#syllabus for class 8

[woodfrogs]

my lab class is the most confusing, vague, and unclear thing ever and its driving me crazy

[loverscrossmp3]

it is true what they say that online courses are what will cause society to eventually collapse

[chromoluminary]

the awful paper is dead, it is defeated, it cannot kill me in a way that matters

[orcelito]

I have been soooooo good about going to class every single day this semester. Minus my persuasion class bc attendance is optional (I've only gone to 2 of those classes... lol. Tho I've still done all my work!!!)

My other classes tho, I have gone Every single day. Which is really quite remarkable for me.

[chuuphic]

first class is in 31 hours and the canvas page is still not posted

[teaboot]

mr boot, can we see more things you did not get suspended for?

(i promise this is only partially because i want to see more of doodleboot with his mouth open)

I may have to draw these later BUT I can write a list now!

1. In grade 3 we had a program where older students would supervise younger students while teachers ate lunch. Younger students could talk and walk around the classroom as long as they weren’t disruptive. One day we had an older student yelling at all of us to “Sit down and Shut Up”, and that made me so mad I told him, “You’re standing and yelling at us to sit and be quiet, you’re not following your own rules”. This turned into an argument where he threatened to send me to the principal’s office, and I said that if he did I’d tell them why. I did end up getting reported for “not listening to the student monitor” and a phone home was made but from what I recall I was never given a lecture and didn’t get in trouble. That kid was also never supervisor again.

2. On my first day of elementary school an older kid took a dime I found and threw it to the back of the school bus. He turned out to be a bully every time I rode the bus after that and eventually started spitting at me from across the aisle. The bus driver never did anything about it so one day I spat at him back, and we both got temporarily suspended from the bus- me for about a day, him for a week, except I guess someone knew it was an ongoing issue that he was causing so he also got suspended from school for a week. I didn’t, though.

3. Again in elementary school I got into a disagreement with a kid- I don’t remember what about- and he punched me in the stomach. I kicked him back and we both got sent to the school’s guidance counsellor, who I remember nothing about except he had grey hair and glasses and his office smelled like tuna salad. Other kid said he hadn’t done anything and I’d just kicked him for no reason. I told the whole story and said I knew kicking him was wrong but I’d been angry that he’d punched me over a disagreement. There was a call home but I was not suspended.

4. A kid in chess club told me that he was going to win our round, not because he was more experienced and I was only learning, but because boy’s brains are naturally better at strategy than girls are. This was my first introduction to sexism and I thought it was so stupid that I threw all my pawns full-force at his head. These were some hefty solid plastic pieces, too. I was then kicked out of the library, I think. I later discussed this with another guy friend and we agreed that boys WERE stronger than girls, but that was only because girls were smarter than boys and it had to balance out somehow. (We were about six at the time, for context.)

5. About half way through my first day of grade 8 social studies I realized the assignments, reading, and syllabus were completely identical to those from grade 7 social studies. When I pointed this out to the teacher, he said we could discuss it after class. He would not answer when I asked why it was exactly the same, and when I asked if half of us present were expected to do all the same work from the grade before a second time he said “Yes, you can do it differently if you want but you still have to do it” and said to take it as an opportunity to be more artistic if we wanted. I said this was ridiculous and asked if we would be learning ANYTHING new or just repeating the grade. He then went on a long rant about how he was in the middle of a divorce and lost his second job and “didn’t appreciate me undermining his authority in front of the other students”. My mom then got a phone call about my disruptive behaviour. When I told her my side of the story, she called back and asked to talk to the teacher to see what was going on and discuss my concerns about the syllables, to which the person receiving the call told her, “Mr. So-and-so has a degree in psychology and has teenage daughters, he knows how to handle difficult personalities”. Mom and I then agreed that Mr. Guy was a fragile, condescending idiot with poor compartmentalization skills and that I should just take the class as-is for an easy A. Which I did.

6. Choir was an optional extracurricular except for my class which for some reason were required to participate for reasons I am still unclear on. I hated choir and our songs were all stupid froofy saccharine bullshit about joy and rainbows and friendship and crap. I decided I was going to attend and would stand and do whatever I was told and mouth along if I had to but I wasn’t going to sing. The choir director was an asshole I had other classes with and already knew I didn’t want to be around, but in her defense she had a choir to direct and I wasn’t contributing. She’d frequently tell me to “sing louder” so she could hear me and then nod in satisfaction when I stood slightly straighter and opened my mouth wider while humming a little. I was eventually told if I wasn’t going to put the effort in then I would be asked to leave, to which I pointed out that I would GLADLY get out of her hair but half the students present were from my class and had been specifically ordered to participate, and had been told it was mandatory. This was then proven with a show of hands. I don’t know why this happened or why she didn’t know but she didn’t really get after me after that.

7. In grade four our gym class had a unit on “hip-hop dance” which consisted of a boom box playing what sounded like kidz bop covers of 80’s-90’s rap while a 40 year old white woman in a high ponytail and electric purple tights bounced around and showed us how to “pop and lock” and “do the electric slide” and “moonwalk”. I was immediately struck by an overwhelming sense of indignity that I could only articulate at the time as, “this is undignified”. I was a total goody two-shoes at the time and WANTED to be good and participate but was so weirdly disgusted and mortified at what was happening around me that after a few half-hearted movements I totally locked up in a straight-backed stand with a clenched jaw. All I felt I could do was wait for it to be over. Today I think I would describe the exact feeling as “paralytic cringe”. It was incredible. From what I recall I would not move or say anything to anyone and when being told to dance along I would just firmly say “no”. I remember having to be physically picked up and carried to the principal’s office where they called my mom but I have no idea what the aftermath was, only that being suspended was a big deal and that didn’t happen.

8. I really REALLY liked my grade 4 teacher and would regularly give her a little plasticine snail to sit on her desk. Only one, remade of the same clay over and over. The next morning every other day or so I would find that someone had smashed it flat. One day I unfolded a paper clip so that there was a spike pointed up and hid it inside the snail. I wish I could tell you what happened but I don’t know. The snail disappeared and I couldn’t re-make it anymore.

There are so many more now that I’m thinking about it but damn I got in trouble more than I thought I did huh

[piastriprincess]

somethin' stupid  ⸻  isack  hadjar  x  reader  .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh. Oh no. No no no no no.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So,” he agrees, trailing off. 

Then the two of you speak at the same time:

“This place is —”

“You look really —”

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

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

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

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

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

He blinks. “What?”

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

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

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

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

“Awkward and uncomfortable and completely wrong for us?”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “That.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So he writes.

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

Mon coeur,

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

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

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

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

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

But it’s also true. Every word of it. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Latte for Isack?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It was my fault,” you say softly. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I love you.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, almost shyly:

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

[oatmealwrites]

Catch Kira, NOT Feelings! Ch. 7

Ch. 6 | Ch. 8

Series masterlist here | regular masterlist here

Synopsis: You decide to take the day off to reflect on your mixed emotions while Light take the opportunity to do a big of digging on your history. Tired with your obvious attempts at avoiding him, Ryuzaki also takes matters into his own hands.

Tags: Light is a rat, slight insecurity mentions, Light POV, ex boyfriend appearance, mentions of PMS, L is a little creepy LMAO, references to makeout and steamy previous activities, suggestive ending, french kiss, dry humping, mentions of erections, hickies, jealously, slightly angst if you squint, MDNI, 18+

