god, get off of me.”

“Sorry, what was that? Couldn’t hear you.”

“You’re the worst!”

“The worst at what?”

“Everything!”

“You didn’t seem to think that a few minutes ago,” he points out. 

“I’m having post-nut clarity,” you mumble, pushing weakly at his shoulders. 

“I didn’t know that happened to girls,” he muses. 

“There’s a lot you don’t know about women,” you snap, still struggling underneath him. “Maybe if you talked to one once and a while you’d be more knowledgeable on the subject.” 

“I’m talking to you, aren’t I?”

“That’s because I- are you getting hard again?” you ask in disbelief. 

“I told you that bickering with you turns me on!”

“You are unbelievable!”

Seonghwa kisses you and rolls his hips experimentally. You moan, relaxing under him immediately. 

“Fuck, that feels good,” you sigh against his lips. 

“Yeah, we’re definitely going to be late to brunch tomorrow.”

happy birthday emily!! i'm so lucky to call you my bestie and i hope you enjoyed your very late present :)

[lightseoul]

changes

synopsis. it's 11 PM, and you're missing him.

cw. fem!reader, grad student!reader, prohero!katsuki, aged-up (~26 yrs old), mentions of alcohol

word count. 1.0k words

“Long day at uni?”

You look up from the glass of beer you’re mindlessly staring at to Uraraka, who’s seated at the booth across from you, a worried expression plastered on her face.

You heave a sigh. “You know the works. Exams, presentations,” you cringe, “I got called for oral recitation.”

At that, Uraraka winces. “Yeesh.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” you say, almost defensively. You take a swig of your beverage before continuing. “I stuttered a bit, but I was able to answer the question.”

“That’s our girl.”

You smile, feeling warm from the praise.

A silence falls over you before Uraraka speaks up again.

“Is there any reason why you’re drinking at,” she checks her watch, “11:30 on a Tuesday night?”

Your smile falters before you could school it into a playful pout.

“What, am I not allowed to want to spend time with one of my best friends?”

At the mention of the title, Uraraka’s expression softens from a questioning look to that of endearment.

“Of course, you are. It’s just that,” she hesitates, and you brace yourself for what’s to come next.

“It’s not like you to do this, is all.”

You could only hum in response, breaking eye contact.

You go back to tracing the beads of condensation falling down the perimeters of the glass.

The other bar-goers around you are loud in their own conversations.

“...How long has it been since?”

You don’t need to think twice to know what she’s referring to.

Normally, you’d feign ignorance and pretend you absolutely had no idea what the other person is asking about.

But this is Uraraka, one of your closest friends from when you worked on a mission together back when you were still early 20-somethings, and the truth just comes spilling out before you could give it a second thought.

“One month, two weeks, six days.”

You chance a peek at Uraraka’s face, and you almost instantly regret it. She’s sporting an amused look, probably to assuage the embarrassment you’re feeling, but you could spot the hints of pity that lace her expression.

Embarrassment still manages to swell in your stomach.

“Do you miss him?”

You snort.

“If I answer that, you’re gonna think I’m a loser.”

“No, I won’t!” she answers immediately, voice raised. Wary of how loud she just got, she tones it back down before proceeding.

“It’s only natural that you miss him, Y/N. You dated for quite a while.”

You swallow the lump in your throat, but your voice still ends up garbled. “Yeah.”

Without much thought, your eyes drift to your phone, which sits between the two of you on the table. Uraraka follows your gaze, and from the corner of your eye, you see her twitch in panic when she realizes what you’re looking at.

“Uh—I don’t think you should, Y/N.” She sounds hesitant. “You’re tipsy—you’re not thinking straight.”

You frown, looking down at your hands wrapped around the almost-finished beer. You can feel the tears welling in your eyes.

“...You might regret it tomorrow.”

You’d like to think you knew what you were getting yourself into when you said yes to being Pro Hero Bakugou Katsuki’s girlfriend three years ago.

Going into it, you knew it was going to be far from easy, but you told yourself you could weather it.

The constant absence, the missed dates, the pestering paparazzi—all of it.

But the theoretical ended up being different from the real thing.

“I feel like I’m dating a ghost, Katsuki. You’re barely around, and I rarely get to spend time with you. What’s the point of being in this relationship when I never get to be with my boyfriend?”

You clench your eyes closed at the memory, willing it to go away. Now sprawled on top of your bed after Uraraka drove you home at exactly midnight (“I have the morning shift tomorrow,” she reasoned), you hold your phone close to your chest, debating whether or not to make the damned call.

You haven’t spoken to him since.

If this radio silence has been unintentional or is by design, you don’t know—but you do know one thing.

That it hurt.

And it’s silly, really, because you’re the one who called it off.

Sighing for the nth time that night, you prop your phone on your chest, thumbing the password before clicking your contacts and scrolling through your Favorites.

You didn’t have the heart to delete his number.

You still don’t, apparently.

“Hello?”

Your breath hitches in your throat.

You’re too stunned by the fact that he answered that you forget to respond.

“Y/N?”

“I’m–” you clear your throat, “I’m here.”

A few seconds pass before he speaks again.

“You’re drunk,” he says more as a matter of factly than asks. How he’s able to tell you’ve been drinking is beyond you, but you don’t question him.

There are far more important things.

Like, just hearing his voice.

His voice is gruff, probably from sleep, when he asks: “Don’t you have class tomorrow?”

You ignore his question. “What’re you doing up?”

Though, it suddenly dawns on you that you probably woke him up. You mentally slap yourself.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“Oh.”

Your heart is thrumming and your brain is screaming at you to keep your mouth shut, but you press on anyway. “Can I ask why?”

At that, he chuckles, but you can tell there’s no humor in it.

“It’d probably be best for us if you don’t.”

You squeeze your eyes shut.

Try again.

“Do you miss me, Katsuki?”

He sighs in defeat. “Every single fucking day, princess.”

Your gut twists in delight despite yourself.

In your drunken haze, you’re about to tell him that you miss him, too, and that you’re ninety-nine percent sure that you’re still in love with him, when he cuts you off.

“But nothing’s changed since then.”

He sounds exhausted.

“I don’t want to keep on hurting you like I did, Y/N.”’

You brace yourself for the impact.

“...So, goodbye.”

You hear a click, and before you know it, the line is dead.

[dawn-moths]

“Ivory for Ebony, Rust for Gold”

Undertaker x Female Reader

*this is a prologue to my “Cause to Start a Vendetta” series.

word count: 15,400+

(Struggling to pay this month’s rent and fighting about who among you and your roommates needs to pick up some extra hours at work, one of them makes a harsh comment that you should just get a sugar daddy to deal with your financial troubles since that’s all you’re probably good for. To her it was just a hurtful, sarcastic remark. But to you, it's an idea, an opportunity for revenge in its own twisted way. Because if you were going to let someone tell you what to do, they could at least be willing to treat you to some nice clothes and expensive dates. So when you match with the mysterious and dark yet beautiful and wealthy “Undertaker” on a dating app and he actually extends the invitation to take you out, how could you possibly deny?)

content warning/disclaimer: 18+ content! minors dni! most of this is fluff with smut at the end, dating apps, daddy kink, sub/dom dynamics, size kink, loss of virginity.

*ao3 mirror*

***

Your alarm went off at eight AM.

You could say “bright and early” if not for the fact that the sky that blanketed London was a pale, gloomy grey more often than not.

You jabbed at the screen of your phone to silence the irritating shrill of the alarm, heaving out a deep sigh as you rolled over and sat on the edge of your bed, running your fingers through your tousled hair to try and untangle some of the knots that had formed during sleep.

Another day… You thought to yourself, despondent as you stared in a daze out the window, black cabs dotting the streets as they mixed in with the traffic of people on their way to work or school.

You and a college friend of yours had tossed around the idea of moving in together in London for a few semesters before you’d both finally pulled your meager funds into one pot and committed to it. You’d had to find a third member to join the flat if you wanted to be able to afford it, and your friend had known someone who seemed like she’d be a good match.

And it had been fun, at first— a new and exciting experience that had led to so many late nights out hopping from clubs to pubs and somehow stumbling your way back to the apartment with only half the night’s memories intact.

You’d met so many interesting people, made a few new friends, had gotten used to weekend get-togethers and house parties that you’d thought would last forever.

But again, that was in the beginning.

Y’know, when you’d still had some extra money in your bank account to play with— to burn.

Now, nearly two years later, all three of you were struggling.

Because the days of bar hopping in the tightest minidresses you owned and having handsome strangers buy you round after round of whatever you were in the mood for that night had seemingly come and gone. There hadn’t been an invite to a weekend hangout or a house party in what felt like forever. At least, not one that you had time to attend.

Because all your lives now only consisted of two things— school and work.

And you were getting tired of both.

The sound of your roommates chatting quietly out in the kitchen beyond your bedroom door pulled you from your daze momentarily as you tried to hone in on what they were saying. They spoke with a hushed kind of urgency— the perfect tone to use when discussing secrets.

You snuck up to the door and pressed your ear to the crack, listening in.

“Well I don’t have time to pick up any extra hours with my schedule!” the girl who was the friend of your friend insisted, the words whispered with the intention to be taken as a very quiet shout. “Not to mention I have a ton of stuff to do before grad school!”

“Yeah, and I’m about to start my senior thesis which is gonna eat up all my free time so I can’t get another job either…” your actual friend countered, sounding more conflicted than riled up.

You then heard your name being thrown around, something about how you were the one who seemed most likely to be able to pick up some of the slack.

You didn’t like where this conversation was going yet you couldn’t stop listening. Couldn’t make yourself known to be eavesdropping yet either.

“She doesn’t even care about school!” Your third roommate continued, clearly upset with the situation but willing to throw you into the fire if it meant sparing herself. You’d found out after a couple months of living with her that she was the top of her class, teacher’s pet type. The days she didn’t brag about the prestigious grad school she’d gotten into were few and far between. “We all know she’s a C’s get degrees kind of girl anyway. She should be the one who has to go out and get another job, not one of us who actually have a career waiting after graduation.”

That particular dig cut you especially deep.

Sure, you might not’ve been the most studious member among your flatmates, but you had your own set of strengths.

Like, for instance, you could sweet talk your way out of getting written up for being late for class almost every single time. It didn’t matter which professor was chewing you out for skipping a lecture or not turning an assignment in on time, you’d mastered how to get off with a warning with each and every one of them.

And you were great at fashion advice. If it wasn’t for your knack for perfectly balanced color combinations and precisely pieced together aesthetics when it came to jewelry and clothing then your roommates would’ve never gotten past any of the bouncers that guarded the entrances to the popular nightclubs you all used to frequent. You could turn even the most timid and awkward girl into a drop dead gorgeous ten with the right hairstyle and shade of lipstick. 

And— and this part was what made the comment that had just been said about you particularly hard to swallow— you were always there for your friends. You’d been their shoulder to cry on so many times, had taken them out for milkshakes and a movie after a breakup or saved them from having a one night stand with some fuck boy that you knew was just going to hump ‘em and dump ‘em because you practically made it your job to stay up to date on all the latest rumors and juiciest gossip.

But, despite the harshness of their opinion on your academic skills, you knew that, with the full context, they were right.

Because rent was almost due again and you’d all just barely scraped by for the past couple of months.

That was the price you paid for living in the heart of the city— the city that you barely even went into anymore since, despite what they thought you did with your free time, you were trying to study a little more, maybe earn yourself a B instead of skating by with C’s…

When they’d asked you if you wanted to renew the lease for another year, you’d just said yes, not wanting to have to scramble to find new people to live with or move back into campus living where you couldn’t even have your own space.

But now things were getting desperate.

Tensions were rising among all of you over this and you didn’t want to have to be the one to give in when you felt like you were just getting motivated to try and raise your GPA.

But you knew you would, in the end. Because you always gave in, let them bully you into submission as they talked you in circles and convinced you that it would just be for a little bit, that you’d only have to take a couple extra shifts until you guys were all caught up.

“Alright, well, just let me talk to her about it…” your friend suggested, sounding sort of sympathetic, though she still wasn’t willing to take on the extra responsibility so long as there was someone else available to carry the weight. “I don’t think she’s gonna be happy about it though—”

Both of their heads turned to stare at you as your bedroom door swung open.

“Who won’t be happy about what?” you asked then, trying to act innocent but still letting a little edge of irritation slip into your tone.

The stiffened posture of your startled roommates softened a bit as they sighed.

“It’s the rent…” your friend went to say. “We’re not gonna be able to pay it this month unless—”

“You need to pick up some more hours at work,” the pushier of the two cut in, crossing her arms and giving you a stern look which only flared the crackling embers of your annoyance.

But the longer she glared at you, just like always, you could feel yourself beginning to back down. You wanted to be able to hold your ground, to tell her that she had no right to make such demands of you, but instead you just averted your gaze and let her keep trying to tell you what to do. “It won’t be forever, just until we can catch up on the bills. I’m too busy with all of my already existing school and work obligations and she—” She gestured to your friend who was looking at you apologetically. “She’s got her senior thesis to work on.”

Your little hands were nervously fidgeting with themselves— a habit you’d long been attempting to break since it was a dead giveaway for your anxiety— but you forced yourself to look back up at your rudely assuming roommate as you protested, a slight scowl twitching timidly on your brow, “Well… I’m still in school too. And I have a big test coming up. I don’t think I—”

“Oh, please,” she scoffed, shooting you a condescending smirk. Her words only became even more patronizing as her tone liltingly insulted, “We all know that the only reason you’re even still going to class is because Mommy and Daddy are paying your tuition and you feel bad about letting them down.” You flinched at the sheer audacity of her assumption— even if the part about your parents paying for your education was correct— and felt tears threaten to well in your vision, the back of your nose pickling with the unpleasant emotion.

“That’s not—” you tried to say, but she interrupted again, clearly in the mood to get out all the horrible things she’d ever thought about you in that particular moment.

“And your little cutesy, innocent act doesn’t really work. Not on me, at least.” Your actual friend then shot your roommate a warning glare as she hissed her name. Still, she continued, stepping closer to you as you stood in the doorway and fought to hold back your frustrated tears. “You think I don’t hear you through the wall when you’re on the phone with whoever talking about how—” she then went to imitate your voice in a dumb, high pitched, mocking tone, “you just like, really wish you could drop out already because you don’t even like what you’re studying and this is totally a waste of your time.”