word count: 10.4k

a/n at the end!

~~~~~~~

The storm from the previous night has died into a steady rain that pats against the glass panes of your bedroom window and a steady breeze creates a swirl of leaves in the air. Rolling to the other side of your bed, you tug the warm comforter up to your chin and sigh, silently cursing your inability to fall back asleep.

Your alarm clock next to the bed reads 7:13am and despite your first scheduled class not until 10, your body seems unable to relax again. Though the time of your lecture doesn’t matter much, you’ve already decided to skip and take the day off from…everything. 

When you first woke up unexpectedly, you contemplated the decision for a few moments before texting a friend in the class that you would not be in attendance. Usually you wouldn’t skip a seminar, but it's the first week of the ‘summer’ campus [despite it technically being spring] and that means it’s nothing but syllabus reviews. 

Thick rain clouds make the morning hours seem like night, and with every light in your small one-bedroom apartment being off, your body seems wired to stay awake against your will. Maybe it’s the long hours of being on the task force, the week of examinations and finals you’ve just finished before beginning another period of classes, or maybe it’s the fact your emotions seem to be on the fray. 

You still promised to meet with Light before the meeting, though you’re unsure if you have the motivation to even show your face to the rest of the group given everything from last night. Ugh. and you kissed him– like… kissed him-kissed him. 

“Aughfp–”

You groan and roll over into the pillow, letting out a slew of incoherent curses as the second hand embarrassment of the moment lingers. WHY did you kiss him? And then on his lap– you tug a hand into your hair and thrash a bit more as a mixture of mortification and self resentment leave you wanting nothing more than to suffocate into the soft cushion of feathers beneath your mouth.

Dying by self-asphyxiation from your own ick would be a death not even Kira could conjure up as your untimely demise. A small dull ache in your lower abdomen pulls your thoughts back to your present state and you roll back over onto your back and stare at the ceiling. 

He’s just a guy… nothing more and nothing less. You’ve been without any action for a while now, so that’s the reason you’re acting like this… yea…

You sigh a little, slightly relieved as you attempt to rationalize the behavior, until the reminder that he’s very much your boss and also fake dating you for the grand scheme of stopping a serial killer creates another wave of agitation.

God, of all the people you had to have the pleasure doing this stupid situationship with, it just had to be him. Ryuzaki may be completely inexperienced in everything for all you know, and on top of that, he didn’t let you go to Aoyama, got in argument with you over it, had Matsuda then Mogi take over trailing Light, and then didn’t even tell you about Mogi’s findings until AFTER something happened. He’s never been 100% honest with anyone, including you, so if someone were to ask if you would still kiss him again… why in your right mind is your gut answer yes?!

“Maybe Kira has already decided on my death and is making me the most irrational and unlucky person in the universe before I die…” You mumble and turn back over to snuggle into the comforter again. 

You’ve asked the universe for too much– wasting all your wishes on stupid exams and concert tickets instead of wishing to meet just one guy in your life who isn’t emotionally constipated. Though realistically speaking, shouldn’t Ryuzaki be feeling the same way as you right now?

Even if the whole relationship was purely platonic and for the good nature of protecting you from the Second Kira, there’s no way he would’ve wanted to go that far behind closed doors if it didn’t mean something more. Kissing him with your hands in his hair, grinding your hips on his erection, sturdy hands on your belt loops keeping you in place… the memory of it makes your cheeks flush.

Though there’s also the second option, that he’s enjoying this weird charade you two are playing because of physical relief. The entire task force is men and the last female agent L worked with got engaged and then was subsequently killed by Kira, so it’s not like the odds are in your favor that he’s looking for something that can last.

Tumbling back over and whining into the pillow, you silently wonder if you should’ve just changed life trajectories and lived a more mundane life. You could’ve moved to the countryside, become a post office worker, and spent your days exploring nature… instead you’re a full time student and employee with a group of men, working insane hours, your friend might be a serial killer who is convinced they’re on par with God, and your most recent physical encounter was with an emo man who is pretending(?) to date you. 

This really is the worst, huh?

Before you can attempt to bury your face into the pillow once more, a ping from your phone on the nightstand pulls your attention and you crinkle your nose at the interruption of your existential crisis. You reach over and grab your normal cell phone and tug it back into your cocoon of self pity and fuzzy blankets.

From: Light Yagami

Hey! Are we still on for the meeting review at 1? There’s a coffee shop I’m sending now that has lunch sets too.

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You read the message over a few times and look up the address before sending a basic approval text and tossing the phone somewhere between the layers of fabric on your bed. Technically speaking, if you commit to this ‘day off’ and call out of the evening meeting for a mental health day, then you really should take the time to try and relax.

There’s a long list of things you’ve been meaning to get done anyways, the new art exhibit across town, get hot tea at a local coffee shop and read your book next to the window, or even try your hand at knitting; the list is so long that trying to relax seems to make you even more anxious. 

After a few more moments of self-pity, you peel the comforter from your body and sluggishly decide to get up and move. Knees cracking at the movement and slight shivers from the change in temperature, you pad into the bathroom to take a quick shower and attempt to reign yourself in.

Hot water and steam relax your muscles, and after completing your usual skincare routine and getting dressed into a casual jeans and t-shirt, you notice the missing university crewneck in your closet.

Must’ve left it at the hotel…

Whatever, you can get it tomorrow– you’re 98% convinced that you will simply be skipping the meeting tonight anyways. Sliding on an old hoodie instead, you finally begin to flick on the lights of your apartment and make your way to the kitchen to start some hot water. 

Even if you can’t relax, you should at least get something done today. You make a small mug of instant coffee and slide into one of the two seats at your small kitchen table before opening the lid of your laptop and searching for Misa’s social media page once again. 

At first glance all of the posts are relatively normal; flyers for upcoming movies, magazine photo shoots, and cute outfit inspiration given her gothic fashion taste. Pursing your lips and filtering through a bit more, you double take at the photos of cafe desserts and beverages.

Scanning through the images, you do a quick timeline comparison and notice that for a majority of the new posts of food items, there are two spoons and forks on the plate. One is obviously hers, but the other setting was placed by the wait staff for her company despite the lack of usage in most of the images. 

Clicking through a few more, you notice it’s the same with shared drinks like milkshakes– one straw bent with a lipstick stain, and the other completely untouched. These details are only noticeable for the past few weeks as well…

Biting your lip, you reach for your mug of coffee and blow the steam away before taking a long sip to fully digest the information. It’s not concrete proof of anything, and with no image of her company, you can’t be certain it’s Light– but the discovery is enough to raise an eyebrow.

Putting the mug back on the table, you grasp your actual cell phone and haphazardly scroll through the contacts list while continuing to glance at the laptop screen. Realistically, you should've checked twice before typing out the message, but with indescribable brain fog you don’t notice the romanized alphabet placing ‘L’ and ‘Light’ side by side in your contacts list.

You’ve never even texted L on this phone, but it made sense to have his contact available just in case you happened to misplace the one he gave you upon meeting him for the first time a few months back. 

Still paying half-attention, you send ‘I need to see you’ without ever confirming the recipient. 

Light POV

“Oooo! And there’s a new boutique that just opened up across the street! Let’s go there after our dinner date?” Misa wonders while laying flat on Light’s bed and kicking her feet upwards behind her in a swinging motion.

Ryuk chuckles and peers over at the magazine splayed in front of her while Rem idly stands in the doorway with a scowl plastered as she watches Light at his desk. Eyebrow twitching from the lack of concentration, the young man swivels in his chair ready to speak when she interrupts him once more.

“And there’s a pop up stall by your university! I can visit you on camp–”

“–No.” 

Misa looks up from her spot in the magazine, Ryuk’s interest on a dessert page showing an apple pie recipe, before she blinks in surprise. Rem watches the interaction but says nothing.

Bringing a hand through his hair, Light sighs and pivots halfway to face his desk once more. “My family is going to be suspicious if you keep lingering here, and it’s only a matter of time before my father and the task force find out about you. Going to campus only makes it more questionable if L or y/n see you.”

She scowls and sits upright, abandoning the magazine and crossing her arms in a sulking manner. “But you promised to take me out this week.”

“Later, Misa. Maybe this weekend there’s a cafe we stop at for a brief snack–”

“–Yay!” she interrupts and hops up in excitement. 

Technically Light also promised you that he would make up for your brief meeting later this afternoon with an outing of some sort– though he’s sure he can think of something to cover his bases later. 

Misa saunters over to his chair and grabs onto the back of it with enthusiasm as she eagerly looks at what seems to be taking all of his attention. Pushing her back slightly, Light returns his position to a list of names on a blank piece of paper, tapping his pencil to it. 

“It’ll be short though– I have to focus on building a better world as Kira, not wasting time on tedious things as your boyfriend.”

Despite the sharp tone and lack of genuine emotion, Misa hums with a smile at the ‘B’ word and nuzzles her head against the back of his; a different ‘b’ word drifts into Light’s mind. She’s enthusiastic despite the early hour– his desk clock reading 7:42am and her arrival to his house was only 30 minutes beforehand. 

He keeps his gaze on the paper, the same list of names as your exes, though this time with available home addresses he could easily find online without so much searching it would raise an eyebrow. Mentally calculating the commute time and remembering if he needed to take any transfer metros, Light stands up and begins to passively collect his belongings as indication that it was time for Misa to leave.

The young woman huffs but stands to the side and allows him to pack his school satchel until a slight ping emits from his cellphone on the corner of his desk. If his arm wasn’t halfway inside his backpack, he would’ve reached the device before Misa sweeped it off the furniture and clicked it open to see the ID. 

She reads the message once before Light can take a grab for it, pushing it in his face when she disapproves of the content. “‘I need to see you’? Who is this girl– and doesn’t she know you’re in a relationship?!”

Light blinks to adjust to the proximity before taking the phone and slightly relaxing that it was you messaging him and not Takada– a harder figure for him to talk his way out of seeing. Though this message was definitely strange…had he not already told you about the plans for coffee today?

Deciding to decipher it without the additional company, he pockets the phone and slings his bag across his chest. “It’s my work colleague–”

“y/n.” Misa interrupts with a frown. “Why is she sending you things like this…?”

Light doesn’t turn around and moves to pat down his pockets for his keys and student ID. “It’s probably something related to the Kira case… maybe a breakthrough.”

“All the more reason for me to kill her.”

He spins around at the suggestion and narrows his eyes as he sees the red tinge of Misa’s irises glow steadily with an agitated expression. “No.”

“Huh? But she’s in the way.” she complains back, standing with her arms pointing in fists straight at the ground in stubbornness. 

“She’s borderline family to my father and her current… ‘relationship’ complicates things. Simply put, don’t kill her.”

Misa turns with a huff at his answer and pivots towards his Shinigami instead. “Ryuk! You’ve seen her, is she pretty?”

It’s a loaded question, both him and Light know it, so Ryuk simply cackles with a gentle shrug and floats over to the young man’s side, ready to head out for the day. “I’m not trying to get involved with you lovebirds hehehe.”

Misa commits the text to memory and silently works out in her own way to deal with this situation even if her boyfriend seems unamused by any methods of intervention. Your name is effectively sealed in her mind.

Before she can protest again, Light heads down the stairs and ushers her out the front door before calling a quick ‘goodbye’ to his mother who brews coffee in the kitchen groggily. As soon as the door shuts, he heads for the commute to the transit line and distances himself from her. 

“I’ll call you before my meeting if things go well, ok?”

“Oh! Yes, please!! Can’t wait for it~” she giggles before spinning in the opposite direction to chat with Rem as the pair split for the day. 

*****

[still light pov]