“That’s enough!” your friend raised her voice over the unnecessarily cruel argument. But your roommate wasn’t done showing her true colors just yet. She was going to paint over you with all her harsh, petty shades until even your tears couldn’t wash away the bleak pigment.

“I mean, really. I don’t get how you even got accepted into this school to begin with.” She was standing over you now, glaring down at you as her condescending comments finally pulled the tears from your eyes to streak shimmering lines down your cheeks in pairs. “You’d do better for all of us if you just quit now and worked full time. Then at least you’d be serving a purpose other than desperately trying to hook up with one of the sport’s team captains or offering favors to your professors in exchange for a barely passing grade.”

“I never—!”

“Don’t try and act like that’s not the truth! You just—”

“I said that’s fucking enough!” Both you and your bitch of a roommate turned to look at your friend, who wore an expression of genuine anger now. Her eyes were wide and her shoulders shaking as she nudged her way past the bully who’d just berated you to stand by your side, putting her arms around you as you tried to silence the sobs that were hitching in your chest and scowling hard at the girl who was responsible for breaking you.

“Don’t talk to her like that!” she went on, now shouting and causing your roommate to back down a bit. “Just because she doesn’t feel the same way about school as you do doesn’t mean she doesn’t have the same right to an education! Maybe if you got down from your high horse once in a while you’d realize that you’re not the only one who’s stressed out right now!”

You were glad that your friend was actually defending you so openly. In the past, when your roommate had made little remarks about you to your face or behind your back, your friend hadn’t had it in her to tell her off. She’d just come to you when you were sulking in your room and offer to console you privately.

Still though, after what had just been said, you doubted you could stand to live under the same roof as her for much longer.

The worst part was that you couldn’t just up and leave. Then you’d be abandoning your friend, aside from breaking a lease, and you couldn’t do that to her right now. Not when it was still a struggle to pay the rent with all three of you.

“I’m sorry, but it didn’t sound like you were very willing to go out and get another job!” your confrontational roommate continued. “And I don’t know how many times I have to repeat the fact that I can’t do it because I—”

“Yeah, yeah, we get it!” your friend shot back, still embracing you in solidarity. “You’re smarter and more important than everyone! Would you just get a grip?”

“Oh so now you’re just gonna act like you weren’t agreeing with me two seconds ago?!”

“Y’know what, you’re such a—!”

“Please stop!” you bellowed over the bitter arguing. Your face was a mess, all tear-streaked and red from embarrassment and anger. “Just stop it! Please…”

You began to wipe away your tears, sniffling and trying to catch your breath so you could get a clear sentence out while you had both of their attention.

“I’ll do it, alright…” you caved, shooting the instigator a scathing glare. “I’ll get some extra fucking hours. Just stop talking to me like I’m stupid!” You’d looked your horrible, hurtful roommate in the eyes as you’d spit the word, hoping it sounded like a warning to back off more than a pitiful plea to leave you alone.

She rolled her eyes and scoffed at your sensitivity, turning to grab her bag and head out the door as she added on one final jab at your character, “If you don’t wanna work, why don’t you just make this easier on all of us and find yourself a sugar daddy to pay for your share of the rent? Shouldn’t be hard, given your track record.”

Your friend called after her to come back and apologize as the door to the flat slammed and she disappeared from your sight. You never wanted to see her again, hoped she got hit by a cab or a bus on her way home. When you realized how evil that sounded, you hoped she failed her next test or assignment instead. That would kill her in its own way. And, god, you were just so angry. Because you’d given in again, and to someone who’d said such awful, unforgivable things about you no less.

“I’m so sorry that she said all of that…” your friend attempted to comfort you again as you retreated into your room to change into some clean clothes and aggressively shove your books into your bag. “I’m gonna talk to her. Get her to apologize. And, look, you don’t have to pick up extra hours at work. I know you hate that job. We’ll figure something out, ok…”

You were just about to sadly assure your friend that she didn’t have to go that far. That you’d just take some additional shifts but that the moment you could get out of the lease, you would.

But then your roommates insults came back to you, echoing around in your head until the sarcastic slander turned into a mischievous motivation.

Why don’t you just make this easier on all of us and find yourself a sugar daddy to pay for your share of the rent?

There were apps for that, ones that you could specifically swipe through profiles of wealthy men looking for young, cute girls like yourself until you matched with one. You knew other girls who’d done it, who’d gotten a pair of diamond earrings or a five star dinner date out of it at the very least, if not a casual relationship.

If they could do it, then why couldn’t you?

Shouldn’t be hard, given your track record.

What she’d said about the hookups and the favors weren’t true. You just had a natural talent for getting what you wanted from men, young or old. You knew how to look up at them through your long lashes and give those cute little giggles when they said something that wasn’t even really that funny. You knew which skirts or dresses to wear that drew them to you, made them lose their train of thought as they ogled your appearance, wishing— dreaming— that you’d let them close enough to see what was underneath.

But you always knew when to pull back, when to leave them wanting more.

You were a bit of a tease, sure, you couldn’t deny that. But you weren’t a slut like your roommate seemed to think you were, letting anyone with a dick just stick it in without any effort.

Because, despite the fact that you lived in a shared flat and not a palace, you were a princess, too perfect and pretty for just anyone to have.

You needed someone who would cherish you. Someone who knew how to treat you right in all the ways you deserved.

And while a random man from a sugar daddy dating app wasn’t necessarily in it for the long haul, you did have a feeling someone drawn to that sort of relationship might like to show off— whether it be by his wealth or the pretty girl under his arm— and maybe play the part of a gentleman when taking you out on dates.

So yeah. Later that day during a break in between classes you’d downloaded the app, set up your own profile, and started swiping.

Your roommate could just go fuck herself.

With the way she only had time for her textbook, you figured it was the only way she was ever getting any.

But you’d find someone, even if it was just out of spite, and not only would he help you pay your rent for the remainder of the lease, but he’d do something that showed your roommate that girls like you were smarter than they looked.

Because you could make a man’s bank account bend to your will, so long as your body was willing to bend to his. And that wasn’t a skill you could learn in any classroom.

***

Once you’d returned home to the flat, you’d gone straight to your room, completely ignoring your roommate the same as she was ignoring you, the tension between the two of you thick enough to be cut with a knife.

Your gaze was glued to your phone while hers was glued to her required reading, and while she was probably thinking that you were slacking off again, you were actually hard at work.

Because you’d already gotten five matches an hour after you’d begun swiping through photos. Now you were studying, trying to figure out which option was going to be your best bet.

This was actually a little harder than you’d thought it’d be, if you were being honest. When it came to looks in your final five, you were spoiled for choice. However, it was the messaging aspect of the equation where things got a little… complicated.

There was one man— a Viscount, as his profile very clearly stated— who had long, silky blonde hair and was shamelessly flaunting his abundant status and wealth, each of his pictures displaying himself surrounded with exotic scenery from a vacation or posing wearing luxurious designer brand clothing with a foreign fashion week in the background.

But his propositions to you through your texts weren’t as elegant as his image implied.

Right away he wanted to know if you could meet for sex. He’d asked if you were a virgin— which you didn’t disclose to him and instead talked around with playful replies and winking emojis— and had given you his hotel suite number as he was currently staying in The Langham in London.

He was rather insistent that you pay him a visit and you were starting to get a bad feeling about him, like if you agreed to meet with him and actually went through with it you might not return to your flat after all was said and done.

And not in a he’s swept me off my feet and we’re flying to Mykonos way.

More like a he’s going to kidnap me and lock me in some weird sex dungeon kind of way.

You decided to unmatch with him, crossing him off your mental list of potential men, and moved onto the next one.

The second suitor was also on the younger end of the spectrum, like the Viscount, though still older than you. His name was Charles Grey, and you found him rather striking with his silver-blue eyes and sleek white hair. He looked like trouble right off the bat with that sly smirk and side glance that he hosted in most of his photos, but he appeared to keep himself on a little tighter leash than your first match.

In his messages to you, however, he seemed pretty uninterested despite the fact that he’d obviously found you attractive enough to swipe right. He seemed like he wanted you to show the most effort and you really weren’t into that. You were old school in the way that you wanted the guy to pursue you, not the other way around. He didn’t seem to drop many hints about wanting to meet either. Perhaps he was just toying with you, wanting you to beg for his company so he could decide how far he was going to string you along before finally giving in and making it appear as if he was doing you a favor.

Either way, there was no chemistry there and even less luck in having him pay your bills, so again you moved on and started from square one.

Your next two potentials were what you’d actually expected upon first downloading the app— being that they were older than you. Much older. Old enough to actually be your father, but you weren’t opposed to the idea so long as they treated you right.

One was named Chris Heathfield. He worked for the government— a high ranking position, he’d been quick to let you know— and resided in an ostentatious manor bordering the countryside. But even in his profile photos he was flaunting how many women he liked to have around at all times, so many it was practically a harem. The man was clearly a womanizer, and perhaps you were naive to think that any of your potential choices were any different, but you didn’t exactly want to have to compete with other girls right out of the gate.

Chlaus— he’d given no last name— seemed to be far more genuine and gentlemanly than Heathfield. He had a kind yet enthusiastic smile, like he could enjoy even the most mundane of activities if he was in the right mood.

He traveled a lot and actually wasn’t even currently in the country, as he’d politely informed you in the messages you’d exchanged. He’d even apologized if he’d wasted your time though admitted that, when he did return to London sometime in the future, he’d still like to meet with you if you were still interested. He’d complimented you, told you that he liked your smile in the photos you’d posted, and you’d actually been sort of disappointed that he wasn’t currently available.

Either way, you thanked him for his cordial decency and then was forced to migrate towards your fifth and final match of the day.

Unlike the others, this one had yet to message you. All you had to go by was his profile photos, all of which added a new element to his sinister yet alluring beauty.

He had long, silver hair and piercing green eyes, alabaster skin with a scar cutting a diagonal across his otherwise handsome face. You’d noticed him instantly among the others, so unusual and curious yet still the most enticing.

Perhaps it was the danger of the unknown that drew you to him. Perhaps it was that he was one of the few you’d encountered during the initial phase of swiping that, while still about a decade older than you, wasn’t actually old like Heathfield and Chlaus. And his name had caught your attention too, or at least the alias he’d given himself while using the app.

Undertaker.

That’s all it said.

Not a first or last or really any name at all other than that morbid moniker.

The closer the clock hands approached midnight, the more you were starting to think he’d changed his mind about you— reconsidering whatever it was that had caused him to match with you to begin with— and you were just about to start over with a new batch of wealthy strangers when all of a sudden…

You were notified that you’d received a new message and quickly went to check it, pausing when you saw the preview of the text lighting up besides the arcane name.

Hello, Undertaker’s first message bubble read, plain and simple.

Hi, you typed back in return, adding your favorite smiling emoji afterward.

How are you doing this evening?, he asked next. You told him that you were fine, just sort of bored. Are you in London currently?, he further inquired.

Yeah, you responded, feeling kind of good about the conversation so far, though you tried not to get too far ahead of yourself. You told him you attended a university in the area and then feared that maybe you shouldn’t have said that, remembering stories about girls being stalked by people they’d met over dating apps.

But, much to your relief, Undertaker merely asked what you were studying, seeming to keep things professional for now, if that was a word you could use in this context. You answered and then there was a short lull in the conversation.

You were starting to think that maybe you’d lost him on account of pointless small talk until he came back with another message.

I’d very much like to take you out some time, he said. Is there any specific day or time that you’d be free this upcoming week?

You couldn’t contain your beaming smile.

You felt like you were in high school again, growing giddy over a new crush.

How about this weekend? You suggested. We could meet at the British Museum around noon, if you want?

You watched eagerly as the three dots of the speech bubble that showed he was typing pulsed lightly on the screen. He replied, I’d like that very much, before going on to fix the more specific details.

He asked if he could drive you around after that, bring you to dinner that evening, and to this, while in your head you were thinking nothing but different variations of the word absolutely, you responded with a slightly teasing, Well, we’ll just have to see how things go at the museum, won’t we?, followed by a playful winking emoji.

Back in the study of Undertaker’s ornate gothic mansion, he chuckled to himself while lounging in one of velvety armchairs. He also couldn’t shake the devious grin that had found its way onto his pale face.

Like you, it had been a while since he’d allowed himself to be with someone in any form of intimacy. He was used to filling his schedule with all work and no play and he’d been wanting to change that. What better way than to do it with a cute girl he could pamper?

I’ll see you then, Undertaker typed back, adding a smirking emoji, and you felt your stomach flutter with excitement. With half your face buried in your pillow as you lay sprawled out on your bed texting with the mysterious, monochrome stranger, you tried and failed to hold in a giggle.

See ya~!, you concluded, clicking your screen off and then flipping onto your back to stare at the ceiling as all sorts of scenarios of what this weekend could hold began to play in your mind.

And the more you fantasized, the more your cute, girlish little giggles morphed into something darker, something borderline evil as you thought about how your bitch of a roommate might’ve just shot herself in the foot with the comment she’d made before walking out the door that morning.

I win, you prematurely proclaimed to yourself, a crooked smirk devilishly pulling up one corner of your glossy lips.

I always win.

***

Waiting for the weekend had felt like forever, despite it only having been a few days away, but now that it was here, the mixture of nerves and excitement was steadily filling you to the brim.

You hadn’t told either of your roommates where you were going or what you were doing today. When your friend had told you how nice you looked in your cardigan and cute pastel purple dress and white platform sneakers, you’d simply thanked her, giving no hint of the occasion or who you were meeting with.

You hoped he liked it, at least noticed the effort that curling your hair into perfect ringlets with half pulled up into a ponytail and tied with a silky, cream-colored bow took.

But the longer you stood outside the museum, despite arriving a little early, the more you wondered if you were going to end up getting ghosted and be forced to stroll through the exhibits alone while trying to hide your disappointment that, in the end, you really hadn’t been good enough.

If that happened, you’d have to admit defeat and take those extra shifts at work after all.

You were leaning against one of the pillars, pulling your cardigan tighter over your shoulders as a chilly breeze blew by and staring down at your shoes, gaze tracing the way your laces zig-zagged over each other and dreading what was seeming more and more likely to be you having gone out of your way for nothing with each passing minute until—

You heard a rich, low voice speak your name, causing you to look up with innocent confusion for a second until your stare landed on the tall, silver-haired man standing before you.

He was dressed simply but nicely, in all black with a blazer and turtleneck and shiny oxford shoes, pale hands resting inside his pockets as his steady emerald eyes studied you with slight concern.

You felt yourself start to blush when you realized he’d left you speechless, cracking a small smile as you straightened your posture from the pillar and shuffled a few steps closer to him.

“Y-yes, that’s me,” you replied cheerily, hoping that your voice wasn’t shaking too much. “You made it!”

He drifted a little closer, his shadow looming over you, and you felt your heart drumming against your ribcage, his aura so powerful and unsettling yet his smile appearing calm and kind, trying to put you at ease.

“Of course,” he nodded slowly. “Now…” He gestured his hand towards the front doors. “Shall we?”

You followed after him and pretty soon found your hand in his, praying that your palms didn’t start to sweat from how nervous you were, though his hands were actually pretty cold, so you thought maybe that would help.

Undertaker’s hands were big, yet slender— long, pale fingers brushing gently against your skin as your little grip was swallowed up in his loose fist.

And his face— god…

You’d thought he was attractive in the photos, but in person it was on a whole other level.

You’d never seen someone as gorgeous as him before. Not in real life, at least.

He was like a prince of darkness, somber and eerie qualities colliding with something charming and lovely. Like a rose bush— so many thorns and winding vines to keep others at bay, yet blooming with striking flowers, vibrant petals opening under the light of a full moon only for those he deemed worthy enough to be let into his garden.

It was hard not to blatantly stare at him.

You didn’t want to be weird, didn’t want him to think maybe he should revoke his invitation to drive you around and take you out to dinner after this, but you couldn’t help it, sneaking private glances whenever you could. It appeared you weren’t the only one, what with the eyes of nearly every person you passed as you two strolled through the museum catching on him as well.

But it wasn’t just him who they were staring at, Undertaker realized with a hint of pride. He knew the crowds were just as captivated by the pretty girl by his side, the contrast between his ghostly appearance and your sweet, honey-suckle softness a rare sight to behold.

Undertaker also found it hard not to stare at you long and hard like one of the famous paintings, scanning the curves and lines of your profile and figure when your attention was turned to a particularly unique exhibit.

He traced the form of your silhouette from the top of your head, down the dip under your chin towards your neck and collar bones, over your breasts and stomach to your hips, your exposed thighs, all the way down to your shoes and back up again.

He knew instantly that he was going to have a hard time keeping his hands off you. Undertaker was an intense man— dangerous in ways that you had yet to know about— and the last thing he wanted to do was scare you away.

Not when you were exactly what he’d been looking for for so long.

Not when you were so perfect with that adorable little lilt in your giggle and the way those doe-eyes of yours looked upon things with an indescribable wonder.

Because Undertaker wanted something to protect that wasn’t just all his abundant wealth and status and one of a kind mansion decor. He wanted something— someone— who would be waiting for him at the end of a long day or a particularly harrowing business meeting. Someone he could wrap his arms around and feel their beating heart, feel the way their chest rose and fell with the steady breaths of life.

And you were so warm, so fragile.

He wondered if you had anyone to protect you or if somehow you’d managed to navigate this cruel world all on your own thus far.

And you’d opened up to him a little bit as the two of you got talking during your leisurely stroll through the museum. You’d told him that, while you didn’t have a terrible relationship with your parents, things had been rocky here or there. You’d told him that all they’d ever wanted for you was to attend university, that they’d pay for your tuition and even let you pick which one you would go to so long as you passed your classes and graduated on time.

But you’d never felt like they listened to you, like you could truthfully talk to them and share your troubles. Hence why you left home at the very first opportunity that presented itself. You’d thought getting away and meeting new people would help you find someone you felt you could really be honest with and rely on. Though, so far, it hadn’t been exactly what you’d expected…

“Well, I consider myself a very good listener,” Undertaker promised with a gentle smirk as his grip around your hand squeezed a little, drawing your gaze up to meet his once more. “I’m quite good at keeping secrets as well.”

You didn’t know what to say, could only gape at him in that doe-eyed way of yours that he was quickly becoming addicted to. He would turn it into a game, seeing how many times he could get you to look at him like that, like he was the only thing in your entire world.

Forget money and power.

What Undertaker wanted was you wanting him, needing him.

But soon enough you snapped out of it, shaking your head a bit as if to clear your daze. Then, as you neared the final exhibit, you finally gained enough courage to inquire, “So… Undertaker, huh? I’m guessing that’s not your real name…?” trying to tread carefully, not wanting to pry too much, but unable to hold in this curiosity any longer.

The mysterious man sighed out a breathy chuckle. “In my line of work,” he began, “it can be rather dangerous for one to expose their true name. So I keep mine hidden.” He paused then, as if expecting you to ask more questions or make a comment. When you just seemed to be willing to listen, he went on. “Does that bother you?” he asked with a small lift of an eyebrow.

You shook your head, glancing back up at him as you stopped before the final exhibit on your loop through the museum. “No. I mean, I won’t lie. I did find it strange at first. But you seem like you have your reasons, so…”

Your sentence trailed off as you became occupied with the art piece in front of you, lips slightly parted as you stared ahead, giving Undertaker yet another opportunity to study your face.

But this time he was staring at you with a little more than admiration for your appearance. This time he looked upon you like you were the first person he’d met who seemed to understand him in some way, to accept him as he was.

Because even his closest confidants had wondered why he couldn’t just tell them his real name, why he refused to tell anyone no matter what.

And you’d just dropped it after that, respecting his wishes to go by the moniker and moving on like it wasn’t odd even in the slightest.

He felt himself migrating closer to you, lowering his lips in hopes of meeting yours, but then stopped himself when he thought perhaps it was still too soon for that. He’d wait until the moment was right, whether that was today or tonight or days, weeks, months from now.

Because he didn’t want to mess this up. Not with you. Not when he’d finally managed to find someone who, despite his appearance or his name or the fact that he always seemed to be alluding to something darker and much more dangerous than he let on, didn’t seem to hold it against him.

And he wasn’t going to let you go. He’d do anything to make you stay, to keep you all for himself.

If it was money you were after, he’d give it to you. If it was him taking you on vacations then so be it. If it was someone who could take care of you and provide, that would be easy.

Whatever you wanted or needed, all you had to do was say the word and he’d make sure you had it.

In the beginning, he’d give it to you for free. Though, there would reach a point when he’d want something in return, though he knew he couldn’t force that on you. At least, not the first time.

“That was fun!” you smiled as the two of you exited the museum, your fingers now interlocked in a more romantic and intimate gesture. It only lasted a mere minute before your touch broke and the two of you were standing across from each other on the sidewalk, but it was long enough to send that warm feeling fluttering in your belly again. “Thanks for taking me.”

“The pleasure was all mine,” Undertaker replied. He hoped that you weren’t just being polite and wished to go home now. He still really did want to spend more time with you. Whether that was over dinner or not was irrelevant now. He’d sit on a park bench and attempt to get to know you better if that’s all you’d give him.

When you sort of just seemed to stand there and look up at him with a smile, no sign of searching the curb for where you’d parked a car or gotten off at a bus stop present in your expression, he hesitantly asked, “Did you… walk here or…?”

“Oh!” you snapped out of your daze, hypnotized by his brilliant emerald stare and that scar etched across his face yet again. Through a nervous chuckle you said, “Yeah, actually, I did… I live sort of in the area and I don’t have a car so…”

“I’m parked nearby,” he began, already taking a step in the direction where he could see his vintage vehicle from down the street. “I can drive you home if you’d like to return or we could continue on to another location?”

You considered this, though you already knew that you didn’t want to go home. When you smiled and nodded and told him that you’d like to continue enjoying his company, he put an arm around you and guided you towards his car— a 1953 Rolls Royce Dawn Drophead— and you expressed your marvel at the spotless obsidian automobile.

“Allow me,” Undertaker offered as he grabbed the door for you, letting you slide into the passenger's seat before closing it and coming around to take his place behind the wheel. The roof was down and you felt a new wave of excitement wash over you, never having ridden in a convertible before.

You didn’t know where you were going, but you honestly didn’t even care. As Undertaker skillfully wove in and out of traffic and the wind blew through your hair, your exhilarated laughter sounding off beside him as music blasted from the radio, you felt alive.

And so did he, for the first time in what felt like an eternity.

It had been so long that he’d almost forgotten what that felt like.

And you, well, you were actually starting to thank your roommate for giving you this idea in the first place.

***

The luxury department store was one that you’d seen in passing since moving to the city but never had the nerve to step inside of.

Not until today, that is.

Among some of the signs that decorated the storefronts of the extravagant shopping mall were names like Gucci and Versace, Dolce & Gabbana, Louis Vuitton, Prada, Tiffany and Chanel.

You couldn’t believe what you were seeing— all the beautiful designer clothes and handcrafted jewelry— the handbags and the belts and the shoes that were perfectly placed on display lining the windows and walls of each store.

“Do you enjoy fashion?” Undertaker asked you as you ooed and awed at all the options, his hand finding your shoulder as he gently rubbed a thumb over some of your soft, exposed skin, your cardigan having been courteously taken by the greeter at the entrance of the store for safekeeping while you tried on clothes.

He already knew that you did. Had found you on social media soon after matching with you and done some digging.

You were a wannabe fashion influencer, and given the fact that you didn’t have access to exclusive items just yet, your style and taste spoke for itself, even if it was on a budget. Not to mention, for a girl who was sharing a cramped flat in London and struggling to pay her rent, ten thousand wasn’t a number to laugh at when it came to followers.

“I do!” you replied enthusiastically, looking up at him with another one of those cute little smiles and a giggle that captivated Undertaker every time. Then, as his arm fell to cradle your waist and hold you a little closer, you shyly admitted, “I’ve never worn anything as nice as this before though…”

The ebony clad man chuckled. “Well then,” he prompted playfully, “we’ll have to change that, won’t we?”

Your eyes widened once you realized what he was getting at.

Your first instinct was to turn down such a pricey offer. If this were anyone else, you would’ve. But then you were reminded of the circumstances under which you’d met and that perhaps it would be rude not to let him spend some of his abundant wealth on you.

So you did what you were best at. You looked cute and acted on your best behavior as the two of you traveled from designer to designer, trying on all sorts of outfits and showing yourself off to him as you did so. He seemed pleased, with both you and what the mall had in stock that day, and had even purchased some items for himself along the way.

“How about this one?” he asked as he lightly ran his long fingers over the satiny fabric of a dark blue babydoll dress, one with a low back and cute puffed sleeves and a bow tied around the waist to hug your form.

Your wardrobe mainly consisted of pastels and light neutrals, a few darker colors thrown in but not many that you wore that often. Even so, if this was what he liked, the least you could do was try it on for him.

When you came out of the dressing room, holding out the flared skirt a little bit as you twirled, something in Undertaker’s chartreuse gaze changed. He’d liked all the others, sure. They’d suited you just fine. But this one…

This one made you look like Undertaker’s perfect little doll, one that he’d designed and dressed personally.

“You look beautiful,” he commended, just like with the other dresses you’d modeled for him, but then added through an awestruck sigh, “Absolutely gorgeous…” that made you stop for a moment and stare at him, blinking those innocent doe-eyes of yours, suddenly aware of just how intensely he was looking at you.

If you weren’t mistaken, you might’ve read it for pure adoration.

But you two had barely just met, so it couldn’t really be that, could it?

“D-do you really like this one?” you asked through a timid grin, turning halfway to look yourself over in one of the mirrors again, little fingers adjusting the way the bow looked in the back.

“I think it’s marvelous,” Undertaker replied coolly, stuck in a dream-like daze as his eyes slowly scanned up and down your figure once more. “But do you like it?”

You considered yourself, making sure that the garment lay right over your body, wondering if the shade looked too dark on you, but slowly, surprisingly, it was winning you over.

You nodded and began to smile again. As you turned back to face him you said, “I do like it.”

“Shall I buy it for you then, as one last treat?” he asked next. He’d already treated you to quite the expensive spree, so you fumbled for the price tag to find out just how much more you’d be depleting his bank account, but before your view could land upon the number, Undertaker was at your side, his hand wrapped around yours as he quietly reminded you, “Don’t worry about that. It’s on me, remember?”

“But…” you stalled, looking up at his looming form.

“No buts, princess,” he lightly chided, turning you around to face the mirror again as his chest pressed against your back, taking your other hand in his and holding your arms up and out a little bit as you surrendered to his grasp, like a pretty butterfly splayed out beneath the glass of a display case. It was the first time you were really noticing just how small you were compared to him. It sent another wave of that sweet, dangerous fluttering roll through your stomach, the thought of what he’d look like while on top of you flashing through your mind as you fought the urge to squirm. “You look stunning. Worth all the money in the world. So what do you say? Would you like to wear this to dinner tonight?”

Dinner. That’s right. He’d invited you to dinner.

You had no idea what kind of restaurant it would be, but with the kind of money he seemed to be so keen to spend on you, it was bound to be one with a dress code.

“O… ok…” you muttered shakily as you watched him moving his hand about you through the mirror, chilled palms gliding down towards your elbows then back up to your shoulders, sending a shiver down your spine when they found your waist and savored the trip down to your hips, resting there as his long fingers lightly pressed into your soft skin.

And it was taking every ounce of patience Undertaker had not to pull you into one of the big dressing rooms, shut the door, and have his way with you against one of the plush couches there. He’d watch your reflection writhe and arch as he hiked the expensive dress up and ran his touch down to the most tender parts of you. He wanted to know what your underwear looked like, if they’d be as cute and delicate as you were, if your bra and panties would match.

He was willing to bet they would, even if it was just for this special occasion. And even as he discarded them to the floor, exposing you to him fully, your face hot and red from embarrassment and anticipation, you’d still be his adorable little doll, his good girl, his perfect, pretty princess as he sunk into you and felt you pulse and squeeze around him in the most delectable way.

He wanted to know what sounds you’d make— what sounds he could force you to make against your will as he thrust deeper into your tight, wet warmth. Were you the kind to beg? The kind to cry? Did you want him talking dirty to you or would the skillful path of his touch across your skin be enough to make you wet for him?

God, he wanted to know. And he was determined to find out. But not here. Not now. It still wasn’t the right time for that. Besides, you’d only just put on the dress. He wanted to admire you in it for a little longer.