The commute to Kawasaki Station was easier than he had anticipated, though the morning rush made it a bit tighter than he would’ve preferred. It’s on the same line as To Oh Uni, so it realistically shouldn’t take too long to get back to campus in time for class; though the train ride had provided Light with enough time to ponder your message.

At first glance it seems desperately urgent, but the lack of a follow up phone call or text indicates it’s either not dire or sent to the wrong person. Realistically, it could be you sending a request to see him before lunch– but then why hadn’t you just asked to simply change the time? That left the second option: that you had meant to send it to someone else. 

Walking out of the station and glancing down at his paper scribbled directions, Light knows the only one most likely for it to be directed to was L. If the contact for your ‘boyfriend’ had no change in the nickname or emoticons, it would most likely appear next to his name in your phone, a detail not missed by the young man sauntering down the street. 

And if that was the case, and you did have an urgent message for L, something big must be about to happen; a calm before the storm. Light doesn’t respond just in case you send anything else his way by mistake that could be useful; if you asked him about it later he would simply state he wasn’t on his phone or had believed you were confused about the coffee plans. 

There isn’t too much time to dwell on it though, slowly stopping when the apartment complex comes into view. Keeping the note in his hand, Light ignores the way Ryuk seems to eye the other people in the lobby and heads for the elevator before walking to the correct door he found online.

Pocketing the paper once the destination is verified, Light reaches forward to ring the intercom and gives a slight step backwards for space. There’s a brief pause as the homeowner clicks on the microphone but resigns to opening the door when static is the only that emits from the faulty speaker. 

It’s a man in his late 20s, hair disheveled still from sleep, dressed in casual loungewear who opens the door, exactly the man Light was looking for. He stands tall with decent muscle mass and rubs his eyes a few times to rub the drowsiness away; his voice is a few octaves deeper from recently waking up.

“Ummm, can I help you?”

“Hi, my name is Light Yagami. I’m a student at To-Oh University.” Light does a polite bow and then exchanges his hand for the man to shake, but it hangs unreciprocated in the air.

An eyebrow raised, the apartment owner leans against the door frame in confusion and boredom. “Ok? And why are you here? Do I know you or something?”

“Sort of– I’m actually a friend of y/n’s. You’re Ken right?”

This gets his attention, the man, presumably Ken, straightens up and uncrosses his arms slightly; Light pulls his hand back to his side and looks intently into his eyes. “I want to speak with you about her.”

“Uhh…” Ken tilts his head and looks at the hallway to see if anyone is around and resettles his attention to the man at his front door so early in the morning, “Listen man, I’m not really in the mood to spend my morning talking about my ex…”

As Ken takes a step back in an attempt to shut the door and end the conversation, Light reaches forward to keep the metal open. “Wait!” there’s a brief pause from the outburst. “I’m in love with her and want to make sure you’re not going to get in my way.”

“Hahahaha–pft HAHAHAHA” Ryuk bellows from beside the man, happily entertained and clutching his stomach from the current show before him. “Say Light, you should consider giving up the whole ‘becoming a God plan’ and think about pursuing acting instead hehehe”

Light ignores the distraction as Ken furrows his brows and steps forward defensively, “What? She dumped me. I’m not trying to get in anyone’s way or whatever.”

The information is new and enough to spark further interest. “Really? If you don’t mind me asking… what happened?”

“Well I do mind you asking.” Ken rolls his eyes but tugs a sheepish hand through his hair. “Look, to make a long story short, I thought what we had was good, but she obviously didn’t see it that way. She was more dedicated to her work and thought I was moving too fast– we got in a slight argument and she called it quits. That’s it.”

It’s obvious that there’s definitely a lot more to this story, but it confirms Light’s initial theory that you were in no place seeking a relationship given your time commitments to school and work already. Ken is allegedly, from his memory, your most recent ex– meaning that if you broke off your last relationship to focus on your career… why would you suddenly hop into a new one?

“I see. To be fair that makes sense... I’ve been trying to find a time to confess, but she’s always so busy.”

Ken scoffs and rolls his eyes once more; he stands lighter but still isolating to the unwanted company. “Yea, well when she finds the time to hear you out, let me know.” He looks up at Light and shrugs. “Is that all? Can’t say I’m upset to hear she’s available, but it’s hard to listen to another trying to throw his hat in the ring.”

Light adjusts the strap on his shoulder, mentally checked out of the conversation but entertaining it for the sake of keeping face as a simple honor roll university student. “Hm? You mean after all that, you’d still want her back?”

Ken shrugs and moves to shut the door for good this time, “Yea I mean… you’re in love with her right? You get it I’m sure.”

The door clicks shut and Ryuk howls with laughter as Light ponders in complete stillness for a few extra moments before turning away and heading for the elevators once more. Everything lined up with his theory, that you were not in the market for a relationship, but each piece of information seemed to make him more and more curious. 

Why would you even agree to this staged relationship in the first place? Would you attempt to end it before Light could unveil the truth behind it? What was in it for you besides protection?-- humiliation and embarrassment were evident at every task meeting given by how Matsuda and Aizawa seem to act. 

In all this time contemplating the motives behind why you would be in this with L, Ryuk giggled above him wondering why it mattered so much to Light in the first place.

 Your POV

The meeting with Light is relatively simple and smooth given the atmosphere. Anyone else in the coffee shop presumed you were simply two students reviewing notes, not passing manilla folders containing confidential evidence on the current most wanted killer in the world.

You both sit at a the bar infront of the window, sipping on your beverages and watching the people outside pass in the rain as the conversation is filled with brief mentions of the Second Kira tapes and new suicide notes from prisoners. Anything regarding Misa is omitted, and Light passively accepts your explanations without too much rebuttal on your deductions; the whole moment is relatively normal. 

There’s a slight headache humming behind your eye and shivering slightly, Light looks up from the documents. “Not feeling well?”

“Mmm sorta. It’s fine though.”

You look back down at the photograph printed and take your pen to circle the state of the body while your companion sighs from beside you; taking the pen from your fingers and placing it on the table, he nudges you slightly. “You skipped class today too, why don’t you just sit this one out?”

“It’s like you can read my thoughts.”

Light chuckles but keeps his gaze on you before casually glancing back down at the photograph between you both. Normally you both wouldn’t be discussing such topics in public, but with the small cafe nearly empty and the sound of gentle rain and cars passing filling the air, the moment is private enough to discuss such sensitive material. 

You tugs a hand through your hair and run it down until your fingers toy with the strings of your hoodie, tugging them so the length evens out. “To be honest… I really might stay home today. Is that bad?” You mumble, fatigue evident in your bones.

He shrugs and picks up another document, turning it over to see if there is anything useful on the pack page and slipping into a manilla folder. “Not really. If you can’t think clearly, then it’s best to just recover until you can. No point in pushing yourself if your mind isn’t in the best position to work effectively anyways.”

You purse your lips at the casualness of the answer, but relax slightly at his confirmation. Normally, Light would be the one to play the devil’s advocate and push back, claiming that every moment not spent fighting for justice was going to waste– but in this situation it’s like he knew exactly what you needed to hear. You didn’t propose staying home in the hopes he would talk you out of it, you just wanted someone to confirm your own thoughts and not disagree.

He keeps the last page of an evidence file out and rests his chin in the palm of his hand. “As long as you’re still up for this weekend though; I want to make sure you know I can make good on my promises.”

“Seriously, you don’t have to take me out anywhere just for helping you review. To be honest, I doubt you even needed me to run through this considering how fast you think anyways.”

Light chuckles again and looks down at his watch before sliding off the stool and shuffling the folders into his satchel as you down the rest of your drink to head out as well. He slings the strap over his chest and adjusts his jacket slightly while waiting for you to return the drinkware back to the employee at the counter. 

You both step out into the rain and open your separate umbrellas. “Listen, Light…could you tell them I’m not feeling well? It’s not a complete lie… I just–”

“–Of course. Don’t worry, I’m not gonna say you’re playing hooky considering you really do seem a bit unwell.”

You pause and smile slightly. “Thanks, I appreciate it.”

“Anytime. I just hope there’s no trouble in paradise, as the real reason you aren’t coming.”

“Huh?!”

Of course, right when Light shows signs of being a gentleman and decent friend, he has to act like an ass and find little ways to torment you. Face flush and grasp on the umbrella turning your knuckles white, you wave your hands in front of him and stutter on your words. 

“W-Wait, no! That’s not it..I just…” you can’t seem to find a coherent phrase to explain yourself.

Light laughs at your outburst and shakes his head. “Ok, ok I’m joking– but your expression was hilarious.” He turns around and waves his hand up in a casual manner over his shoulder. “I won’t tell Ryuzaki anything, I promise.”

Furrowing your brows slightly, you watch the man walk away towards the campus as you stand with the soft pats of rain hitting your umbrella. 

***

The rest of the day goes by with a steady cycle of you trying to do more work on the case with the files you have at home, making snacks, attempting to take a nap, and then dissociating while watching people walk along the rainy streets through your window. It’s an upsetting and lethargic loop that only breaks when you notice the time is half-past 8 and your second cell phone shrieks to life from its spot on the kitchen counter. 

Shuffling off your perched spot by the windowsill, you reach for the phone and raise an eyebrow at the unexpected incoming call.

“Ryuzaki? Aren’t you… at the meeting right now?” 

“I could be asking you why you aren’t, but I heard through Light that you weren’t feeling well.”

‘Light’ is said with an obviously cool tone that it makes your back shiver slightly and mentally be grateful that if you’re about to be chewed out for dodging work, you can experience it in the comfort of your own home. 

“Yea that’s right. I woke up not feeling well is all– but I should be back for tomorrow’s meeting.”

There’s a brief pause and what sounds like Matsuda exclaiming how the vending machine ‘dropped two bags of chips even though he only pressed for one’ can be heard reverberating through the receiver. The shuffling of feet and then the click of a door bring a better silence to his side of the conversation. 

Ryuzaki’s silent for another moment. “You didn’t reach out today…Did something happen?”

The voice is soft and gentle, surprising you slightly and causing you to sit upright from your spot in a kitchen chair. Hadn’t you sent a message earlier?

“Wait a moment…” You rise and prop the phone between your cheek and shoulder while digging through your bag and pulling out your actual cell phone; flipping through the messages you realize the message you thought was sent to L was never actually written in the first place.

“That’s weird, I thought I texted you earlier…” you mumble before shrugging and tossing the device back into your bag.

“I never received anything… but what did you mean to send?”

Standing upright and moving to make another mug of coffee, you recall what you had seen on Misa’s social media. “Do you think you can pull Light’s bank statements? I know it’s a bit invasive, but there’s something I want to cross reference.”

There’s the sound of tapping on a keyboard before he speaks again. “Yes that’s fine, I’ve just sent Watari the instructions– but there is something I want to ask you before this break in the meeting ends.”

You set the mug on the counter and slide the sugar jar closer to you before opening a drawer in search of a spoon. “Ok, shoot.”

“Do you know anyone who lives by Kawasaki Station?”

…

The spoon clinks against the ceramic jar and the feeling of being watched makes your skin bump with uncomfortableness. Releasing the grasp on the utensil, you clench your phone to your ear and walk over to the door to ensure the deadbolt was thoroughly in place and peering out of the peephole.

“Yea, I do– well, did. We’re uhhh not really on speaking terms.”

There’s another brief silence. “...I think I can put the pieces together. Is this person a… threat to you of some sort?”

“Huh? N-No! He’s not dangerous or anything… It's just been a while since I’ve thought about him, is all. Feels weird.”

Ryuzaki hums on the other end and types a few things into his computer once more before a brief knock can be heard. “I see, thank you for this information.” He shuffles the phone but doesn’t end the call yet. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

The line goes dead before you can say anything, but the way he ends the sentence in the form of a question leaves a small amount of guilt gnawing at your gut. Though maybe it’s just indigestion.

Sinking in defeat back into the kitchen chair with an array of scattered documents littering the table, you push away your mug of coffee, suddenly feeling sick at the thought of drinking any more. Why were you acting so weird about this?

You’ve had a fair share of awkward events in your life that should’ve prepared you well enough for the questionable state of your relationship with the man… so what gives? Pursing your lips and playing with the edge of a paper, the words mix into a puddle of incoherent jumbles. It’s best to just go to bed and hope tomorrow is better. 

********

Tomorrow isn’t better.

You wake up 20 minutes after your alarm goes off, there's a headache pounding in your head the entire commute to campus, and in the break between classes you notice a new pimple growing on your chin while in the dingy bathroom of the criminal justice building. 

Classes are as boring as usual, and of course you forgot the book you’ve been reading at home, so you have nothing to do during class– not even L or Light text you once. It seems the universe is holding some sort of twisted grudge against you and when you walk to the familiar black sedan to drive you to the meeting, you realize you also forgot to pack a dinner and had to sheepishly plead with Watari to make a quick pit stop at a convenience store. 

Shuffling into the hotel room, Matsuda looks up with eagerness at your arrival, but Aizawa notices the drained look in your eyes and keeps his distance. Plopping your bag onto the floor and leaning back against the sofa, you barely notice the way Matsuda has slid over to sit beside you. 

“Feeling better? Light told us you weren’t doing too well– oh! But we do have new evidence with Misa! She’s–”

“–Enough.” Mogi chides from your other side at the man. “She’ll get filled in as we go, it seems like she's had a long day and just wants some space.”

You lean up lazily from your slumped position and give Mogi a look of gratitude before shrugging at the other man. “Sorry Matsuda, I’m just still feeling a bit out of it still.”

He sheepishly laughs and turns his attention now to Mr. Yagami who sits on the mirroring sofa with Aizawa; Ryuzaki perches in his usual position, staring at you and growing your lack of greeting towards him.

Watari finishes hanging up his coat and excuses himself for a moment before returning with a silver tray filled with a variety of mugs. Everyone takes their individually offered beverages with a brief ‘thanks’; sipping your mug you realize the coffee you’re usually given has been replaced with an unsweetened warm tea. 

It’s not bad, and the warm peppermint taste soothes your soul slightly as you begin to lock-in mentally for the meeting. Ryuzaki sets his own teacup on the coffee table with a soft ‘clink’ of the porcelain against the matching saucer and the group falls into a silence as everyone prepares to resume. 

“y/n asked me to pull a few bank files on Light, which is where I want to start now that you’re here.” L turns to you before watching Watari pass out matching scanned documents containing financial statements of the young man. “I wanted to preference this, Mr. Yagami, so you wouldn’t assume it was an ill-natured act.”

The older gentleman looks up and peers intently at you, a gaze which you mirror with seriousness before looking back down. Satisfied with no objection, Ryuzaki places his paper flat on the table and ushers you to take the lead. 

Falling back into the rhythm of these meetings, you shrug off any awkwardness and pull a highlighter from your bag to mark up several lines. “Now this can be coincidental but…” you run the neon yellow across a few withdrawals. “A few things here are sticking out to me.”

The group leans in to watch your annotations and Mogi raises an eyebrow at your markings. “They’re all cafes? Mm, maybe date spots?”

You nod and take a second color highlighter from your bag to mark the dates; you continue the process until you’ve reached the third page of his bank statements. “Exactly, but the main focus is more than the location, but the dates and price amounts as well.”

The men flip through their own papers, scanning for a pattern when L sits back slightly and takes the cuticle from his thumb between his teeth for a moment before speaking. “I see what you’re referencing– these cafe purchases seem to increase in price and their visitation frequency dramatically over the past few weeks.”

You nod while Aizawa scratches his chin with the papers in the other hand. “So he’s going there with someone? Isn’t that….normal?”

Mr. Yagami remains silent in his position but is clearly listening to every word when you shuffle your bag between your feet to pull your laptop from it. “Yes it would be, but I also noticed that Misa’s social media page has a few posts that would hint there’s a second person with her– there’s no photo proof of who though.”

Pushing a few things on the table back slightly, you scroll down to the first post in the pattern that contains a table set for two while Mogi flips through the bank statements. “The first change in his purchase history was only 4 days before that photo was posted…”

Matsuda sits back in awe and looks among the group. “So…he’s been seeing Misa outside of her visits to the house?”

You shrug slightly and scroll through a few more posts to see if they match the timeline of Light’s bank statements; a majority of them do. “It’s hard to say for sure if it’s circumstantial or not; there’s another girl on campus who seems to be into him.”

Mr. Yagami shifts slightly and sighs at the mention of his son’s love life, though minorly relieved at least Light wasn’t yet in attendance as his evening class would let out in another 20 minutes. 

L brings a small plate of macarons to himself and bites into the sugar dessert. “So we can infer that even if Light is simply a womanizer, it means he has an ability to form intense connections with multiple people without the parties’ knowledge. In short, the ability to live multiple lives.”

“I would prefer you not to call my son such vulgar terms.” Mr. Yagami huffs but doesn’t press further, upset at the thought his son could do something so scandalous. 

Aizawa places the paper down and looks among the group. “Ok, first thing: I’m not trying to defend a guy who might be cheating on his.. girlfriends?” He shoots the chief an apologetic wince before continuing. “But isn’t jumping from adultery to mass murder, a stretch? Even if Misa is one of these women he’s taking out… if Light is dating multiple girls at once, there’s a chance that him being with her is coincidental.”

“It can highlight his own duality as a person.” L cuts in, crunching the shell of the macaron and watching the crumbs coat his thumb and index finger. “On one side he’s a perfect student dating another woman on campus, and on the other, he’s manipulative and resonating with a woman now 90% certain to be the Second Kira. Surely if Light is spending time with her, and he was innocent, he would’ve deduced already that Misa is certainly questionable company.”

A silence hangs in the air and Mr. Yagami looks over at the man with a forlorn look on his face. “What does this mean, Ryuzaki? We have plans in effect to arrest Misa within the next week… what does that mean for my son?”

Heart strings tugging, you frown at the documents on the table and silently wish it had never come to this moment. L flicks a few of the crumbs off his fingers and picks the dessert again to pop it into his mouth. 

“Light will be tested to determine his own interpretation of her arrest, his answers will signify if he will need to be detained as well.”

A pin could drop onto the plush hotel carpet and someone across the city could still hear it; the men sitting around you shift in their seats with melancholic expressions. The knots in your abdomen stir again, and you clutch the pooled hoodie fabric with a slight grimace; when you look back up, you notice the way Ryuzaki looks at you with focus before blinking and peeling his eyes back to the group.

“Though we can cross that bridge when we arrive at it, for now let us continue with our planned schedule for the evening.”

The meeting shifts topics to focus on a variety of Kira suicides and growing online forums that seem to be popping up in when Light finally arrives. He sits languidly in a separate loveseat beside Matsuda and holds himself with an air of confidence that leaves you silently questioning your own disheveled appearance.

If he notices the group's lack of focus on the Second Kira this evening, he makes no effort to show it and filters through tasks as naturally as he usually does. There’s an unspoken tension to the way Ryuzaki perches in his chair however, not fully relaxing and keeping his gaze steady on either Light or you for the majority of the meeting. It’s not like he usually blinks anyways, but the intense stare makes you shift uncomfortably as if he was testing you as well. 

By the time the clock strikes 11pm and the group is noticeably yawning, Ryuzaki calls the meeting to a halt for the day. Matsuda blinks wearily and nearly opens his mouth to make a sly remark as to if you would be staying late but he swallows it when he notices you hastily packing your bag. Aizawa hasn’t even slid his second arm through his coat by the time you jump to your feet and give Watari an expression of eagerness. 

Ryuzaki slithers from his spot on the couch and meanders over to where you stand, ready to speak but making no sound from his mouth, as if he was waiting for you to talk to him first. You adjust the strap of your bag and tug the strings of your hoodie to even out before giving a curt glance to the man at your side– awkwardly realizing that you should probably do something considering the arrangement and audience. 

Coughing slightly, you close your distance to the man and lean forward to plant a quick kiss to the apple of his cheek before peeling back; L stands there in a flustered surprise and blinks rapidly for a few moments from the act. Shuffling to the front door to meet Watari, you throw up an awkward wave to the group and give a curt ‘see everyone tomorrow’ before shuffling into the hallway without looking back once. 

****

Looking back on it, yes, you probably should've had an adult conversation with Ryuzaki last night. You do admittedly feel a little bad about dodging him for two consecutive days now, but it’s not like you had many options to begin with. If you didn’t bring up the problem, then it didn’t exist in the first place! Simple, right?

Ok, realistically the you from a few nights ago would be clawing for another moment locked away with the man, but over the past 48 ish hours your emotions have left you feeling more drained and defeated than horny for physical attention. At least for right now.

You’ll talk to him tonight– after the meeting you’ll ask for better guidelines or maybe even a rule list for the do’s and don’ts if this ‘relationship’ were going to work.

Do: Hold hands in public.

Don’t: Grind an erection into you unless you have the emotional desire to further escalate things and put a serious label on this agreement!

Mentally patting yourself on the back, you stand in your kitchen preparing lunch for the day at home since your afternoon class was cancelled for a ‘family emergency’ from the professor. The sun is shining after days of rain, the temperature is warming slightly, and the radio playing idly in the background makes your life seem more out of a 2000s slice-of-life movie rather than the exhausting mess it’s been recently.

Humming to the music and stirring the pot in front of you, the moment provides you with a feeling of contentment, as if maybe your luck has finally turned around.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

Nevermind.

You frown and look at the microwave clock, all your friends should be in class at this time, before placing your utensil down and padding over to the front door of your apartment. Peering through the peephole for all of 2 seconds, you stumble backward and practically pull the door off its hinges in shock. 

“Ryuzaki?!”

Standing in the hallway of your complex, L stands awkwardly with a baseball cap and sunglasses on along with a long baggy white crewneck; it’s the same outfit he wore on campus when you two…made out.

The memory makes your cheeks flush as you side step to allow the man to walk inside. Checking to see if maybe Watari was with him but finding no one, you shut the door and watch Ryuzaki kick off his sneakers [without socks on] and walk into the small apartment with a paper bag in tow. 

Blinking in shock for a few moments, you sheepishly look at the unkempt state of your living arrangements and swallow half the questions you want to spur on the man. Coasting back to your pot, you lower the heat and raise an eyebrow at him.

“What are you doing here?”

L places the paper bag on the small kitchen table and looks around once before peeling off his ridiculous disguise and takes in the cozy atmosphere of your apartment. “I figured you were still avoiding me and decided to come here directly to save time.”

…

You blink a few times and defensively scoff. “What? I’m not… avoiding you.”

He gives you a stare of ‘don’t even try to lie your way out this’ before padding over to your tiny living room and admiring the details of your living space. “Anyways, I did a bit of digging the same day you called out and pulled Light’s metro card transactions. I want to review them with you now, before tonight’s meeting.”

Picking up where you left off cooking, you face the pot and try to act as nonchalant as you can given the unexpected visit. “Alright, any interesting places he went to?”

L smiles gently at the mess of throw blankets that litter your second-hand sofa along with the few stuffies that seem to be placed in their own respective spot on the cushions. You peer over and mentally scold yourself at being a grown adult who leaves stuffed animals laying around… when there’s someone to catch you. 

He squishes the arm of one of them before padding back into the connected kitchen. “There’s more of a lack of places he’s been.”

You don’t bother responding, knowing he’ll go into more detail, and continue your stare at the stove.

“Every weekday he scans for campus, to the meeting, and then back home– but he didn’t scan to campus yesterday.”

“Hm? I saw him at a coffee shop right by the quad though?”

L nods and digs his hands into his front pockets, obviously getting comfortable in your living space within minutes. “Exactly, and he didn’t scan the rest of the day either. This would usually mean he simply forgot his metro card, but when I compared his bank statements once more I saw transaction fluctuations in single-ride ticket purchases.”