So the two of you moved up to the check out desk, you still wearing the dress after Undertaker had told— not asked, told— the saleswoman who’d been assisting you that you’d be walking out with it on. When she’d announced the amount of money that was due, you’d nearly flinched at the number. Meanwhile, Undertaker had simply handed her a shiny black credit card without batting an eye. He’d paid and she’d snipped the tag, which you only then noticed didn’t even have a price on it, but instead merely held a scancode that was meant to alert the anti-theft alarm if anyone tried to exit the store without paying.

“Th-thank you,” you stammered nervously as you exited the store with him, the lilac dress and cardigan you’d started the day in folded neatly and placed inside a bag that swung from Undertaker’s hand. “I-I’ve never worn something this nice. I promise to take good care of it.”

That dark, almost ominous chuckle escaped Undertaker’s lips again, his free hand finding you once more and lightly tugging you closer to him, as if he was afraid you’d stray too far and wander off. “There will be plenty more where that came from,” he promised, and you felt your face begin to blush, though you couldn’t exactly place why. “Now, shall we find you a pair of shoes and some jewelry to go with it?”

***

You now wore an entirely different outfit than before, your white platform sneakers and delicate gold heart necklace safe inside their own bags from when they’d been replaced by shiny, chunky-heeled, black mary janes and a diamond choker, dangling, teardrop earrings to match.

Every reflective surface you passed, whether it was a shop window or the glossy black surface of Undertaker’s vintage car, you couldn’t help but stare at yourself.

You almost couldn’t recognize yourself all wrapped up in this new aesthetic, not accustomed to such dark colors adorning your figure, but there was something about it that did suit you, to your surprise. Undertaker made sure to remind you of it as he’d caught you examining your glittering jewelry in the front mirror of the passenger side as you two pulled into reserved parking at the fancy restaurant, causing one more shy smile to spread across your lips before he came around to open the door for you and tossed his keys to the young valet.

This was an establishment that Undertaker frequented, as he hadn’t hesitated to request his “usual table”, the hostess giving a charming, “but of course, right this way,” before guiding the two of you through the candle lit dining hall, your date lightly tugging you along by the hand as you craned your neck to gaze up at all the crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, a live piano player performing soft jazz from a slightly elevated platform at the center of the room.

After taking your seat and being informed that your waiter would be over shortly, you found yourself feeling out of place once again. Because, sure, you looked like you belonged here, but as you tried to read over the menu— most of which was in French— and didn’t recognize a single thing, the insecurities that you were an imposter began to creep back in.

“Why don’t you let me take care of that?” Undertaker suggested, taking the menu from your fidgeting grip and folding it back up, placing it on the edge of the table. Normally you’d hate it if a date ordered for you, oftentimes becoming cocky and picking something you didn’t even like. But now, you were sort of relieved. Besides, it seemed like Undertaker had a much better idea of what you’d like based on impression alone than any of your previous admirers.

After a quick survey asking what kinds of foods and flavors you preferred and if there were any particular textures or other aspects that would ruin the night’s culinary experience, Undertaker began nodding to himself, iridescent eyes scanning one of the pages until he landed on something he thought you might enjoy.

“So…” he began, swirling the vintage red in his glass as he gazed over the rim at you and your fizzy fruit drink. “Tell me about yourself…”

You had to stifle a laugh. It seemed so cliche, yet held an air of authenticity that you couldn’t help but find endearing. You’d shared a few things about your personal life and interests as you’d been walking through the museum— like the music you liked and a really good movie you’d watched recently and a little bit about what you’d been studying in school— but when posed with the question now, your mind suddenly went blank.

“Why don’t you tell me about you?” you playfully suggested, idly twirling a strand of your hair as you sipped the magenta dragon fruit drink up the glass straw teased between your teeth. “I mean…” You recrossed your legs as you leaned in a little closer, raising one skeptical eyebrow. “I feel like you already know plenty about me.”

Flashing a coy smirk, Undertaker traded you an amused grin. You hummed out a mischievous, lilting note as you awaited his response, tempted to brush the toe of your shoe against his ankle to see what would happen if you flirted more openly.

Because— aside from the obvious fact that he had plenty of money and had already spoiled you beyond your wildest imagination— you did like him. You liked the way he looked at you, soft and caring rather than hungry and expectant like most blind dates tended to go. You liked that he paid attention to little details like grabbing the door for you and offering you his jacket when he’d noticed you pulling your cardigan tighter around your shoulders on the walk from the museum to the car. You liked that he was sophisticated but not arrogant and also that he carried this sense of protection over you.

That last notion made you once again wonder what he did for a living. Someone as mysterious and secretive— so secretive that his own colleagues didn’t know his real name, as he’d casually mentioned while skirting around the question about his job earlier— as him could be involved in all kinds of nefarious activities.

Maybe he was a hitman, or a smuggler of rare, foreign gems.

He could be a conman or a cult leader or a curiously eccentric artist.

He was a book with thick binding, yet every page you flipped to was blank.

But you wanted to know him— wanted to get to know him— if he gave you the chance.

“I told you earlier that I’m good at keeping secrets,” Undertaker said, his voice dropping an octave lower. “But the real question is… are you?”

You took a moment to think about that. You thought you were. Because, as good and eager as you were at collecting gossip, you had never been one to spread it.

Not unless absolutely necessary, that is, and even then it was only to your closest friends when it concerned them directly.

“I can keep a secret,” you promised, both of you searching each other’s eyes for a minute before your food arrived and the tense, exhilarating moment was temporarily put on hold while you smiled and thanked the waiter.

Between the first bites of your dinner, Undertaker strategically spoke of his work, dropping hints that it was classified and dangerous and underground. You listened intently, nodding along as if you were slowly but surely decoding the hidden messages woven throughout his cryptic words.

Then, after he seemed done divulging all the details he could without giving it all away, you looked at him with a slightly cocked head, eyes squinted cynically as you smirked and said, “So… You work for the FBI or something, right? Or— no—!” you excitedly changed your guess, “The CIA?”

Truthfully, you didn’t really know the difference, but based on what he’d told you, it seemed like some kind of secretive, high-profile government intelligence.

“No, not quite,” Undertaker chuckled, unable to fully contain just how absolutely adorable he found you. “Though, I may have crossed paths with some people in that profession before.”

You let out another giggle, thinking he was merely toying with you just for amusement’s sake, but, despite his lighthearted tone, Undertaker was being deathly serious. If only you knew how many times he’d been investigated by all kinds of intelligence agencies, both domestic and foreign. How he’d evaded each and every one of them and their prying questions, killed the ones who got a little too close. Because his security and control over his organization was air tight, locked with a key long thrown away, buried six feet deep somewhere along with the life he’d left behind in pursuit of something bigger and better and far more brilliant than he could’ve ever imagined at the start.

He’d have to protect you from their scheming, sinister ways soon too, if you allowed yourself to be kept by him. Only then would he have to disclose more of the truth to you, make sure you really understood the gravity of it all.

But, for now, that could wait.

For now, he could continue to let you believe you lived in the perfect fantasy among glittering crystal and sparkling champagne— a fairy tale of his own dark and twisted design.

After dinner had concluded and Undertaker had left a generous tip to the kind waiter, you two had returned to his shiny black car that was already waiting for you upon exiting the restaurant. Climbing back inside as he closed the door behind you, you once again caught your reflection in the side-view mirror, having forgotten the drastic change of appearance from when you’d first walked out your front door this morning.

Undertaker’s earlier compliment returned to you. “Absolutely gorgeous” he’d called you. At the time, you’d just thought he was being kind, simply repeating a line he probably used on all the pretty girls he’d taken out.

But now you saw it too.

You were gorgeous. Exquisite. Divine.

And it made you wonder…

How long had it been since you last thought that about yourself? Since you’d last believed it?

“Now…” Undertaker began the moment he was back behind the wheel, looking over at you with one hand resting on the gear shift. “I can either drop you back off at your flat or—” He reached over and gently brushed a stray strand of your hair behind your ear, caressing your cheek with the back of his hand, tender. “We can return to my estate to continue enjoying each other’s company.” He put the car in drive and began to slowly roll away from the curb. “It’s up to you.”

You had to fight back the urge to immediately blurt out a damn near desperate sounding “yes!”, your cheeks heating as you gave a cute little smile and nod and responded with a much more reserved, “I’d like that very much.”

Undertaker smiled too— one of those soft, charming, doting grins that made you feel like you were special, as naive as it might’ve been.

“Well then, in that case,” he said, merging back in with traffic and zipping skillfully through the city’s narrow streets, “Why don’t you play some of that music you were telling me about earlier. It’s a bit of a long drive.”

***

You’d texted your friend, let her know you wouldn’t be back tonight, that you’d met someone and wanted to keep things going.

She’d asked you if you were ok, reminding you to be safe, and when you’d assured her things were going great, she sent you back a cute winking emoji and a playfully supportive, “go get some, girl!”.

Your phone was almost dead at that point, so you decided to slip it into your purse and focus on the scenery passing by out the car window as your favorite album continued playing. The lights of the city gave way to the quiet, serene darkness of the countryside beyond London’s looming architecture, the little pond of your usual stomping grounds expanding into a vast ocean of tall trees and vacant roads.

The closer you approached to Undertaker’s residence, the more you began to see mansions and manors sporadically spotting the fields, each one protected by its own unique, intricate gate or wall of manicured hedges.

Each one you passed was grander than the last, and you started to become a little nervous about what you were blindly stepping into.

Your mind went to a few darker places as well, like, if he wanted to hurt you, out here, no one would hear your screams. And, even if you did manage to escape, you could never hope to make it back to the city on foot before he caught you, acres of open land and who knows what else lurking in the shadows ready to trap you out in this valley of silent luxury. 

“It’s just up ahead,” Undertaker informed you, pulling you from your anxious spiral. When you turned your attention back out the windshield, you saw the distant lights that dotted the driveway, a cage of winding, iron wrought bars curling around the perimeter of the magnificent gothic mansion.

You weren’t sure how long your mouth had been hanging open before you realized and closed it, but as the gilded gates parted and Undertaker pulled around the horseshoe driveway to the opulent, double front doors, your jaw dropped once more.

“This is…” you sighed out in awe, your face practically pressed to the passenger-side window to get a better look.

“It’s not to everyone’s taste,” Undertaker shrugged, suddenly modest. “But it’s home.”

You turned to face him, looking completely incredulous with your brows knit together and your slightly parted lips turned down into a gentle frown, as if you were offended on his behalf.

“No, it’s—” Your hand reached forward to rest atop his on the gearshift. You were unaware you’d even done it, but for Undertaker, the soft, reassuring touch was driving him insane. Because you were just so sweet, so genuine. Far more than anyone like him had ever experienced or deserved. Every second that passed with your skin on his, the more addicted he became.

All the while, you continued with a bout of stumbling compliments. “It’s amazing! I mean— It’s just so beautiful. I—” What remained of your sentence tapered off into sounds of sputtering nonsense, unable to articulate what you really meant, how impressed you were with every single thing he’d shown you so far, but luckily, Undertaker got the gist.

“I appreciate the praise,” he chuckled weakly, taking your little hand in his cool, comforting grasp. Slowly, you watched as he raised your hand to his lips, placed a chaste kiss to the back of it, then gave you another one of those loving smiles, the scar peeking out from his curtain of silver hair shining in the moonlight. “Would you like to come inside?”

***

The high ceilings and wide halls echoed eerily with every tap your heeled shoes made across the black and white checkered marble flooring. The house had been dark before Undertaker used his phone to activate the lights throughout the lower floor, priceless antiques and imported, one of a kind art pieces illuminated by crystal chandeliers and golden sconces. 

However, for all the ornate wealth that glittered and shined throughout every new space of the open floor plan you passed through, you noticed something strange…

For a house of this size, this status, there didn’t appear to be a single housestaff member in sight. Not a maid or a cook or a butler.

“Ah…” Undertaker contemplated when you asked him if you two were alone here, the question coming out a little more nervously than you’d intended. “Well, I suppose I can’t be too careful these days…” He explained that he could only trust a small, select group of people, though, when it came to his home, he preferred to manage it himself. “I find help to be a bit redundant,” He said, flashing you an almost apologetic grin. “Besides, I enjoy doing things like cooking and gardening. It’s a nice retreat from the usual chaos of my life, so I don’t believe in giving that up to anyone else, even if they are deemed a professional.”

You could respect that, actually.

Plus, it made you curious to try his cooking, especially after experiencing how refined his taste was.

Anyway, after going through the first floor, the two of you headed upstairs to conclude the tour, finishing at the master bedroom.

“Your house is very nice,” you complimented, trying hard not to eye the bed too obviously, all those fluffy, goosedown comforters and egyptian cotton tempting you. “It…” You searched his eyes, loving the way they shimmered like emeralds in the dim light, then smiled as you said, “It suits you.”

Undertaker thanked you for your kind words, running one of his palms from your shoulder down to your hand before intertwining your fingers with his again, this time with nothing to interrupt the intimate gesture.

“You look good surrounded by all of it, darling…” Kissing your hand again, he used his thumb to gently smooth over the knuckles of your delicate little fingers, dwarfed in his grasp. “You make the place feel more like home.”

***

He moved slowly, cautiously, as if approaching too quickly would spook you and send you skittering like a startled alley cat. And you were nervous— not scared, but definitely nervous— as your heart hammered in your chest and your hands began to tremble.

He leaned down to give you a kiss, soft at first, testing to see how far you’d let him go. When you seemed to reciprocate, he came back for another, this one a little more daring as he rested his hands on your waist and held you there, his tongue slipping into the heat of your mouth. But again, you didn’t pull away.

His grip on you became tighter, causing you to suck in a short gasp as he kissed you deeper. You could feel a devious smirk spreading across his lips as a hum of a chuckle vibrated in his throat.

“Are you alright?” he asked in a low, seductive tone, brilliant gaze scanning you while his hands kept purchase on your hips.

You couldn’t look him in the eyes now, were too embarrassed by how red your face had probably gone, how hot your body felt just from something as simple as kissing, unable to deny the chemistry that was swimming between you two.

But when he lightly took your chin in his hand and guided your face upward, you let him, that piercing, chartreuse, half-lidded stare sending a shiver through your entire body. You felt tears threaten to well in your eyes and at first you didn’t quite know why.