You look up and raise an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“Standard metro fares are calculated by distance, and from his house directly to To-Oh costs roughly 200 yen for the travel. The other day, there were two transactions, one for 180 and another for 150. Meaning he stopped somewhere before arriving at class.”

The phone call from the other day comes back to memory. “Is that why you asked about Kawasaki Station?”

Ryuzaki nods once and steps a bit closer. “I know it’s invasive into your privacy, but I have a theory that Light purposely stopped there to meet with…uh someone you know.”

You don’t need to say the name out loud for you both to know who he’s referring to– your ex-boyfriend. 

Continuing to stare at the pot simmering on the stove with a torn feeling, Ryuzaki lets out a soft sigh at your lack of response and saunters up to stand right beside you. He eyes the content of the pot for a few moments before peering over your shoulder to look along the kitchen counter in search of something. 

“Making spicy instant noodles? Ah, I forgot it was nearly time…so everything makes more sense. Did you also grab a cola and bag of chips to pair with it?”

You keep your eyes on the boiling pot. “Oh yea I made sure to– wait.” You place the chopsticks that were being used to stir the contents flat on the counter with a thud! “How did you know I always pair it with those?”

Ryuzaki stares at the noodles without blinking but the bob of his Adam’s apple from the nervous swallow gives away his guilty conscience. “I’m very observant.”

You cock an eyebrow and tilt your head with arms crossed. “And what about ‘it was nearly time’...?”

The sentence drags off when you push past him to grab your phone from the counter and frantically pull up your digital diary; Ryuzaki keeps facing the stovetop and resumes your position of stirring the noodles and checking the consistency. 

Clicking through the days on the calendar section, your face wrinkles in horror and surprise. “You’ve been tracking my cycle?!”

L peers over like a pet caught with something in their mouth and turns his attention back to the boiling water as if he could ignore the conversation entirely. He picks up a noodle with the chopstick and keeps his back to you. “Would you like me to drain them?”

“Answer me, pervert!”

A pillow you grabbed from the sofa is hurled at him as he awkwardly dumps the contents into a colander and tosses the noodles back into the pot with the spice packet. You move to grab a plush this time, but his quiet response makes you pause mid wind up.

“It wasn’t my intention…I simply noticed there were days you seemed more irritable and uneasy and decided to take note.” He stirs the contents and lowers his voice even more. “By the time I noticed what I was actually tracking, the pattern was too useful to stop.”

You drop the plush back onto the sofa and furrow your brows to recount every instance that he may have used this information. “Wait so… the herbal tea served?”

“Caffeine isn’t recommended for those experiencing PMS.”

“And the seat heater being on in the car?”

“Heat can be beneficial for relaxing cramps.”

You pick up the stuffed animal and throw it again with full force. “Perv! Why are you tracking this!?”

Ryuzaki dodges the attack and pries open your cupboard in search of a clean bowl as if it were the most natural act in the world. He opens the next set and grasps a ceramic bowl from the shelf before pivoting back. “Well, shouldn’t your boyfriend know these things?”

“Yea, well you’re not actually my boyfriend-.”

Ouch. 

The word comes out with more force than you want them to and L flinches at the sentence before resuming his act of pouring the noodles into a bowl and stirring them one last time. He places the bowl at an open spot on the kitchen table before bending to collect the pillow and stuffie from the floor as you stand there with a mix of regret and embarrassment. 

“Ryuzaki–”

“It’s fine.” He cuts you off and walks past you to place the items back on the couch before shuffling to sit at the table in his usual awkward position. “I didn’t mean to overstep. I’ll… just forget everything.”

Great. Now you feel like shit.

Sighing anxiously, you pad over to the kitchen table and sit across from him with a guilty conscience. “No.. I didn’t mean it like–”

“I already said it’s fine.” He interrupts again and begins digging through the paper bag. “This relationship is constructed for your protection… nothing more.”

You open your mouth and close it, feeling wounded from the words; when you look up from your untouched bowl, Ryuzaki sits with his hands extended out holding your university crewneck. The same one you had left behind the night the two you…

“Let me explain, ok?”

L looks up at the untaken garment and places it on an empty spot on the wooden furniture in silence. 

“I just…” 

Yes you wanted to explain, but actually finding the words was much harder than you expected it to be. “I… I like this, ok?”

“This?”

You pick up the chopstick and play with the food, feeling small and embarrassed from your outburst. “Yea, this…us.”

Ryuzaki doesn’t move from his spot, but the dark irises of his eyes seem to soften in relief slightly.

“I mean even if it’s fake…” the word makes you scowl slightly but you continue on, “I like spending time with you and doing this with you, L.”

He stays quiet for a moment and nods in a steady beat, testing the words out in his head as he digests the meaning of them. 

“So… then do you still want me to stop tracking…?”

It starts as a snort from the absurdness of this conversation before you break into a full cackle and run a hand down your face at the absurdity that is your life. “You know what? Do whatever you want– fake boyfriend or real, if you think it’s beneficial, then go ahead.”

You may miss the way ‘real’ slips from your tongue, but L certainly doesn’t; his face flushes at the suggestion before smiling gently to himself and relaxing back into the table as if the open seat across from you was always open for him in the first place. 

“Very well then. I also enjoy doing this with you.” He toys with the hem of your folded sweatshirt sleeve when you finally sit back upright and offer an apologetic smile. 

Standing from your seat, you raise a hand to keep him in place and shuffle into the kitchen for a few moments before returning with a small can of cola– the same one you had planned on drinking with your lunch– and placing it in front of the man.

“It’s the sweetest drink I have at the moment, but it’s all yours.”

Ryuzaki blinks at the gesture with arrhythmia before looking back up and noticing the way you eat casually across from him; with a small ‘thanks’ he pops the tab open and takes a sip.

There’s a few moments of silence before L shifts back into detective mode and taps the table with his finger after placing the can back down. “So now that we know Light is visiting your exes, we have to be especially careful in how we incorporate intimacy to our relationship.”

Any food that was in your mouth is now partially lodged in your esophagus as you cough and choke at the bluntness of his words. Patting yourself on the back a few times and gulping for air, you look up at Ryuzaki incredulously. “Ok 2 things: 1. Maybe ease into these kinds of topics moving forward.”

L blinks but shrugs in approval silently. 

“2. Are we sure he’s visiting my ex? I mean aren’t there other destinations he would visit of equal value?”

Ryuzaki thinks for a moment and plays with the tab of the aluminum can. “No, I’m 85% certain he’s visiting one of the people from your past.”

Deflating slightly, you resign to take another bite of your food while L reaches around to the close kitchen counter and passes you the bag of chips. You begin to offer him a ‘thanks’ before shooting him a slight scowl and snatching the snack from his hands.

You pry open the bag and offer him one, which he declines, before munching. “So what does this mean for us? I mean even if Light is going to them… why would that affect uhhh–our ‘intimacy’?”

Geez the word makes you feel like you're in middle school health class again. 

“He may use it as a comparison.”

Ok well there goes your appetite for the moment. “We really need to work on how you can say this so casually.”

Ryuzaki sits back slightly while you prop your elbows up on the table and lean forward. 

“Light never even saw me and my ex together that many times to begin with– so there’s not many physical things he can compare us to.”

“We don’t know what he asked your previous partner though. It’s possible he wanted to know about dating habits as well.”

This makes you pause and slightly contemplate your own habits when in a relationship; most of them seem relatively normal to anyone your age dating and you scrunch your face in defeat. 

“I don’t really do anything out of the ordinary though...”

“Hmm. So what would that entail then?”

…. 

Right. 

A heat flushes on your cheeks and you stand up once more to pour a glass of water to calm yourself slightly. After draining half the glass and filling it up once more, you abandon the table and awkwardly begin to tidy the blankets that litter your sofa in an anxious desire to clean. 

“It’s just normal couple stuff ya know? Like… kissing, hand holding… the usual.”

Ryuzaki stands up and joins you in the connected living room to fix a few cushions before sitting down and looking up at you with less patience. “Yes, but what matters is the manner in how you do those things. That’s what Light is going to be looking for.”

Shivering slightly, you plop down next to him and run a hand on the back of your neck. “I mean…I’m not super big into outbursts of PDA so what we did on campus was a bit out there. And the most risqué thing I’ve done in public is maybe having hickies visible.”

Ryuzaki nods and bites on the nail of his thumb once before spinning in his spot and leaning in past the point of personal space and looking at your face intently. “Alright, let’s do it.”

You pause and raise your hands in shock. “Wait wait wait. What?”

He looks at you unamused and stares from eye to eye before briefly looking down at your lips and peeling his gaze away hastily. “Let’s.. Do hickies.”

‘Do hickies?’

Running a hand down your face and tugging the flesh under your eyes down from the force, you turn to the man with a cautious expression. “Do you even know what those are?”

“Oh, sorry if my phrasing was off. They’re the bruises you leave on a person as a form of possession, right? Or am I mistaken?”

Forget Kira, this man was going to be the death of you.

With a sigh you nod. “That’s correct. But are you sure you even want to do this?”

“Of course, but it also requires you to be comfortable with this as well.” Ryuzaki looks around the room once more and settles further into his seat. “I know that the lines of this agreement are not particularly clear… but I want to make sure that this relationship can successfully protect you. If its effectiveness depends on moments like this and ones similar to the other evening… I’m more than content to continue if you are as well.”

Looking at him in the eyes again, you can feel the strange hypnotic trance he always seems to place you under takeover once more. Of course you want to do this. You would do this and more at the drop of a hat if someone were to pry the truth from you. 

Pushing your ego down, you lick your lips and nod your head in agreement. “I mean, if it’s for the job, I don’t mind.”

Ryuzaki watches the way your tongue pokes out as you moisten your bottom lip and finds his own eyelids hodding slightly as he leans in closer. “Of course. For the job. To catch Kira.”

You spin on the cushion to face the man, the music on the radio long since forgotten now playing a steady ambience to fill the air as you tug his knees to sit on the sofa correctly. Ryuzaki obeys silently and lets his knees bend on the cushions the way most people would position them, and the image is almost uncanny. 

There’s a few beats of silence until you lean forward with L mirroring the action and connecting your lips in a fervent kiss. The same fast learner he’s always been, Ryuzaki hastily rocks his head against yours eager to taste everything, as if he had been waiting for this the moment he knocked on your door. What’s supposed to be a warm up kiss quickly dissolves into an entire makeout session on your couch as limbs scramble and paw at one another. 

Your hands tangle in his hair and your lean forward to get even closer while his hands tug at your waist to get you seated on his lap once more. Nearly tripping and stumbling over each other to get into a similar position as the one a few nights prior, neither one of you bother to break the kiss. 

Saliva dripping from the corners of your mouths, sweet cola taste lingers on your lips when an attempt to breathe leaves Ryuzaki surging his tongue into your mouth. Groans are muffled by the sloppy sounds of lip smacking, and the rock of your hips into his makes his hands dig into the plush flesh of your waist. 

All that talk and worry about ‘what are we’ is thrown out the window the moment the opportunity to kiss this man arises, and you 36 hours would be shaking her head at the lack of self restraint. 

A few more rocks of your hips against his, you part slightly and chuckle when he leans forward to kiss your lips once more before sinking to lay against the armrest in submission. Pushing up slightly, you trace your hands gently along his jaw and shiver when his breath catches in his throat as you guide his head to tilt to the side. His pulse is pounding beneath your fingertips as you take the other hand to brush strands of dark messy hair away from his neck; Ryuzaki clenches at the cushions and flexes the muscles in his body as if bracing for impact. 

Tutting slightly, you push a final strand away from his throat and lower down slightly but raise your eyes to meet his. 

“Just relax, ok? I’ll leave a few on you first… and then you can do some on me.”

L sighs in a mixture of approval and nervousness as you graze your lips along the column of his throat before resting on the quivering pulse point under his jaw. Taking a moment to enjoy the fresh scent of shampoo in his hair and clean detergent on his clothes, you press a gentle kiss into the flesh before parting your mouth and sucking.

ch.7 is doneeee hehe

this chapter is so long already, that i decided the next one would open with a spicy scene hehe

to be honest, this was really hard for me to write, and i went back several times because i wasn't sure i liked the pacing of everything.

-> i'll most likely go back and slightly edit a few scenes in the morning [im posting this at like 3am my time whoops] in case they look weird to me

-> also this was proofread at like 2am so im definitely gonna give it a few look overs tmr

-> if anyone has seen 'community' there's a scene where Abed accidentally tracks the cycle of other characters and for some reason i felt like L would accidentally do the same thing and notice when the reader would experience PMS

anywayyys

TY for all ur love and support for this series, you guys seriously make my day with ur comments and funny remarks

I LUV U POOKIES

all likes/reblogs/comments are appreciated

-oatmeal<3

tagist: @lechatparle24 @irissfoot @iheteeaifs @automaticpatroltragedy @greenapplesaucepi @thesimpnovao @leiiilaaaa @duckydee-0 @dija200 @cherry-san @hanakokunzz @maribellaaaaa @love-of-less

[hauntedbyjoel]

Extra Credit

pairing: joel miller x f!reader warnings: age gap | oral (f & m) | unprotected sex | dirty talk | praise + possession | face grabbing | power imbalance | professor x student dynamic | degradation | no aftercare | verbal humiliation | light choking | domination | no outbreak word count - 5.5k summary - It started with a lesson. A push. A dare to use your voice. You didn’t know that once you opened your mouth, he wouldn’t let you stop. Now you’re bent over his desk, learning exactly what it means to be heard.

❀ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ❀

You didn’t pick his class on purpose.

It was one of the last open sections for your required ethics credit—8 a.m., four days a week, and somehow still half-full despite how late you’d registered. It was either that or pushing your graduation date, and after the way this year had already gone, you weren’t giving yourself any more room to fall behind.

You’d scrolled through the registration site late one night, bone tired, the light from your laptop burning your eyes. Saw his name on the course listing: Miller, Joel. No RateMyProfessor reviews. No photo on the faculty page. Just a terse little course description and a syllabus PDF that looked like it had been formatted in 2003.

You told yourself it would be fine. Just show up, write the papers, turn in whatever needed turning in.

You didn’t know who Professor Miller was until the first day. And even then—you weren’t sure what to make of him.

He wasn’t what you’d pictured when you skimmed the syllabus. No thin-spectacled old man, no tweed blazer or academic charm.

He walked in early—alone—without fanfare. A tall, broad figure in a dark suit, shirt sleeves rolled neatly to the forearms. He looked severe, sharp around the edges, the kind of man who didn’t need to raise his voice to hold the room.

His movements were precise. Controlled. The way he set his coffee down on the podium was deliberate—no wasted effort, no flourish.

And when he turned toward the board, chalk in hand, you noticed the tension in his shoulders. Like patience wasn’t his default setting.

He didn’t take attendance.

He didn’t introduce himself with a slideshow or list fun facts.

He walked in, set his coffee down, and started writing on the board like no one in the room was worth looking at.

MILLER – PHI 3610 – SEMESTER OUTLINE.

The lettering was blocky, impatient, each line etched in chalk with a kind of casual authority that made your stomach turn.

Then he turned around, scanned the class once—his eyes sharp and unreadable—and said, “If you’re planning to coast, drop now. I don’t chase students.”

No one moved. No one said a word.

Without further comment, he started the lecture. No names. No syllabus walk-through. Just launched straight into a discussion of moral philosophy like the room was already expected to keep up.

You sat near the back—not because you were lazy, but because you were tired. Burned out, really. The kind of tired that made everything feel distant, like you were watching your life through glass. You’d taken too many credits, worked too many hours, put up with too much from people who didn’t care to stick around.

Still, you tried to pay attention.

Professor Miller’s voice was low and steady—not loud, but firm. Every word he spoke sounded final, like it had been considered and carved into stone long before you walked in the room.

And when he asked questions, they weren’t easy ones.

“Can something be moral if it’s done for selfish reasons?”

“If the rules are wrong, is breaking them still unethical?”

“Is ignorance a defense, or just a weakness?”

He didn’t offer answers. Just waited, eyes sweeping the room. Sometimes the silence stretched long enough that your pulse would tick faster, the air going sharp with tension—then he’d shake his head, mutter “cowards” under his breath, loud enough for the front row to flinch.

You never raised your hand. But you listened. Closely.

And at night, when you should have been sleeping, you started reading the assigned essays in bed—underlining things, scribbling half-thoughts in the margins, writing notes you’d never say out loud.

❀ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ❀

He called on you once.

Week four.

You hadn’t spoken in class at all. You weren’t even sure he knew your name.

But that day, after a dead silence followed a question about moral authority and obedience, Professor Miller looked up from his lecture notes, scanned the room once, and his gaze caught on you.

“You. Back left. Hoodie.”

Your pulse jumped. For a second, you froze—stupidly glanced around, as if he might mean someone else.

He didn’t.

“The question was,” he said, tone flat, “is it ethical to obey a rule you disagree with just because it comes from someone in power?”

You felt your mouth go dry. The words tangled somewhere in your throat. “Um…”

He waited. No shift in expression. Just cold patience.

Every eye in the room had turned toward you now. You could feel the weight of them, heat crawling up your neck, prickling beneath your skin.

Finally, your voice scraped out, thin and unsure. “No. I mean… not if you think it’s wrong.”

“Not if you think it’s wrong,” he repeated, as if tasting the words. “So morality’s subjective now?”

You opened your mouth—closed it again. “I—no. I just meant…”

His hand cut through the air, sharp and deliberate. “Next time,” he said coolly, “think before you talk.”

And that was it.

He turned back to the board, chalk already in hand, as though the conversation—and you—had been a brief inconvenience. As if your words didn’t matter.

You sat frozen in your seat for the rest of class, barely hearing the remainder of the lecture. When it ended and students gathered their things, you kept your head down.

You didn’t look at him. He didn’t look at you. Not even once.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. That you weren’t there to impress anyone, least of all him. But for the next few nights, when you opened your books, you heard his voice in the back of your mind.

Next time, think before you talk.

The words stuck harder than they should have.

You started reading more carefully. Annotating every paragraph, questioning your own arguments until they barely held together. Not because you thought he’d call on you again—but because you couldn’t stand the thought of stumbling like that a second time.

And when your second paper came back with a 54 circled in red ink, the old frustration flared hot in your throat. You stared at the comments—unclear premise, unsupported claim, review primary source material.

You spent a night trying to rewrite it, tearing through pages until the words blurred, but nothing sounded right. Nothing sounded like enough. And the more you tried, the more you heard his words—sharp and cold in the back of your mind.

You needed to understand what you were missing. You needed to prove—if only to yourself—that you could.

Then, you remember that back in week one, he’d told the class: “I’m here Monday and Wednesday evenings. If you need help, come. But don’t expect me to fix things for you.”

You told yourself it wasn’t worth it. That walking into his office would only make things worse—that he’d see you coming from a mile away.

But the alternative—sitting in silence, knowing he thought you were incapable—felt worse.

And maybe you hated that it mattered.

But it did. Enough that when Monday came, you found yourself climbing the stairs to his office before you could talk yourself out of it.

His office is on the fourth floor of the humanities building— quiet, half-lit, lined with dusty framed philosophy quotes and cracked bulletin boards.

It was at the far end of the hall. The door was closed, amber light spilling through the glass pane. You stood outside for too long, shifting your weight, hand half-raised to knock.

You hated that you were nervous. Hated that you cared this much about what he thought.

But you knocked anyway.

There was a pause. Then: “Come in.”

You opened the door.

The office was warmer than you expected. Small, lined with books and yellowed papers, the desk neatly arranged beneath the lamplight.

And him—

He was behind the desk, glasses in one hand, reading a thick hardback. His jacket was gone; the white shirt beneath was rolled at the sleeves, forearms lean and tensed where they rested on the arm of the chair.

You hadn’t seen him this close before. The sharp line of his jaw, the streaks of grey at his temples, the way his eyes lifted when he looked at you—steady and unreadable.

It made your breath catch.

He set the book aside, voice even. “You’re here about the midterm paper.”

It wasn’t a question.

You nodded. “Yes. I… I wanted to ask if you could explain the feedback.”

He closed his laptop with one hand. Leaned back slightly in his chair.

“It’s all on the page.”

You shifted where you stood. “I read the notes. I’m just—I’m not sure how to fix it if I don’t understand what I did wrong.”

He studied you for a moment. Not unkind, not sympathetic—just clinical. Measuring.

“You misunderstood the ethical framework you were analyzing,” he said finally. “Your thesis wasn’t clearly stated, and the support you used leaned on secondary commentary instead of the primary text.”

His voice was low and flat. Clipped. Every word felt considered, as if it had been edited three times before leaving his mouth.

“It’s not that your ideas are unworkable,” he added. “They’re just not developed. Or defensible.”

You nodded, eyes fixed on a point just past his shoulder. Your throat felt too tight.

“Okay.”

The silence that followed wasn’t comfortable. But it wasn’t awkward either. It was deliberate.

He watched you for another long moment, then gestured to the chair in front of his desk.

“Sit. If you’re going to ask for help, don’t waste the time.”

You sat carefully, setting your bag at your feet. Your palms felt too warm against your jeans.

He laced his fingers on the desk in front of him, eyes steady on yours. The room felt smaller up close—quieter. Just the faint hum of the building’s vents and the occasional shift of papers beneath his hands.

“Tell me what your thesis was,” he said.

You hesitated. “Um. That Bentham’s utilitarianism would justify government surveillance as an ethical practice if the intended outcome is public safety.”

He didn’t react. Just blinked once.

“That isn’t a thesis. That’s a summary.”

You tried not to wince.

He continued, voice measured. “A thesis makes a claim. It takes a stance and supports it with something stronger than a borrowed opinion.”

“I thought I did.”

“No,” he said calmly. “You hoped you did. There’s a difference.”

Your fingers twisted against each other in your lap. The air felt too still.

Professor Miller leaned forward slightly, hand shifting to a pen he picked up but didn’t use. His voice lowered—not kinder, just quieter.

“If you’d come earlier, I would’ve said the paper could be salvaged. But at this stage, it’s a liability.”

You glanced up. “So I’m going to fail.”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

He held your gaze, unblinking. There was something simmering beneath his stillness—contained, deliberate.

“On whether you’re still wasting time. Or ready to stop.”

“I’m not wasting your time,” you said, the words escaping before you could think.

“Good.” He set the pen down. “Then you’ll take the alternative assignment.”

You nodded quickly. “Yes. Of course.”

“I’ll expect a topic outline by next Monday. If it’s weak, I won’t grade the paper.”

You swallowed. Tried to match his tone. “Okay.”

For a moment he didn’t speak. His gaze dropped—just briefly—to your hands, your notebook, the corner of your lip where you were biting.

“You’re nervous,” he said. Not a question. Not a judgment.

You looked up at him. “Is that surprising?”

A pause. Then: “No. It’s appropriate.”

The words hit harder than they should have.

You dropped your gaze again, something hollow opening behind your ribs.

“I’m not a bad student,” you murmured. “I just… got behind.”

“I didn’t say you were a bad student,” he said. “I said your work was insufficient. And I grade work. Not people.”

It was fair. And it still made your throat feel tight.

“I’m not looking for a shortcut,” you added, almost to yourself.

“Good.” His voice was even. “Because I wouldn’t offer you one.”

The silence that followed was heavy—not awkward, but weighted.

You gathered your things slowly, rising from the chair without looking at him.

“I’ll have the outline on Monday.”

Professor Miller nodded once. “We’ll see.”

You didn’t answer. Just nodded, turned, and gathered your things with fingers that felt too tight.

You left his office without another word—feet carrying you on autopilot down the long, echoing stairwell. But the silence didn’t stay behind.

His voice followed you, sharp and precise in your ears. His eyes—the way they’d held yours without blinking. The way he’d seen through you, measured every word like he already knew the shape of your next sentence.

You should have hated him for it. Part of you did. But another part—something smaller, meaner, harder to shake—wanted to prove him wrong. Wanted him to see what you could be, if you tried.

You didn’t know if that was about the paper anymore. But when you got home, you opened your laptop without thinking. Pulled up the feedback. Pulled up the outline again. And this time, you didn’t stop.

The words fought you at first—slippery, reluctant—but you pushed harder. Deleted, rewrote. Stripped the sentences until they felt sharper. You didn’t just want it to be acceptable. You wanted it to hold. You wanted it to leave nothing for him to dismiss.