Was it because you were just so nervous, so embarrassed?

Was it because you really were scared, unsure of whether you wanted to trust this man that you’d just met or not?

Or was it because you hadn’t told him that you were a virgin and knew where this night was likely headed?

If you did tell him, would he stop? Would he decide this interaction was over and call someone to take you home?

You didn’t particularly want to end things here. You were willing to go further, you thought, but perhaps it would be to your benefit to mention it to him.

“What’s wrong, baby?” Undertaker cooed as he stroked his thumb along your jaw, his soft grin never fading. “Come on… You can tell me.”

“I-I…” you began, feeling more and more like you were going to cry.

“Yes…?” he urged you, silver brows lifting with slight intrigue.

“I, um… Well…” You averted your gaze off to the side. “I’ve actually never…”

You couldn’t say it.

Even if you wanted to, the words wouldn’t leave you.

“Never what?” Undertaker pressed, tone still silky smooth and looking at you in that sinisterly seductive way of his. Despite the fact that he’d already caught on though— call it his craving for control, or just the fact that he thought you were cute— he needed to hear you say it.

“I-I’m sorry…” you stuttered, feeling as if you were already proving to be a disappointment. Tears welled to the brim of your lashline now, sparkling in the low light of the bedroom. But you had to say it. You had to admit to him the one secret that no one else would probably believe about you. “It’s just… I’m actually… I’m actually a virgin and I—”

Your tears spilled over, racing each other over your cheeks until Undertaker lifted one of his hands from your waist and gently wiped them away, his smirk gone now as he cast a gaze of genuine concern upon your adorably pathetic face.

You were shaking even harder now, both from fear of rejection and frustration at yourself for not being able to contain your emotions. But still, that didn’t seem to bother the man in front of you.

“Oh, sweetheart…” he soothed in a calming whisper, bringing you in closer for a comforting embrace, lightly combing through your hair with his pale, slender fingers. “It’s alright. There’s no need to be upset…” You buried your face further into the expensive fabrics of his coat, feeling safer the closer you were to him. “I’m going to take good care of you…” he then whispered in your ear. “I just need you to trust me.”

The only response you gave was a weak nod as you nuzzled further into him, little hands gripping his shoulders as he lifted you into his arms and rocked you gently until your nervous quivering subsided. When you finally found it in yourself to look back up at him, big doe-eyes so innocent, so adorable, Undertaker’s adoring smile returned.

“You’re a good girl, aren’t you?” he asked you then, voice still feather soft and strangely attentive, as if he was willing to do anything to keep you like this. Keep you all for himself.

But to his question, you just nodded, swallowing down some more of your worries as you tried to stay calm. He was lovingly stroking the soft skin of your cheek with the back of his knuckles, taking in as much of you like this while he still could before he had you panting shallow breaths and clutching the sheets for dear life as you trembled and writhed beneath him.

He’d like you just as much in that state, but it had been so long that he’d found a sweet little princess who truly was as her image implied. Because for so many others, it was merely performative, a trap set to ensnare wealthy men like him who had a type they could imitate.

No, with you he knew it was real. And that’s why he fell in love with you after just a few hours of each other’s company.

Undertaker strolled over to the bed then, sitting down on the edge with you still in his arms.

You hadn’t said a word.

What could you say?

You knew what to expect, in the simplest sense, but still, someone like him could be into all kinds of things that you didn’t even know about. The size of him compared to you alone was intimidating, how he towered over you and how your delicate little hand could disappear inside his massive grip. But part of you also liked that— liked that he was so much more powerful than you, stronger than you could ever have a chance of fighting against.

Because even if your mind had concerns, your body was already reacting positively to the idea.

Undertaker began to position you differently and you followed his lead, moving along with him to where he wanted you to straddle his lap, his hands back on your hips now as yours rested on his shoulders.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked you then, hands leisurely running up and down your sides, tracing along your waist.

You nodded again, forcing yourself to meet his eyes. “I-I’m sure…” you replied, hoping the crack in your voice went unnoticed.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” he assured you once more, pulling you a little closer and repositioning you slightly. “You can trust me.” He pressed his lips to your neck, leaving a trail of soft kisses along your pulse. You leaned your head back instinctively, giving him easier access as he began to suck little bruises into your skin, a new wave of shivers surging through your body at the sensation.

A few soft moans and whines escaped your throat and Undertaker’s smirk widened. He brought his lips right next to your ear and whispered, “Do you trust me, baby?”

You hadn’t even really heard what he said over the racing of your heart and the lust that was clouding your mind, pooling warm and heavy in your lower belly, but you didn’t really care. You just nodded and let the tension melt away with his kisses, which soon found your mouth again, these ones much deeper and more passionate than the first round, slow and savoring.

You soon felt something hard pressing into you where you straddled his lap, the thin lace of your panties the only thing to protect you as more heat coiled in the pit of your stomach, and you hesitantly grinded down a little on him.

His grip on your hips flexed as he pulled you down to rub even harder against his growing erection, you becoming wetter with every roll of your hips, a cute, breathy moan sneaking past your lips every time he helped you press on just the right spot for you both.

You didn’t want to stop. Couldn’t stop. It felt too good, just by doing this, and it scared you a little how much better it might feel if you really went all the way with him. But that really wasn’t up to you anymore. Because Undertaker had you wrapped around his finger like one of his sterling silver rings now.

For the remainder of the night, at least, you’d do anything he wanted, anything he asked.

Because, for whatever odd reason— ignoring the fact that you’d only known each other for a day and you barely knew the first thing about him— didn’t even know his real name— you did trust him. And what was even more, he trusted you.

He trusted you not to leave him when this was done, and that was also a rare occurrence when it came to his previous companions.

A loud, high-pitched moan forced its way out of you as he pressed you down even harder, feeling your clit throbbing through the lace and wanting to keep you under his control for as long as possible, dangling you from the edge until he decided to let you go.

It was something Undertaker was good at— controlling his partner’s orgasms— and what you didn’t realize yet was that he could use it as a punishment if he wanted to, could use it to get you begging for mercy if ever you did something bad.

But not yet.

No, Undertaker was just getting started with you.

“Take them off,” he ordered. You stilled for a moment, looking at him with uncertainty. “Your panties,” he clarified. “Take them off.”

And, because you were a good girl, you listened. You were going to step down from the bed and discard them, but you gave a startled gasp as Undertaker decided he wanted to be the one to do it instead, quickly flipping you onto your back and leaning over you while your legs were still spread. He paused, staring into your wide eyes with his unshakable confidence before puffing out a small breath of amusement from his nose and hooking his thumbs under the waistband of the lace, slowly pulling the thin fabric down and exposing your soaked slit to the cold air of the room.

Once they were completely removed from your person, he balled your panties up in his fist and shoved them into his back pocket. You didn’t think you’d be getting them back, but you didn’t care. It would just be an excuse for him to buy you new ones anyway.

You tried to pull your legs together, face red hot with embarrassment again, but he didn’t give you enough time, effortlessly pulling you back up with him to sit just as you had before, no delicate lace to protect you anymore. But now you were nervous for a different reason. Because you were so wet, and Undertaker knew that, but you weren’t sure if he actually wanted you to ruin his expensive trousers.

“Go on,” he chuckled upon your hesitation. “It’s ok.”

“But…” you barely protested before he settled you back over his still hard cock, you wincing as the rough texture of the trouser’s fabric pressed against your clit.

“No buts,” Undertaker playfully warned, slowly rolling his hips up into you to tempt you to find your rhythm again. “You’re a good girl, aren’t you? So do as Daddy says.”

At that, you felt even more arousal leaking from you, going back to grinding on him, the sensation different but better.

As you did this, Undertaker moved his hands up to where your dress hung off your shoulders a bit, pulling down the neckline until the matching lace of your bra was exposed to him, cupping both your breasts in his hands and kissing your cleavage, earning himself another one of those cute sounds he was slowly becoming addicted to.

When he reached behind you to unhook your bra, you stilled again, breathing stuttering a bit as you found yourself even more exposed, the undergarment tossed to the floor and your nipples already furled tight from the chill that permeated the entire mansion.

“U-Undertaker!” you gasped as another one of his kisses found your nipple.

Calling him that out loud still felt strange, and you almost wanted to try and ask him again what his real name was, despite him seeming so protective over it the first time you’d inquired.

Maybe you’d get used to it.

But when another whimper of “Daddy…” trailed off your lips as his tongue teased the sensitive bud of your breast, the mysterious, monochrome man seemed to like that, so you figured perhaps that ought to be the name you addressed him by.

Undertaker chuckled darkly then, slowly laying you down on your back and pulling your dress down over your hips and tossing it to the floor to join your bra, leaving you completely bare and vulnerable under him now.

Normally, he would get completely undressed before stripping away the last of your remaining fabrics, always liking to savor the moment when the most tender parts of a body were exposed to him, but tonight he’d gotten too caught up with having a new toy to follow the usual protocol.

Because you were a gift. Truly, you were.

You were a sweet girl, a good girl, an adorable, darling little doll for him to dress and undress as he pleased.

And even as you lay in anticipation for the crescendo of the moaning chorus the two of you would compose together— face blushed and body trembling, ready to arch and sway to his touch— he knew you were different from the others who’d been under him like this before.

And after tonight, after he’d had you, he’d only want you more.

Just like a prized possession or a favorite pet, he couldn’t let anyone else get their hands on you. And he’d do anything to ensure that you stayed.

“D-Daddy…?” you whimpered hesitantly as Undertaker was almost completely freed of his clothing, so many layers to get through before all of his pale white skin and deep silvery scars were on deadly display.

The slash running across his face had been a bit jarring at first, though had added to his appeal, the extra element of implied danger attracting you to him.

But there were so many more, his entire body littered with them, and you couldn’t help but wonder just what— or who— had done something like this to him. What was even capable of inflicting such lasting damage.

“What is it, sweetheart?” he asked, positioning himself over you again and holding your wrists above your head in one large hand, his palm cold against the warmth of blood coursing fast under your skin.

What happened to you?

Who did this?

Are you ok?

All questions that you wanted to ask, but didn’t.

Instead, what came out was, “P-please be careful with me…”

Undertaker clicked his tongue through a smile, cooing at you almost condescendingly as he reassured, “I’ll be gentle, baby. Don’t you worry.”

With his free hand, he reached down to run his middle fingers over your drenched cunt, massaging your clit and making you jolt when he found just the right spot.

And god, he liked to tease you, applying pressure on your most sensitive area and making you squirm and writhe and beg before letting another sinister chuckle rumble through his chest and moving his fingers lower to enter your tight, needy little hole.

You sucked in a shuddering gasp when one finger slipped in, then two, rhythmically pumping in and out while beginning to scissor inside and stretch you, making you whine and wince every so often.

“You’re beautiful, sweetheart,” he muttered in a low, velvety baritone, making that sensation in your stomach wind tighter and tighter. “You’re doing so good…”

Once he felt like he’d stretched you enough— though you were still so tight— he slightly repositioned himself over you, using his knees to spread your legs a little further apart as your body tried to pull them back together against your will.

You tried not to tense up too much, tried to stay calm and relaxed as you felt him lining himself up with your pulsing entrance and then slowly press the tip of his cock inside. You winced when he first entered you, the feeling foreign but not entirely as uncomfortable as you’d thought it’d be.

And Undertaker was keeping his promise, being as gentle as he could, aside from that fact that when you whimpered or whined or tensed he didn’t stop, just slowed down until he felt like you could take a faster pace. Your sensitive skin tore around the thickness of him, feeling like you were being split in two as your teeth clenched and your toes curled in an attempt to outlast the pain.

Once he was fully inserted, you both stilled for a moment, him helping you adjust yourself over his cock and catch your breath for a second before he began with smooth, rhythmic rolls of his hips into yours.

Once he pulled another one of those irresistible little sounds of pleasure from you, he couldn’t help but pick up speed, the rolling morphing into thrusting, trying as hard as he could to work you up to his preferred pace lest he frighten you with the intensity of which you’d get used to, eventually.

“That’s it… baby girl…” he spoke in between grunts as your cunt constricted even tighter around his cock, your eyes already beginning to roll back as you felt your limit approaching.

But Undertaker didn’t want to let you come yet.

He liked looking at the fucked-out daze that splayed across your face, even that expression appearing adorable when you were the one wearing it.

“D-Daddy…” you begged through your next breathy moan. “P-please…!”

Undertaker was getting close too, picking up the pace and feeling you tense even more under and around him, the pain threatening to outperform the pleasure if he didn’t time things just right.

But neither of you could speak now. Not even your pathetic, mewling pleas or Undertaker’s growling, whispered praises could be uttered. With every snap of his hips digging into your tender inner thighs, Undertaker conducted a symphony using your high-pitched whines and delectable moans, your sweet little voice echoing through the high ceilings and empty upper halls of the ornate, gothic mansion.

And then, finally, Undertaker let you come, your entire body tensing and shuddering as your insides squeezed harder than they ever had before around what was inside you. Then you fell limp, panting breaths hitching in your chest as you lay there like a rag-doll, head buzzing and pleasure surging.

Undertaker only made it a few more thrusts into you before he finished too, filling you up with his hot, sticky cum and moaning out as his head fell to nuzzle into the crook of your neck, his labored breaths felt on your skin as the two of you lay there in a mess of trembling limbs and heavy breathing.

Your hole kept fluttering around him, the intensity fading down after a few minutes, and then Undertaker slowly pulled out of you, falling on the bed beside you and tugging you close to him, pressing you to his chest as his long, lithe arms wrapped around your shivering form.

“It’s ok, baby girl…” he whispered to you as he stroked your tousled hair, sweat sticking it to your temples, your body still trembling slightly under his touch. “You’re ok… Daddy’s got you… You’re ok…”

And you didn’t really know what to do now, didn’t know what to expect.

Would he just send you off now that he’d gotten what he wanted?

Would he even contact you again once the two of you parted ways?

After tonight, you sure hoped so, though you knew many men would just move onto the next with zero regard for the last.

But after laying there in his arms for a while, him combing his fingers through your hair and softly humming a melancholy lullaby, you had a feeling maybe he did care for you more than a one night stand.

Maybe you were being naive to entertain that idea, but you couldn’t help it. You’d been so desperate for affection for so long and now that you were finally being shown it you’d gotten attached. Lucky for the two of you, you were both attached, however silently through the night that your need for each other grew.