Hours slipped past. The outline built itself in layers, each paragraph stitched tighter than the last. The more you worked, the more your pulse steadied—focused.

But beneath it, something restless coiled tighter and tighter, no matter how clean the words became.

It wasn’t just about the grade.

You wanted him to see it. To read it. To know you weren’t weak.

The thought made your stomach twist. But you didn’t stop.

When the draft was as close to presentable as you could manage—still rough, but clearer—you hesitated with the cursor hovering over the email tab.

You didn’t have to send it yet. He hadn’t asked for a draft until Monday. But the thought of him seeing it—seeing that you’d already started, that you weren’t hiding—pulled harder than your pride.

You attached the file to a blank message. Typed without overthinking: Rough draft of outline attached. Will revise if needed.

You stared at the screen for a beat longer than you should have. Then hit send.

It was only a few lines. Barely a ripple.

But it felt like daring him to look.

❀ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ❀

Monday — 5:59 PM

His door is cracked open.

Same amber light from his desk lamp. Same silence in the hallway. You wait outside for a few seconds—trying to breathe, trying to pretend this is just another meeting—then knock once and step in.

Professor Miller doesn’t look up at first. He’s writing something in a notebook. He finishes the line before glancing at you.

“You’re on time.”

You nod. “I brought the draft.”

He gestures for you to sit. You do, handing the paper across the desk.

He takes it.

Doesn’t speak for a long while. Just reads.

You sit perfectly still, palms pressed against your thighs to keep them from fidgeting. Your heart pounds with every turn of the page.

He doesn’t make notes. Doesn’t underline anything. Just reads—eyes narrowed slightly, jaw tight in concentration.

When he finishes, he sets it down.

“This is more focused.”

You swallow. “Thank you.”

“I didn’t say it was good.”

“I know.”

“But it’s yours this time.”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“The language is yours. The argument is clearer. You’re not leaning on summary anymore.”

You nod once. Your throat feels tight, but you keep your voice steady.

“I worked on it.”

“I can tell.” His voice is even, unreadable. “Why?”

You hesitate. “Because I wanted it to be better.”

“No,” he says, eyes sharp. “Why now?”

You open your mouth. Close it. “I guess... I didn’t want you to think I wasn’t serious.”

He watches you in silence. His elbows rest on the desk, hands steepled lightly.

“You’re very careful with how you say things.”

You frown. “What?”

“You’re not dishonest. Just careful. Like you want to be right without taking a position.”

“I’m not trying to be careful,” you say quietly.

“No?” His voice lowers. “Then take a position.”

You blink at him.

“Tell me something you believe,” he says. “Right now. No qualifiers.”

“I—”

“Don’t think. Say it.”

The heat rises up your throat. You don’t know if it’s from frustration or panic or something else entirely.

“I think…” You stop. Breathe.

“I think you’re doing this on purpose.”

Joel tilts his head slightly. “Go on.”

“I think you like watching people squirm.”

He says nothing.

And then—he smiles. Not warm. Not kind.

Just the faintest, dangerous curve of his mouth.

“There it is,” he says.

You feel it. That shift. The moment something invisible in the room leans forward. The way your skin tightens, your spine straightens, your pulse clicks louder in your ears.

His eyes are steady on yours. Dark. Still unreadable.

“Keep that voice,” he says quietly. “Bring it to your next draft.”

And just like that, he leans back. Picks up a different paper.

“You can go.”

You stood on stiff legs, gathering your things with fingers that didn’t quite feel steady. The door felt heavier than it should have as you pulled it open, his eyes still on you until the last second.

You left his office that day with your pulse still high and your thoughts running faster than you could catch them.

For the next few days, it was worse than before. Every line you revised, every new sentence you tried to hold steady, you heard his voice under it—Keep that voice. Bring it to your next draft.

It wasn’t about the paper anymore. Not really.

You weren’t sure if it was about the grade, or the way he looked at you. The way he hadn’t looked at you when he told you to leave.

And by the time Thursday came, your nerves were a tight coil beneath your skin.

You told yourself it was just another meeting. Just a draft. Just a room and a chair and another hour.

But you knew better.

❀ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ❀

Thursday — 6:12 PM

You’re twelve minutes late.

You’ve never been late before.

You emailed, apologized, got no reply. But you still showed up, climbing the stairs with your heart pounding and your skin damp with anxiety.

His door is half-closed. You hesitate—then knock twice, lighter than you mean to.

No answer.

You push it open anyway.

Professor Miller is at the window, shirt sleeves rolled, his back to the door. The desk lamp is on, casting long amber shadows. He’s not working. Just standing there, like he forgot the time.

He turns when he hears the door click.

Says nothing. Just watches you.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” you say quietly. “I—got caught up.”

Still, no reply. Just that heavy silence.

You shift on your feet. “I brought the draft.”

He doesn’t move.

Then—slowly—he turns back toward the desk. Nods to the chair.

You sit.

He doesn’t take the paper yet.

“You always apologize before I’ve said anything,” he says.

You look down. “I just figured…”

He waits.

“That you were already annoyed,” you finish.

He nods once. “I was.”

You flinch.

He steps around the desk, takes the draft from your hand, but doesn’t read it. Just holds it loosely between two fingers, like it’s incidental.

“You think I grade based on mood?” he asks.

“No.”

“You think I’m waiting for you to mess up?”

You hesitate. “I don’t know what you’re waiting for.”

That gets his attention.

Then— he sets the paper down. Sits back on the edge of the desk, arms folded.

“You think I’m playing a game.”

You don’t respond.

“I’ve seen the way you look at me,” he says. “Like I’m daring you to say something wrong.”

“I don’t—” You stop. Exhale. “You make it hard to know what you want.”

He leans forward slightly. “I told you last time. I want you to take a position.”

Your pulse clicks louder in your ears.

“Then let’s practice,” he says. “Tell me something real.”

You shake your head, just barely. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Yes, you do.”

His voice is low now. Controlled.

“I think,” you begin, voice trembling, “you make me feel small.”

He says nothing.

“You talk to me like I’m disposable. Like I’m disappointing you just by existing.”

Still, he doesn’t react.

You swallow hard. “But I keep showing up.”

A beat of silence. And then— he stands.

Not quickly. Just deliberately.

Walks toward you, slow and steady. You don’t move. He stops in front of your chair.

“Why do you keep showing up?” he asks.

You look down.

His eyes are darker than before. Still unreadable. Still calm.

“You want to be seen?” he says. “Then look at me.”

You hold his gaze. Barely.

He takes a step closer.

“You want my attention so bad,” Joel says, voice low and sharp, “say something that deserves it.”

You flinch.

“I don’t know what to say.”

He steps closer.

“That’s not true.”

He stops in front of you—so close his voice presses against your skin.

“You’ve been waiting for me to say it first. I won’t.”

His tone sharpens.

“You want this? Use your voice.”

Your stomach flips.

“I’m not—” you swallow. “I’m not great with words.”

His brow lifts.

“I noticed.”

Your breath catches.

“I just… I’m better at showing things,” you whisper. “Not saying them.”

Silence.

Then his jaw flexes, and he nods.

“Fine. Show me.”

Before you can blink, his hand is in your hair—firm but controlled—and he drags your mouth to his.

Not romantic.

Not hesitant.

Just heat.

The kiss lands like a punishment, like a command. His other hand grabs your waist and pulls you in, and you gasp—immediately swallowed into his mouth.

He kisses you like he’s starving. Like he’s angry it took this long.

You melt against him, instinctive, clutching his shirt like you’re begging for something without knowing what.

He breaks the kiss with a quiet growl, hand still gripping your jaw.

“Better,” he mutters.

Then he spins you, presses your hips against the desk, bends low to murmur against your ear—

“Let’s see what else you can say with your body.”

His voice is low, near your ear—closer than he’s ever been.

You brace your palms on the desk, breath ragged.

Then he touches you.

One hand at your hip, grounding. The other smooths over the slope of your back, slow and possessive. Testing you. Measuring your shiver.

“Stay still.”

You nod. You can’t speak. You don't even try.

He hums. Pleased.

Then you feel him push your skirt higher—slowly, methodically, until it gathers at your waist.

He doesn’t comment. Doesn’t groan. Just studies you, fingers dragging lightly along the backs of your thighs.

“You’re quiet again,” he says. “What happened to showing me?”

You squirm.

His palm lands—hard—on your ass.

You gasp. Your knees buckle.

“I told you to keep still,” he says, tone flat. “Unless you want to make this harder on yourself.”

You nod again, breath catching.

He leans down, close to your ear again.

“You’ve been walking around pretending you’re innocent. Acting like you don’t know what this is. What I see when you look at me.”

His hand smooths over where he just struck. The contrast burns.

“You think I didn’t notice the way you breathe when I stand too close? The way your thighs press together when I don’t look at you?”

You whimper.

He pulls your panties down slow, dragging the tension with them, until they drop to your knees.

“That’s more honest,” he murmurs. “You’re dripping.”

Heat flashes down your spine.

“You wanted to feel something? You will.”

Then you feel his fingers.

Not soft. Not teasing.

He pushes one in—deep and sudden.

You jerk, a broken sound caught in your throat.

His other hand wraps around the front of your throat—not choking, just holding—keeping you still, keeping you present.

“Take it,” he says. “You wanted this. You kept coming back.”

He slides another finger in beside the first.

Your eyes flutter shut, mouth falling open.

“You don’t get to disappear anymore,” he says. “You’re going to stay right here and let me use you.”

You nod, frantic. Your hips buck against him, needing more.

“Greedy little thing,” he mutters. “Where was all this fire when I asked you to speak?”

He curls his fingers inside you again—sharp, deliberate—and you nearly sob from how deep it hits.

His hand stays at your throat, thumb resting just under your jaw. Not choking—guiding.

“You want more?” he asks. “Use your voice.”

You whimper.

“Say it.”

You try to push back against his hand, to grind down on his fingers, but his grip tightens—holding you still.

“No more hiding,” he says. “You want something, you say it.”

Your breath breaks.

“Please,” you whisper.

“Louder.”

“Please, I need it.”

He groans—quiet but rough—like he’s finally letting himself feel it.

“What do you need, sweetheart?”

“I need you,” you breathe. “I need your cock. I want—fuck, I want to feel it.”

Joel pulls his fingers out—slow, drenched—and you gasp at the emptiness.

Then you hear the rustle of his belt. The sound is devastating.

“Good girl,” he says. “Now keep talking. You’re going to beg for every inch.”

You blink up at him, still bent over, still aching—but your voice holds.

“Let me suck your cock.”

He stops moving.

His hand drags off your hip.

“What’d you just say?”

You turn slowly, flushed all the way down, still catching your breath.

“I want it in my mouth.”

He stares down at you, eyes dark.

Then he nods once—sharp.

“On your knees.”

You drop without thinking. The carpet’s rough, your knees already sore, but it doesn’t matter.

His belt is loose. His zipper follows. You watch his hand move with calm, practiced precision.

You don’t reach for him.

You wait.

His fingers curl into your hair and he makes you look up.

“No teeth,” he murmurs. “No teasing. You open that mouth, and you take what I give you.”

You nod.

He slides the tip across your lips—slow, claiming—and you part them obediently.

“Good girl.”

He pushes in, and your eyes sting. The weight of it, the pressure—he fills your mouth slowly, one inch at a time, watching your face like he’s studying the way you break.

Your hands stay in your lap. You don’t move unless he tells you.

He keeps one hand in your hair, the other at his base.

“Look at you,” he mutters. “So fucking quiet now.”

He rocks his hips forward, just enough to test your limits.

You gag—but you take it.

You want to take it.

He holds there. Watches the panic flicker behind your eyes—then pulls out, lets you breathe.

“Again,” he says.

You nod, breathless, and open back up.

This time, he’s rougher.

Not cruel—just firm. Just enough to say you asked for this. His fingers tighten in your hair and he groans low when your tongue flattens beneath him.

“Fuck. That mouth…”

You hum around him and his hips stutter forward—instinct, need, like he’s been holding back too long.

He pulls out again, slower this time, and crouches slightly to tilt your chin up.

“You like this?”

You nod.

“You’re just gonna learn.” Joel says, dragging his cock out of your mouth slow.

“Learn how to be useful.”

You gasp when he lifts you onto the desk, spine scraping the cool wood, legs spread wide. You try not to think about how soaked your thighs are. How open. How ready.

He doesn’t speak as he drops to his knees. Doesn’t even look at you.

Just hooks your legs over his shoulders like it’s nothing. Like this has been inevitable since the moment you walked into his office.

And then—

His mouth.

His mouth is everywhere.

Hot breath ghosts over your skin—then his tongue drags a slow, deliberate line through your folds, and your hips jolt.

“You wanna be fucked?” he growls, low and rough against you. “Then prove you’re worth the mess.”

You’re already there—wet, aching, straining toward him like your body knows something you don’t. You feel every flick of his tongue like a fuse inside you, like a warning.