Before you’d even made the decision to do such a thing, you’d fallen asleep, exhausted from the day’s— and night’s— activities, but Undertaker still had work to do.

He carefully unraveled himself from around you to head into the bathroom and get something to clean you up with, back to being careful and tender as he wiped away as much of the mess the two of you had made that remained between your legs as he could without waking you.

Tomorrow morning he could give you a bath, join you in the warm water and put his hands all over you again. He could make you breakfast and watch you sit at the long dining room table while wrapped up in one of his fluffy black bathrobes, the sleeves too long for you and the oversized garment making you appear even smaller compared to him than you already were.

He wouldn’t want you to leave, but he’d have no choice, because you didn’t live here and your friends might get worried if you didn’t come back. Not to mention, he was bound to be called back to headquarters sooner or later to attend to more matters concerning the Aurora Society.

But after he’d kissed you goodbye and you’d stepped out of the jet-black Rolls Royce, he’d be planning how and when he could see you again.

You’d both be thinking about each other while you were away, always eager to be in each other’s arms again.

Before you knew it, the lease to your apartment would be up for renewal but you’d have to break it to your friends that they’d have to find a replacement for you since you were moving into a luxurious mansion on the outskirts of London. They’d be hesitant of your decision at first, warn you not to rush into things too quickly, but you’d assure them that you were in good hands, promising to stay in touch and visit them again soon.

But it became so easy to lose track of time when you were with Undertaker. Days turning into weeks turning into months before you even realized it, seasons changing, holidays and birthdays and special occasions spent on extravagant vacations filling up your schedule with the man you loved. You’d meet his closest confidants and learn more about what it really was that he did for a living. Or at least, as much as he was willing to let you in on.

You became close with Grell quickly, both of you bonding over your similar taste in music and fashion and favorite movies. You tried to be on your best behavior around William, in the beginning, quickly realizing that the serious and stoic man didn’t have a knack for entertaining his boss’s girl like his outgoing, red-headed colleague did. And then there was Ron who, though he always seemed outwardly cheerful and always ready for a good time, you couldn’t get a sure read on.

But this would become your life, your normal routine. What used to be scraping by for the month’s rent and picking up convenience store food on your way to the part time job you hated was soon replaced by shamelessly expensive shopping sprees and five star Michelin restaurants and skipping around the spacious mansion in a brand new dress while you waited for Undertaker to finish up a meeting at headquarters.

And you loved your life. You loved him.

Because things were perfect.

And, as long as you were with him, they always would be.

I mean, wouldn’t they?

***

(Hello and thank you for reading! Whether you’re coming to this fic already having read my “Cause to Start a Vendetta” series or this is your introduction to it, I hope you enjoyed :)

I’d actually written the first draft of this fic about a year ago, not long after I’d started posting chapters of the main series. I wanted to give a little more backstory on the reader’s life before meeting Undertaker.

But yeah, this wraps up the series. Like I said in the afterword on the final chapter, I might write little bonus one-shots for this series in the future, but now I’m honestly looking forward to starting the new Undertaker fic I’ve had in my head for a while.

Thanks again for reading! See you soon~! <3)

[gabessquishytum]

just to flip the age kink thing, i've got a suggestion for how they'd have hob as the younger one. hob's getting to the point where he needs to start his next life and he decides that he wants to keep teaching but wants to change up the subject this time. there's a grad program he's really interested in so he figures he'll do that and then teach the subject, he starts crafting his next identity, and dream's so interested in the process since he hasn't seen hob doing this before. he sees the age hob's going for and offers some help -- he could make everyone perceive hob as younger, so he'd be able to get longer out of this identity.

hob, of course, is thrilled. he starts off as young as he can, of course, but it's been centuries since hob's even tried to pass himself off as 22. he could pull it off when people lived harder, but it just doesn't work anymore. dream makes a couple more suggestions -- hob's used June 7th as his birthday before, it sort of is in a way. now tgat he and dream use it as their anniversary he would have picked a different date but hey, if that's the date dream thinks he should go with, no big deal.

so hob goes off back to school, he's having a great time, he's sort of loving pretending to be in his 20s again. his friends do give him odd looks when they see him with dream, though. that's fine -- dream is, frankly, odd. it's probably nothing. until he starts seeing how dream's presenting himself to others and... yeah, the first time hob sees the dusting of silver hair at dream's temples, he drops to his knees to suck dream's cock in the stacks of the uni library. it's fine. he has very normal feelings about it. it's fine.

he's not totally clear on the specifics of the game dream's playing until the end of his first year, though, when dream mentions, in careful earshot of a few of hob's more gossipy classmates, that he'll plan something nice for hob's birthday. it's their anniversary, after all, and five years is a number worth celebrating. hob doesn't realize until later that dream just made sure all hob's classmates know that he got together with his significantly older and significantly wealthy boyfriend on his 18th birthday. and that dream's been supplying most of hob's wardrobe again. and giving him jewellery. and keeping hob at his side any time they're in public together. and that maybe there's a reason he keeps getting carefully worded questions about his relationship, because dream has very intentionally made him look like a pretty young thing being taken advantage of by an older man. hob needs dream to fuck him about this immediately, actually.

(it also occurs to hob, once dream's fucked him through the mattress while calling him little one and darling boy and pet, that this is. probably how gods and fey and other immortals actually do see a relationship between dream of the endless and a human. and gets turned on about it all over again.)

-🐈‍⬛

This is literally what I look like right now. Oh my fucking gOD

I don't. I don't know how to add to this? Hnnngg. Dream with grey in his hair, treating Hob like his little plaything, making Hob’s friends somewhere between concerned and jealous. It's making my mouth go dry.

I think you might have finally bit the "horny overload" switch in my brain, my darling.

ffffffuck.

I'm just thinking about Dream renting a fancy apartment for Hob to live in while he's studying. He comes home from the dreaming every day, and Hob’s friends skedaddle from what ever study club they've been doing (they're a little intimidated by Dream, although hes nothing but polite). Dream gets to have Hob all to himself for the evening, gets to relearn Hob’s body as it hasn't been for a very long time. Being physically 22 has a lot of advantages when it comes to joint flexibility and sexual stamina, and Dream wants to enjoy them to the fullest. Hob is very much immersed in the fantasy of being Dream’s kept boy, and he likes the attention, he likes it when Dream showers him in gifts. He keeps Dream updated on his grades and soaks up all the praise and sweet talk Dream lavishes on him. They go to the opera together, or to fancy restaurants where Dream publicly shows Hob off to absolutely everyone. And the sex afterwards is just insane. Hob rides Dream’s cock in the limo on the way home, or sucks him off in the dressing rooms of fancy boutiques.

They have literally all the time in the world to be horny and stupid and I, for one, want to see it.

[bluedalahorse]

Scattered thoughts about the YR faves as we approach season 3

It’s been a busy week, and then the week before that was busy too, so I’ve been reading but not fully weighing in on many of the season 3 questions that have been starting to bubble up on my dash. So I’m posting the thoughts swirling around in my mind about my two favorite characters (Sara and August) just so that my thoughts can exist somewhere other than my own head.

People are starting to discuss the question of Sara and Simon reconciling again, and I think I might have to address that in another post of its own. I spent an entire semester of grad school looking at how characters reconcile in fiction, and obviously I think a lot of it is going down to Simon’s needs and priorities and decisions, so obviously I have Thoughts. (I also have minimal patience for fans who want Sara to crawl over a football field’s worth of broken glass for Simon if that is what Simon doesn’t want himself.)

I feel like one of the questions surrounding August’s character arc are whether there is hope for him to own his actions and change one day, or whether he’s only going to get worse, and never be able to break his cycles of awfulness. Some folks argue that season 2 put that question to rest and that he’s unchangeable. I argue that the question is still in play. The more complex reasons are in my restorative justice post, but I also argue that it would be incredibly strange writing to take one of your show’s most dynamic characters and have his character arc stagnate and go nowhere new in season 3. Now, he could choose to turn over a new leaf in season 3, or he could triple down on his harmful decisions. The point is I think it would have to be another choice, and if he makes the decision to embrace harming others and himself, it would have to be a tragic choice, and not something we can be smug about because we Already Knew He Was Evil. I dunno, there’s this like… sometimes there’s this tendency in other fandoms to gloat and be like “I, Unlike The Other Girls, was not distracted by this broody brunette man’s hotness, and I realized he was bad all along. One hundred points to me for not clamoring for a redemption arc.” And like, yes, it’s fun to laugh at Dude Watchin’ With the Brontës once in a while (I laugh at it!) but I think we also have to acknowledge that fiction is about people growing and changing and we as media enjoyers sometimes become invested in character arcs. It just feels weird to me that fans would gloat about like… the supposed moral superiority of not being invested in a character arc that the show clearly wants us to be invested in.

If August is always going to cause harm and he is unable to change his ways, then he may continue to target Simon with the drugs and the blackmail. But he may also choose to target Sara, especially if he finds out she called the police on him. He has pictures and information he can use against her now, and I feel like that is probably, very likely what the show would do to show us that he is Too Far Gone. Frankly I find that terrifying. What I find even more terrifying is that I know there will be fans (probably those who use anonymous messages on the more public facing blogs) who will say that Sara “deserves it” because she “knew he was bad when she had sex with him.” Like. Can we agree not to do that as a fandom, and call it out when we see it? Because I’m pretty sure that Lisa would not write a storyline like that while cackling and going “haha that bitch Sara got what’s coming to her.” I’m pretty sure if Lisa writes something like that she’ll want us to feel sympathy for Sara too. And I mean, you don’t have to feel sympathy, but using the cloak of anonymity to express open misogynistic malice would be… yikes.

I also think that if the show is making the decision to say that August is always going to cause harm, that he’s never going to escape a cycle of harming himself and others and fall in to patterns of abuse, then we should want to see Sara reconnect with others in season three and find some sort of healing or connection. I guess that doesn’t have to be her finding connections with Simon. It could be! It could also be Felice, or Linda, or Maddie, or anyone. (I’m really hoping Sara will get to connect with Wilhelm.) But there’s good in wanting her to find connections, and for wanting her to know that there is a path forward in life that isn’t total isolation or like, packing herself off to the convent to atone forever. Especially if the message about August is that he’s somehow unable to change and is just that awful. If your view of August is that he’s so monstrous or unforgivable, so caught in dangerous patterns that it was wrong for Sara to get close to him at all, then we need to view Sara’s relationship with him as something that put her in danger, even when she chose a relationship with him at first. And one of the ways you stay out of danger is by having strong connections to other loved ones. Abuse works because the abuser uses isolation as a weapon. Also, presuming the show reaches the verdict that August is an abuser who can’t change—even if August and Sara never talk to one another again, Sara being friendless in other ways just sweeps the path clear for the next abuser to swoop down on her. I hope people would recognize that as a tragedy too.

If, however, the show goes in the direction of like… August takes his first steps toward making better decisions, and gets some therapy or rehab or whatever else, then ultimately his past relationship with Sara might play an indirect role in that, and in helping August see alternatives to his current way of being. I’m not saying the simple act of falling in love redeems someone for wrongs done. It doesn’t! (Young Royals actually does a lot to subvert that as a narrative, which is something I address when I talk about Wilhelm, again in my restorative justice post.) I’m saying Sara was the only damn person on the show in season 2 who told August it would be good for his soul to confess and attempted to support him in that, however imperfectly. Every other teenager who knew what August did (Wilhelm, Felice, Alexander) took it for granted that he wouldn’t confess—and, you know, fair on Wille and Felice’s part, but also Alexander couldn’t have gone to an adult, huh? Every single adult that August talked to about the video (Kristina, Rickard) insisted he keep quiet about it, scared him into it even. It takes more than one person in a community to hold someone accountable for wrongs done, and Hillerska as a community has repeatedly failed that test. I don’t know, I keep looking at that promo picture of August alone in his room and wonder if he’s practicing the breathing exercises Sara taught him. They don’t have to be together again for that to be the case. Maybe the memory of her will be helpful to him in some way.

Ultimately I don’t—at the moment—really care about whether August goes to jail or not. People will interpret this as me saying “I don’t think August should go to jail” and that’s not actually what I’m saying. It’s just that I find the question of whether he’s capable of change or not infinitely more interesting, and the role the system/Hillerska plays in encouraging that change (or not) infinitely more interesting than the question of what the specifics of August’s “punishment” or “consequences” might be. “Consequences” can be him living with the crushing knowledge of how deeply he hurt Wilhelm and Simon and Sara and Felice for the rest of his life, and trying to move forward in a different way from now on knowing he can never undo the past. “Punishment” can be August becoming king but being completely unable to change his ways and connect with other humans and feel any sense of agency in his life. There are multiple ways to address his arc—whether he’s awful or whether he’s willing to atone—that don’t rely on the legal system providing narrative catharsis all by itself, and frankly I’d prefer that it didn’t. (There’s a longer reason why but I feel like I keep linking my restorative justice post.)

To sum up… if these characters’ arcs go in a really tragic direction, I hope people don’t gloat and go “I knew they were terrible all along, unlike those other fans.” And if they go in a more positive directions, I hope we don’t hear the chorus of “they didn’t deserve it!” even if that arc is beautifully, complexly, and compellingly written. (Here are my thoughts on the way fandoms use the word deserve, by the way. It seems I have written about this before and am just becoming a parody of myself at this point.)

[dotster001]

Are you ok with writing alcohol related stuff? I think it would be funny to have a drunk headmaster complain to reader about all the work and mischievous students while reader tries to calm him down and just get him to drink water because fae apparently do not have a superior tolerance. OR on the opposite: reader gets drunk and Crowley has to deal with us now maybe we get him flustered too >:)

(hey nonnie I finally finished it. I seriously debated waiting until my birthday so I could be like, "the US government says I can drink now!" But luckily for both of us, I got hit with the inspiration bug. I hope it's everything you dreamed edit; I just realized I combined your two ideas into one...oops I went flustered crowman route)

Drugged Up Reader Addition from 300 Followers event

A/N: It's in my pinned post, and I've mentioned this in a couple posts, but if this is the first of my stuff you've read, I view NRC as an actual college, so reader here is 18+. If it makes you more comfy, imagine it as grad school age.

CW: excessive drinking, black out from drinking

Fae were known to hold their liquor extraordinarily well. A bottle? Three? Bah! That didn't matter at all to the fae! Besides, he deserved to treat himself after putting up with shenanigans all day.

Four bottles……

Yeah, so Crowley was on his sixth bottle of a 300 year old wine of excellent vintage, when fate decided it was time for you to come to his office. Naturally, as the cool, collected, fabulous headmage he was, all he had to do was play it cool, and you'd never know.

"Greetings Prefect! What can I do ya for?" Yep. You'd never know.

Had he been more sober, he would have noticed that you were soaking wet and covered in dust and plaster bits. But since he didn't notice, he was able to not notice this fact, as you sat across from him with a frustrated huff.

"The shower in Ramshackle exploded," you scowled. "Any chance, in all your generosity, that there is some budget for a new one?" 

"But of course!" He stood up, gesturing wildly. You couldn't hide your shock, which made him laugh, as he leaned over his desk to squish your face between his palms.

"My dearest, squishiest, prefect. Whatever you want, I shall give you!" 

Suddenly, you gasped. "Are you drunk?"

He let go of your face and scoffed, illustrating the six empty bottles on his desk.

"Nonsense, my dear, the fae don't get drunk. As you can see, I have only consumed ten bottles…"

"There's only six here, though," you interrupted, becoming nervous for his health.

"Ah! You're right! I still have four more bottles to consume! You must join me Y/N!"

"I don't think I should…."

He kept over his desk with surprising dexterity, and gently slotted himself in your lap, nuzzling his cheek against yours like a cat.

"C'mon Y/N, I'd hate to drink alone. I'd be sooooo lonely without you…like before…" his eyes were suddenly elsewhere, and he froze in your lap.

Then he started tearing up, crying into your collar.

"Please don't leave me, Y/N!" He sobbed.

You began running your hands through his hair worriedly, trying to calm him down.

"Do you mean, like right this moment, or in general?" You asked, mildly amused with yourself.

"Yes," he whimpered. You had no idea how the giant crow man was able to make himself look so small in your lap, but it was making your heart melt.

"Okay, I won't leave then," you said, hoping that it would calm him a little.

He looked up at you, suddenly no longer crying, eyes full of total adoration. 

"I love you Y/N. It's time you know that," he breathed, moving closer to your lips.

Then he blacked out.

                                ….

Crowley opened his eyes, and immediately shut them again with a groan. The lights in his room were too bright, and his head hurt, and….wait. He didn't remember going to his room last night.

"Ah, sleeping beauty has finally awoken," that was your voice, but what were you doing in his room?

He opened his eyes, and slowly sat up. You were sitting in a chair next to his bed, holding a book and, great sevens, wearing his clothes.

"Why are you here?" He asked cautiously.

"You blacked out on me, and I had to drag you to your room. You're surprisingly heavy, you know. Are you hiding muscles under all those layers?"

He scoffed, ready to tell you about how someone of his station had to stay in good shape, until he fully processed what you had said.

"How generous of you to bring me to my room," he croaked. "But why," he swallowed thickly, "why are you wearing a set of my clothes?" Not that he'd complain. They looked good on you.

You raised a single eyebrow. "My shower exploded, remember? My clothes were all wet and dirty, and I didn't want to ruin your furniture, so I kind of just grabbed something from your closet." Your grin turned downright evil. "Wait, do you not remember anything from last night?" 

You giggled. He loved that giggle, but right now he was filled with pure terror.

"I have an excellent memory, prefect," he scowled, trying to play it off. But it was clearly too late. You knew.

You stood up, and approached him. You squished his cheeks with your palms.

"So you remember this then?"

He loved your smile, but right now he wanted to wipe it off your face. You'd left him in his clothes, thank goodness, so you couldn't see his reddening cheeks under his mask. He'd never been more grateful for anything.

"Of course I remember," he said, composure disappearing fast.

"Then you remember this?" You crawled into his lap, and buried you face in his collar. He stiffened, afraid if he breathed you would disappear.

"Ye…yes."

"Okay," you grinned wickedly, "so you'll remember this then." You leaned into his ear and whispered, "I love you, Y/N." 

He was going to have what humans called a heart attack. Had he really said that last night? He'd kept it buried for so long….

"If you remember that, you'll definitely remember this," you leaned in as though to kiss him, but pulled away and left his lap at the last second. He involuntarily let out a whine, making you giggle. 

"And that's when you passed out."

He was on his feet in seconds pulling you tightly to him, directing your chin so you face him.

"Kiss me," he whispered breathlessly.

"That's not what happened," now that he was fighting back, you were starting to look flustered. Good. You deserved it.

"I'll give you whatever you want if you kiss me," he said, confidence steadily growing now that the ball was back in his court.

"Whatever I want? Hmmm…" you said thoughtfully, then leaned in to kiss him. He nibbled along your bottom lip, causing you to gasp, and allowing him to deepen the kiss. After several breathless moments, you pulled away from him entirely.

"Whatever I want," you muttered to yourself, and made to leave the room. As you pulled open the door, you called over your shoulder, "Fix my damned shower."

...

Tag list: @stygianoir

[a-dinosaur-a-day]

Can you talk a little bit about how you became a paleontologist? (like school and stuff).

I went to college wanting to major in paleontology and everybody told me I could major in geology but that being a paleontologist just really wasn't possible.

I did major in geology/archaeology combo major (offered at my college, it's actually a BA, not a BS, which was disappointing), but it's not paleontology and i've been out of school for a awhile and i'm just really discouraged.

ugh welcome to my life. the reason my story is complicated is because of crap like that.

so, I'm going to get very, very, very real here. that means I'm going to reveal some personal details about myself. I'm okay with it. I want to share this. Content Warnings for Parental Abuse, Mental Illness, Physical Disability, and Trauma. Phew. Here we go.

first thing we have to acknowledge: I grew up poor. my mom was a stay at home mom because of mental illness (majorly agoraphobic and huge social anxiety, plus largely untreated OCD). my dad rarely held on a job for very long because of severe untreated ADHD. my parents' primary concern, at all times, was that their six kids (my mom loves kids) would have gainful, steady employment. they are communists, and it was always about how we can't help others effectively if we're not secure in the rest of our lives.

I wanted to be a paleontologist from the moment I could have such a want. But my parents never, never, thought that was a good idea. They wanted me to be a scientist, because they could see my potential, but they didn't think being a paleontologist was a safe career. And, to be fair, they had a point. But I didn't want to be anything else. In fact, the very idea would make me start sobbing. So while I was little, they didn't really do anything about it. Occasionally they planted seeds of "you might not be a paleontologist", but it never went well.

fast forward to me going to college. now they were serious. we were constantly fighting over whether I should be a paleontologist or a medical researcher (MDPhD. you know, the insane degree that insane people get.) (I'm insane, but not that way). because they were paying for, well, some of it (I got a lot of scholarships, b''h), and I was in general dependant on them like most college students are, they picked my classes. I was forced to major in biology (though I probably would have picked that anyway), and I never took any geology classes (well, I took half of one, but had to drop it because of my stupid premed classes).

I got to do paleontology research, but it was kind of in secret - I technically had two different research jobs, one in evolutionary biology, one in paleontology. I took tons of medical related classes, and was forced to take the MCAT twice. I wasn't good at it. Memorizing things isn't my forte, I'm much better at problem solving and finding/evaluating information. I also just wasn't interested in it - I can remember countless dinosaur genera, but ask me to remember really specific medical details and my mind draws a blank.

I did not do well on the MCAT, but I was still forced to apply to MDPhD programs. I also applied to evolutionary biology and paleontology PhD programs on my own. But paleontology is extremely competitive, and I didn't hear back from any of those. I also didn't get anywhere with any of those medical programs. In fact, I ended up getting accepted to a grad program for evolutionary developmental biology, because that was the only thing that had an opening. Rather than go home and be forced to apply to medical school again, I took the out.

I was miserable. But I tried to convince myself it was better this way. That I would have gainful employment, and be able to do science. Meanwhile, I was running this blog, building a community, and constantly thinking about paleontology instead of my actual thesis. Even though paleontology doesn't require field work, I'd convinced myself I could never do it because field work is inaccessible to me - I have had chronically dislocated knees since I was 16, and a few different physical conditions that make me exceptionally heat sensitive. I couldn't do field work, so I couldn't be a paleontologist. I also am fat, because of those disabilities, and there just aren't a lot of fat AFAB paleontologists, so I thought I wouldn't be able to get far for that reason.

But I couldn't finish that PhD. I didn't care enough about it, and I was constantly hitting roadblocks. I wanted the focus to be more evolution based, my advisor told me no. I wanted to pursue a specific question, my advisor advised against it. My wasps kept dying, and I didn't know why. I couldn't get my assays to work. My advisor was always focused on his other students and never me. It was a nightmare. All the while, my blog was exploding in popularity, and I was even going to paleontology conferences on my own dollar and networking there, presenting research about using the internet as an educational tool. And I felt at home. I was with *my people*.

Then the pandemic happened. I was already estranged from my parents for other reasons, that I'd rather not get into (no, it's not cause I'm queer). Everyone was frustrated with my lack of progress at my first program. My spouse, the infinite well of support that he is (url @plokool), gave me the push I needed to drop out with a master's degree (which I had earned at that point). I then was seriously considering becoming a rabbi, because I didn't think I could hack being a scientist at all after that experience.

But, everything felt wrong when I wasn't engaged with paleo. ADAD had gone on hiatus because my artists were persuing other opportunities (and I'm so proud of them!). I just felt empty and lost without paleontology in my life. So I went to the virtual SVP that was being held in 2020, since it was cheaper than usual and online.

And I met my current advisor. We clicked *right* away. We had the same questions about bird evolution and talked for hours. He encouraged me to apply, so I did - just for paleontology programs. I knew if I didn't do paleo, there wasn't a point. Nothing else would hold my interest enough for me to get a doctoral degree. I also talked to the wonderful friends I had made here on Palaeoblr, ones who were also actually pursuing paleo, and they promised me I could do it - that they believed in me. The one thing no one but my spouse had ever really indicated to me. It gave me the push I needed, and when I was accepted to this program, I took it. It also helped that I finally had working ADHD medication, for the first time in my life.

Even though it meant moving from Chicago - nice, at least sometimes chilly Chicago, my home for my whole life - to fucking southern new mexico. I am so hot. All the time now. My feet never return to their proper color. But it was worth the risk.

But I'm not doing field work! I've had to take a lot of remedial geology classes, but all my work has been computer and lab based. And I've done so much already! I've published a new bird, I've done excellent in my classes and teaching, and I'm currently compiling my own database of Paleogene bird fossils. Last year was a little rough because of trauma things, and the gd-damned adderall shortage, but I'm moving forward. I am hoping to go into museum work, because I love museums, and I believe in them and their ability to educate people (I also want to help the museum field decolonize itself, but that's a different discussion.) I've even made a design for an evolution of dinosaurs exhibit that my professor wants me to make into a real thing someday.

So... yeah. I became a paleontologist by being the world's most stubborn mother fucker alive. I decided I wanted to be as a kid, and I never could let it go, even when it would have been better for me to. But I'm glad I didn't, because now I'm here, and I'm doing well. When i can focus, at any rate. Because I'm only at peace when I'm around dinosaurs.

(P.S. I've even repaired my relationship with my parents, and they support me as a paleontologist now! just took 30 years for them to realize they couldn't fight me on this, I guess... or they're old and tired of fighting. one of the two.)

[buckets-and-trees]

King [Steve x Reader]

Fandom: MCU Characters/Pairings: mob boss!Steve x female!Reader Word Count: 1k

Summary: As an archeologist neck deep in a library for research or out in the wilds of desserts and jungles searching for ancient civilizations, you’re not the type you ever thought would catch the attention of one of the city’s mob bosses. They meant nothing to you, and so you never expected it, and you certainly didn’t know how it happened, and yet you find yourself entering the early domestic stages of a serious relationship with Steve Rogers, king of one of the most powerful mob networks in the country, and he’s made dinner for you, seemingly with no agenda…

Content Warnings: a bit of angst, feminist frustration

Additional Notes: Another day, another short piece for my 2022 Holiday Extravaganza! This one was inspired by King by Florence + the Machine. It really hit me hard when I first heard the single earlier this year, and it’s been clawing its way into this little story for many months in my brain.

You threw you plate down into the sink, shattering it, taking Steve completely off guard.

“Hey!”

You slam one hand down onto the counter, and cover your mouth with the other, hanging your head as tears burn behind your closed eyes.

“Hey,” he says again, more quietly now, coming up behind you. “What’s-?“

“No!” You shout, flinching away when his hands went to rest on your shoulders. “I’m not ready!”

“Not ready for what?”

“Kids!” You turn abruptly to face him. “I’m smart enough to know that my mob boss boyfriend isn’t dropping idle comments about children without intent behind them, and they’ve been stacking up all week!”

“Fine. You’re right. I want kids and I want to have them with you.”

You turn to face him finally, the tears having spilled over. Sad and angry. “I’m just not ready now, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be.”

“How can you say that?”

“It’s all so easy for you! You only have to dump your seed and then wait nine months for a baby to pop out, and then, what? Pat it in the head once or twice a day? Go off and continue doing what you do every day, while I, on the other hand, a pregnancy will change every single moment of my life! Carrying it to popping it out and then watching over the child for the following eighteen years! I won’t even be able to fly on a damn plane in the third trimester of the pregnancy, and if I can’t fly, how am I supposed to remain one of the forefront archeologists in the field when I can’t even get to the field?”

“Sweatheart–“

“No! Don’t sweetheart me, Steve! Growing up, I was definitely one of those girls who just wanted to go to college, meet the man of my dreams, be swept into the perfect wedding and marriage and pop out five babies before I was thirty. House with the white picket fence, dinner at six, kiss my husband goodbye every morning, but then I finished college, no marriage. Went to grad school, dove into this field, found something exciting that I’m passionate about and damn good at. Still no man in sight. I turned thirty. I actually went to a conference with a bunch of strangers over my thirtieth birthday weekend - it was kind of an unexpected thing that came up, and I accepted because I was so relieved I wouldn’t have to be around my family and friends turning thirty and still single and alone.”

Steve moved forward, wanting to take you in his arms, but you moved back, and held your hand up.

“I need to finish saying this. It took me so long to untangle myself from the fluffy housewife propaganda I was told was the only thing I should aspire to be, to shove away the silent disappointment from other people’s expectations of what I was supposed to do, and to find things that made my heart sing, made my soul burn with purpose just because I wanted them any no one else. And I was happy before you.”

“Are you unhap–”

“No, I was happy before you, and I’m happy now,” you cut him off quickly. “But it’s unfair how easy it is for men, and it’s not your fault, but it is a reality. For me… you know I can’t half-ass something even if I tried. I won’t do it if I won’t do it well, and I don’t know how to… I don’t even know how to be your girlfriend yet. I know you’re not asking me to just give up my life, but I do know you’d prefer it.”

“I wouldn’t,” he said simply.

You shake your head. “Don’t lie. I overheard you on the phone with Bucky last week say how much easier it would be if I could be the simple housewife type of girlfriend.” The words had been horrifically branded into your brain.

Steve exhaled and put his hands on his hips.

You raised your eyebrows, waiting for him to respond.

“Yes. That’s true. I did say it would be easier. I didn’t say it’s what I want though.”

“Didn’t you?”

“I didn’t. As you so aptly noted, I’m always very careful with my words. It would be easier, but I don’t want easy, I want you, and I want you to be happy. The closer we become, the more of a target you are.”

“Oh,” you responded quietly. Steve saw you start to let your guard down, so he stepped forward and brushed his fingers up and down your arm, then grasped your fingers.

“I have been dropping comments about kids and our future because I am ready to talk about it with you. A future with you is what I want, but I was testing the waters trying to get a read on if it’s what you want.” A smirk flitted across his face, and he added, “You have been playing things very close to the chest.”

“Yes,” you huffed, “well, that’s because I’m terrified of falling for you.”

He gently pulled you closer, and you melt against him. “Fall with me then. I’m already at the edge of this terrifying cliff, I’m ready to jump.”

“How can this be terrifying? You’re a mob boss!”

Steve laughed. “That’s nothing compared to handing my heart over to someone else and trusting them not to smash it or throw it away, to literally give them everything – to give you my everything.”

Your chest constricted, breath catching at his words.

His hands moved to the small of your back, securely holding you closer to him. “I mean it. Everything.”

His eyes locked on yours, and you couldn’t look away if you wanted to. The moment stretched out between you – he would wait for you to answer – and your heart seemed to stop, freezing the moment in time.

Then finally you reached up and pulled his lips down to yours, crashing fiercely together. You still had so many questions, but you did at least know you were certain about each other now. You would rule your worlds together.

And that's day three of the Holiday Extravaganza! Do we want to see more of mob boss!Steve and his reader? (Archeologist because... why the hell not?)

I think I might have something totally out of left field for you lovelies tomorrow, just depends how the muses go...

↠ Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

If you enjoyed, reblog to help others find this story AND to normalize the fic-reblog culture. There are so many talented writers, and a reblog really fuels the muses of the soul more than you know - we all appreciate it whether we're big or little fish in this pond.

My askbox is always open. See you on the flipside for day four of AHE...

[coffeelovesdramasalatte]

LITA Ep 3 Rewatch Thoughts Pt. 2

Part 1 here!

Ok I am HERE for this encouragement - I love that Phayu is always supportive of Rain's academic talents

Apparently Rain is not immune to Phayu's pout either. Good, a relationship should be built on equality

pls observe this cutie omfg no wonder Phayu can't take his eyes off him

i genuinely feel like this shot did something to my brain chemistry. i kid you not one of my main goals in life is to have someone do this to me (by which I mean I want to be in Rain's position). I would also ignore homework and all my responsibilities if someone looked at and held me like that pls

P'Aon so true, Boss WAS smiling like an idiot (in love)

Poor Rain, these were famous last words :( (I too have uttered them many a time until I realized I am not a nap-taker)

ETHEREAL

Is this a rock cover of flight of the bumblebee playing in the background??? POOR RAIN HE STAYED UP ALL NIGHT TO DO THIS :((((

Ok but this is actually a very important lesson that I'm glad they included. It's true that Rain finished the work on time, but he also should have ensured he got enough sleep and made it to the presentation on time. He's still in his first year so he has a lot of time to grow. The actual important line is this one below.

It was a harsh way of phrasing it, but it's true. Setbacks are a very normal part of life and everyone makes "mistakes" (missing deadlines, not being able to finish a project, etc). I put that in quotes because sometimes, these things are at no fault of the person. It is possible to put 100% of your effort into finishing something and not get it done (which, aside from Rain's poor time management, he actually did put in a lot of effort to this project). Failing at something even after putting in a lot of hard work sucks, but being able to pick up after that and still work hard is what makes a person successful. I related extra hard to this scene because I failed a class in my major during my first year of college even though all I did was study, and it put me back a full year bc it's only offered certain semesters and was required to move forward in the degree. I took it again the following year and was smarter about how I studied and even still, I almost failed again. But I liked my major enough to keep at it and somehow still managed to graduate on time and now I'm in grad school, so... (that was an unnecessary story but to reiterate, failure is normal and ok)

AWW look at him putting on a facade for his friends... I think it's interesting that he doesn't confide in Sky here

but instead flies to the garage... Even I questioned this

P'Saifah is a good bro, calling Phayu immediately to come comfort his in-law. Phayu is good here too, immediately grabbing his things to come running

I think I speak for all of us when I say watching Phayu ride in the heavy rain was nerve-wracking bc we were expecting an accident or something

OK this scene. THIS SCENE. Utterly perfect in every way, from the moment concerned Phayu walks through the door to see a drenched, teary Rain waiting for him. Something blue-yellow is going on here too methinks

There's something so incredibly intimate about the way Phayu crouches down to Rain's level, and then beckons him into his arms. His words too are so gentle, and he just holds Rain as he cries.

As opposed to many other sweet scenes, this sequence + the one after Rain comes out of the bathroom is actually the one that makes me most jealous of PhayuRain. There is nothing more valuable than having someone you can fall apart into and trust that they'll hold the pieces of you together. And honestly, in the grand scheme of things Rain didn't mess up horribly - it feels monumental to him bc it's probably the first time he's missed a deadline. It's important that Phayu still treats the situation with the gravity of something more serious, bc it shows how much he cares. And after Rain has calmed down, he advises him on how to do better next time without sugarcoating, but also sharing that he experienced similar things during his days as a student.

I'mma need Rain to zip it bc he looks perfect, as usual

I really like the framing in this scene where he's looking into the mirror and then introspecting "why did I put up a front with other people and then cry in front of him? idk but I'm thankful" - he's reflecting mentally and physically!!!

Can't believe a drama is out here giving important life lessons but I'm here for it. I also like that Phayu shows a bit of vulnerability by sharing that he got criticized too, and that Rain will be able to recover from it.

HEADPAT x 2

This is another set of shots that altered my brain chemistry. Who taught them to look at each other like this, hm? Rain looks so vulnerable and Phayu might as well be cradling Rain's soul in his hands ft. headpat

The way Rain tilts his head up? Exquisite

I'd also feel very motivated if I was in Rain's place. Phayu actually makes another few interesting points here - he says what's done is done, and then tells Rain to not dwell on it and take care of himself. Interestingly enough (story time pt 2 you can skip if you want). I watched this scene very soon after I missed a paper submission deadline for a conference. It's not the biggest deal, especially because my professor knew it was a big ask to finish an entire research project in the timeline he gave me and he wasn't even remotely upset about it (long story short I only had 2 weeks notice to flesh out the idea, get the data, analyze the data, and write the research paper - but you can't really control how long things take you when you do research bc the point is that it hasn't been done before). So even though no one reprimanded me, I still felt really upset bc I had made up my mind that I was going to do this impossible task and couldn't. To hear Phayu's reminder that I can be upset but I shouldn't spend too long being sad to the point I neglect to take care of myself was honestly nice. It also helped to put things into perspective that yes, I couldn't submit to this particular conference, but there are so many that happen all the time so it's not like the research is wasted - just pull yourself together and try for the next one. Anyways, I'm done treating y'all like my personal diary now <3

Yay, Rain feels comforted and finally smiles! It's like seeing the sun after a storm (literally) AND something yellow-blue is happening here

Post-credits garage brothers content!! This exchange is hilarious bc P'Saifah goes 'ah [Rain] is in the palm of your hand' as Rain's leaving, but then the show makes it literal bc Phayu's holding a picture of Rain in his palm via the phone screen, which also signifies to the viewer that Phayu is also in the palm of Rain's hand. Again, we love relationships built on equality hehe

I love that they let us see the moment Phayu decided to pursue Rain (he's looking at the picture of Rain on his phone for the first time - though I do question why the senior just randomly sent him a photo of Rain? Like at this point Phayu is an alumni of the frat so why just send an isolated photo of a freshman to him?? we'll never know I guess)

And that's episode 3! If you made it this far, I hope at least some of this was entertaining! Have a lovely day or night, whenever you're reading this <3 See you in the next one!!

[captainjunglegym]

Seven Sentence Sunday - 11/02/2024

hello. oh ho ho. have i been having A Time™️ at grad school recently. I'm going to a much more 'prestigious' uni for my postgrad compared to my undergrad and man. I am dumb compared to these 23 year old ex private school kids!!!! they're v nice but they make memes about Descartes and Foucault and I'm just sat there like. Hurrburrrrburrr my Masters dissertation is on Star Trek and i dont know how to spell resterrautnt

Anyways enough of my crying. I was tagged by the ever wonderful grace @eusuntgratie! I can't count so here's a handful of sentences!

Sneak of the next chapter of my main WIP

No.1 (Royal Red and Blue) Oil on Canvas.

"Will you do anything I say?" Henry asks, idly tracing a finger over Alex's throat. No, Alex should say, no you are completely unhinged. "Of course, anything," is what he blurts out huskily, his throat quivering under Henry's touch as he swallows, his mouth suddenly dry. Henry's eyes snap up to his and he smiles like Alex has a agreed to give him a hundred million dollars and a blow job. Alex doesn't have a hundred million dollars, but he'd fucking love to suck that cock. Henry leans close, lips brushing Alex's earlobe, and whispers, "then mind your fucking business, or I'll put you over my knee."

i hope and pray to god that i am not going to sit and cry all week again and so i'll be able to update 'invitation to' and some other stuff.

no pressure tags for the writing moots, and anyone else who wants to get involved @anincompletelist @bigassbowlingballhead @sunnysideprince @nocoastposts

[polaroidcats]

When I was in grad school, our department threw a party to welcome the new cohort each fall. One of the mandatory party games was Pin the Beard on the Marx. Go figure.

That is to say, when Remus reaches his older years, does he have a full bushy Marx beard? Can he pull that off? (Should he try to pull that off?)

okay first of all I'm obsessed with that game idea and now I desperately want to play Pin the Beard on the Marx too!!!!

secondly, thank you for these important questions!!!!! so glad u asked!!

I think as soon as Remus hits puberty, he gets so excited at the prospect of being able to grow a beard and sports that not-quite-there-yet mustache for a while, accompanied by random patchy chin stubble. Then, I think in his early-mid twenties his beard actually starts growing fuller and he thinks NOW IS THE TIME!! HE CAN FINALLY HAVE HIS MARX MOMENT!! HE IS THE MAIN CHARACTER!! But the texture of his beard is just never right, even when he tries to grow it out, it never feels as fluffy and luscious and beautiful as he imagines Karl's beard must've felt and it makes him very sad. :(

So he tries again when he has grey hair and is slowly starting to go bald and he finally has a grey beard and that's when he fully enters his Karl Marx era. He grows out his beard and his remaining hair and anytime someone tells him he resembles Karl Marx he gets so, so excited, it always makes his day. He spends so much time taking care of his beard, and making sure it looks effortlessly wild and untamed while it actually took a lot of work for it to look so marxist. James and Sirius think it's endearing, and they also grow their beards out for a while and it makes for some fun sexy role play times that makes them relive their youth.

[kojoty]

as a potential MLIS student… i want to hear your thoughts in the library science majors 👀

It's a great major and if I go back to grad school, I will absolutely be applying for / fulfilling a library science masters. There is true and serious heart in this profession, and our local communities are bolstered and supported tremendously with people who choose the dedication of library sciences.

My gripes come less from the major itself-- though, which I'm sure is probably covered in the curriculum, we really need to be cognizant of the political pitfalls of libraries as an institution, and the power they wield over more disenfranchised populaces, as well as the historical beds of racism, classism, etc that produced the structure of libraries. Far more than most fields, I've seen a concentrated effort to decolonialize where able, to connect to community, to rectify these situations, but it's still there and needs to be acknowledged.

My gripes are very anecdotal tbh. I've just found such a privilege in a lot of people pursuing this major. Privilege is not inherently a bad thing, it can be a neutral descriptor. But if you are in a position to wield privilege, you must be cognizant of it. A lot of higher learned academics in general have a tendency to forget/not learn how to deal with less educated populations and it shows particularly in libraries a lot. Because our jobs are to assist and help disenfranchised members of the population, if you lose sight of what it feels like to be a lower class individual who is not as savvy at tech, research, etc, you can absolutely contribute to the failure to give proper community outreach. I unfortunately see this vibe from a lot of students and also people who go on to he librarians. MOST DON'T AND AREN'T LIKE THIS, but enough are that it's left a.... Taste in my mouth, I'll say that.

Also, anecdotally, I'll have students who will cut me off as I'm explaining how my library works to tell me they know already, always with this caveat of 'I'm a library student' or whatever in this tone of voice that is very patronizing. As though I should thank them for their willingness to pursue an academic career. As though I am not the one actively working in a library. As though every library functions the same. As though I'm not just doing my job and also, as someone intimately aware of some of the more unique aspects of my own library, I might have information that your classes will not tell you. I just don't like being cut off tbh, esp when it's.... You know. Patronizing.

The big thing is just the accountability of privilege and what your goals are. 80% of a library job is front facing (unless ur acq/collections or archives) with people who need help. You have been granted the academic training to help them but you still need to cultivate a desire to communicate with people. It's great that you memorized the Dewey decimal system and can rote spit out a call number! I'm still learning that. But equally if not more important is learning the instinct to anticipate someone's needs who does not know these things. How to apply for jobs. How to find material they need. Making them feel warm and welcome and NOT PATRONIZED to. Again, I know the major has classes specifically designed to account for this training. But if you go into this job thinking 'I know more than these people I'm helping' you've lost empathy points lol.