You cry out before you can stop it. Hands flying to grip the edge of the desk, fingernails digging in.

He throws one arm across your stomach, pinning you down with ease.

“Stay still.”

You’re trembling. He doesn’t care. He’s focused, laser-sharp, like he’s trying to break something deep inside you.

His tongue works in tight, punishing circles—pressing into you, curling just right, then pulling back to suck your clit into his mouth until your vision blurs.

“Joel—”

It slips out before you can stop it.

He freezes for a beat.

Then his head lifts, slow. His eyes find yours—dark, amused, and dangerous.

“That what you call me now?” he asks. Voice quiet. Lethal.

Your mouth parts, but nothing comes out.

His gaze doesn’t soften.

“Say it again.”

“I—”

“Say it like you’re allowed to.”

“Joel,” you gasp. “Fuck—please—I need—”

“Need what?”

Your whole body’s trembling.

You’re so close it hurts.

“You—I need you to make me come.”

Something shifts in him.

You feel it in the way his grip tightens. In the low sound he makes at the base of his throat.

He dives in—mouth unrelenting, tongue fucking ruthless.

You’re not even thinking anymore. Just raw nerve and need. Every stroke of him pushes you further into the burn.

Until finally—

You snap.

Your thighs clamp around his shoulders, your hands fly to your mouth, trying to muffle the broken, high-pitched noise that rips out of you as you come apart on his tongue.

Everything goes white for a second.

You’re shaking. Gasping. Your hips still twitch with aftershocks.

But Joel doesn’t stop.

He keeps licking you—slow now, controlled, like he’s drawing out your sensitivity just to watch you squirm.

Your eyes blur with tears.

You’re not even sure if you’re pulling him closer or trying to push him away.

He doesn’t care.

He lifts his head only when you’re panting like you’ve run a mile—your whole body trembling, slick with sweat and shame and whatever this is that he’s doing to you.

Then—quiet, breath against your thigh—

“That’s it,” he mutters. “That’s what I wanted.”

He rises slow, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes dropping down to you.

You’re a mess—panting, shaking, thighs slick and open on his desk.

Joel’s gaze lingers. Unreadable.

Then he lifts his chin, voice low. Controlled.

“You’re really gonna let me fuck you in my office like this?”

Your breath catches.

“I—yes,” you whisper.

He shakes his head once, deliberate.

“Not good enough. You wanted to be heard—use your voice.”

You swallow hard.

“Please,” you breathe. “I want you to fuck me.”

Joel exhales, slow and dangerous.

“You know what that makes you?”

Your pulse pounds.

“Fucking filthy,” he says. “Crawling in here dripping for your professor’s cock.”

You whimper. His words hit like a slap.

“Tell me what you are.”

Your throat tightens.

“I’m—” You swallow. “I’m filthy. I want it.”

Joel steps closer, towering over you now. His hands go to your hips, slow, claiming.

“You wanted this as bad as I did,” he says darkly. “You just didn’t know how to fucking ask.”

He fists himself once, cock already slick from your mouth.

Lines himself up without ceremony.

“You think I’m gonna be gentle now?” he mutters.

You shake your head quickly.

“No.”

“No,” he echoes. “You want to get fucked.”

“Yes,” you whisper, breathless.

“Tell me.”

“I want to get fucked.”

Joel groans low, grip tightening.

“You’re gonna take it, every inch,” he says. “Since you’re so fucking desperate for it.”

You nod, legs trembling.

“Look at me.”

You meet his eyes—dark, commanding—as he grips your hips.

And then—he pushes in.

One slow, ruthless thrust.

You choke on a sound, nails digging into the desk.

He’s thick, the stretch brutal, stealing your breath.

Joel’s fingers bruise your skin as he sinks deeper, inch by inch.

“That’s it,” he growls. “That’s what you begged for.”

You nod, gasping.

“Tell me what I’m doing to you.”

“You—you’re fucking me,” you sob. “You’re fucking your student.”

A dark sound rips from his throat.

“Fucking slut,” he mutters. “Letting me ruin you just so you can feel something.”

He pulls back, slams back in—hard enough to jolt your whole body.

You cry out, fingers scrabbling for the edge of the desk.

Joel fucks you with brutal rhythm, grip bruising your hips.

“You wanted this?” Thrust. “Prove it.”

“I wanted this,” you gasp.

“You like getting fucked by your professor?”

Your voice breaks—shame and heat tangled in your throat.

“I—I like it,” you whisper. “I like getting fucked by my professor.”

Joel snarls, pace driving deeper.

“Pathetic little thing,” he bites. “Could’ve written a hundred papers. Instead you’re here, letting me fuck you open.”

You sob on a breathless moan, body clenching around him.

“Look at you,” he grits. “So fucking desperate. Couldn’t even use your voice until I made you.”

His hand comes up, wraps around your throat—not choking, just holding, grounding you.

“Keep going,” he growls. “You wanted to be heard—then fucking say it.”

“I—I can’t stop,” you sob. “I need it—need you—”

Joel groans deep, hips slamming harder.

“Taking it so fucking well,” he mutters. “Like you were made for it.”

Your whole body burns, every thrust hitting deep.

And still—he won’t let you go silent.

“Tell me what you are.”

“I’m yours,” you gasp. “I’ll tell you whatever you want— just please don’t stop.”

A rough sound tears from his throat.

“Good,” he snarls. “You’re learning.”

One brutal thrust drives the breath from your lungs.

“Keep using that voice.”

Joel’s thrusts grow rougher—harder—driving you helpless against the desk.

You can’t think anymore. You’re gasping, trembling, body clenching around him with every brutal stroke.

“Look at you,” he grits. “Fucking taking it.”

You sob, broken and breathless—but you don’t stop.

“I need it,” you gasp out. “Please—don’t stop—I need it—need you—”

Joel snarls, pace unrelenting.

Your body convulses—heat flashing through you, sharp and consuming. The pressure builds fast, brutal.

And still—you speak, desperate and raw.

“Fuck—feels so good—I can’t—I can’t stop—”

Joel drives deep, ruthless.

“You’ll come when I tell you,” he growls. “You wanted this—you’ll fucking take it.”

You nod frantically, the words spilling out now, helpless.

“I want it—I want all of it—fuck—I want to come for you—”

Joel groans low, snapping his hips harder.

“Do it,” he grits.

That’s all it takes—your body shatters, heat crashing through you as you come hard around him, crying out helplessly.

You barely register the rough grip on your hips as he fucks you through it, milking every pulse, every spasm.

“Mine now,” he mutters, voice cold and steady. “You’ll remember this.”

You gasp for air, spent and shaking.

Joel pulls out with a sharp groan, fisting himself hard.

“Stay just like that.”

You obey—barely able to hold yourself up—while his hand works fast and brutal.

A low, guttural sound tears from his throat—and then hot, thick release paints your lower back, your skin.

He breathes heavy for one beat—then straightens, voice cool again.

“Next time,” he murmurs, leaning in close, “you’ll ask louder.”

He straightens, tucking himself back into his pants, zipping, fastening his belt with calm precision.

You’re still bent over the desk—shaking, raw, your thighs slick and trembling.

You hear him step back—quiet, measured movements—then still.

When you finally glance over your shoulder, Joel is just standing there.

Watching you.

No words. No softness.

Just that cold, unreadable gaze—admiring the mess he’s made of you.

The air between you hums, sharp and electric.

He lets the silence stretch—long enough that it brands itself behind your ribs—before turning away, smooth and deliberate.

And leaving you there to pull yourself back together.

[nizhspo]

genre: haikyuu imagine, fluff, suggestive

pairing: atsumu miya x fem!reader

summary: late night drive w/ a stranger

notes: i am very proud of this and i love this nigga atsumu so fucking much

may 25th – 8:38 p.m.

lsu campus, baton rouge

you didn’t plan to leave your dorm tonight.

you were supposed to watch boondocks reruns on your laptop with a sheet mask half-melted to your chin, bask in your edible glow, and fall asleep with your fan on medium.

instead, you’re digging through the bottom of your half-empty drawer, ripping through loose socks, a tangled charger, and a half-torn syllabus from february, cursing every decision you’ve made this semester.

FLO: your period may start in 2 days!

you blinked at the screen like it betrayed you.

you had three tampons left. maybe two if the box is lying.

and the vending machine in the dorm lobby? broken. and even when it worked, it only ever stocked off-brand pads that felt like diapers.

“god,” you mutter, dragging a hand down your face. the edible has you all floaty and warm, but it’s no match for the rising dread of that first cramp creeping up when you’re unprepared.

you sit back on your bed, hoodie sliding off one shoulder, and pull open your floor groupchat.

you: anyone driving off campus tonight? i’ll buy you food

you: i just need to hit target real fast

you: please i’m desperate i will venmo you five dollars and my soul

nothing. just the “delivered” tag mocking you.

you sigh. stretch out on your mattress and stare at the ceiling fan. the air is thick. sticky. the edible is kicking in more now; your limbs feel slow, sunkissed. your mouth tastes like the cherry lollipop you popped earlier just to have something sweet.

then:

atsumu: i gotta drop smth off to my brother

atsumu: store on the way. u good w that?

you stare at his name for a second.

atsumu miya.

that boy from your psych class. two rows back. always lounging like the seat owes him something. black t-shirts. cocky grin. never takes notes but always manages to answer questions out loud like he already knew.

you’ve never actually spoken to him—maybe once, passing each other in the student union. maybe not even then.

but he knows your name. you know his.

you shoot back:

you: that’s perfect, thank uuuu i’ll meet you outside in like 5?

atsumu: bet

atsumu: i’ll be parked near the quad. black honda. lights on.

you hop up. tug on your purple and gold lsu sweats—the ones with the cracked logo at the thigh, and throw on a tank top. you debate a bra.

decide against it. too hot. too much effort. and it’s just a ride.

you grab your phone, keys, and a mini wallet and step out into the hallway.

outside, the air clings to your skin like honey. thick, warm, slow.

it’s not fully dark yet, but the sky’s sliding toward purple, soft strokes of peach and navy bleeding out behind the buildings. the year’s bleeding out too, really. campus feels like a half-finished thought. windows dark. dorm doors cracked but silent. the echo of summer just beginning to stretch her arms.

you’re standing on the curb and your tank top’s sticking to your back where it meets skin, the fabric of your shirt brushing your chest every time you move. your nipples perked the second you hit the hallway air, and now they’re brushing against the fabric with every breath. every step. your arms are crossed tight.

your phone buzzes in your palm.

atsumu: you see me?

the bass from his car gives him away long before the headlights do: low and rolling, some beat-heavy loop bleeding through the speaker system. not obnoxious, just… lived in. the kind of car that’s seen late-night drives before. fast food bags in the backseat. dusty sports duffels. a hoodie curled in the passenger side footwell like someone tossed it off mid-drive.

you spot him through the windshield, one arm hooked out the driver’s side, fingers tapping against the glass, phone glowing in his lap. he’s got on a black tee, soft and worn, that clings to his chest and shoulders like a second skin. his sweatpants are gray and low-slung. thick thighs spread in the seat. blonde strands blow with the breeze.

you pull the door open and climb in, closing it behind you with a soft thunk.

and immediately—

air-conditioning hits you like a gust. cold and hard and perfect. it’s blasting full speed from the dash vents, and your skin tightens under it. a visible shiver runs down your arms, across your chest.

“seatbelt,” he says, not looking.

you buckle up.

he does glance over then, just once, and the look in his eyes lingers. not in a gross way, just… aware.

he clocked it. your shirt. the way you crossed your arms. the sudden alertness in your posture. you look back at him with a little raise of your brow, daring him to say something.

he doesn’t. just turns the music down and rests one hand on the wheel.

“you good?”

his voice is low and easy, eyes flicking to yours just briefly before returning to the road. he doesn’t sound worried, just tuned in like he’s been watching your body language the whole time. his hand shifts slightly on the wheel, thumb tapping once against the leather grip.

“yeah,” you say. “just cold.” your arms tighten a little over your chest. your tank’s thin, and the AC’s been hitting the same spot on your collarbone for the last five minutes.

you tuck your chin slightly into your shoulder, trying not to look like you’re reacting too much, but your voice still comes out a little breathier than you meant.

“mhm. i can turn it down.”

his hand is already reaching for the dial, fingers brushing the silver knob, but he doesn’t move it until you answer.

“no, it’s fine. feels good.” you glance at him as you say it, your tone soft. honest. something about the cold air feels grounding. like it’s keeping you sharp even as everything else starts to feel slow and warm and easy.

a beat. the kind that hums thick with unsaid things.

“you high?” he asks, casual.

his mouth curves just slightly, like he already knows the answer. he keeps his eyes on the road, but his posture shifts, more relaxed now. like this version of you makes sense to him.

you snort. “a little.”

the confession slips out with a grin, half-embarrassed and half not. your voice lifts on the end, playful.

his mouth twitches. “thought so. your eyes are red.” he finally looks at you again. it’s quick, but his gaze lingers just a second longer than before. not judging. not teasing. just noticing. and the way he says it? like it’s a detail he’s been sitting on since you climbed in.

you glance at the mirror. they are. not bright-red, just rimmed pink, soft around the edges. like your bones have finally exhaled.

“edible,” you say. “i earned it.”

he nods. “finals?”

“last one on tuesday. stats. i hate it.”

“but you studied.”

you shrug. “enough to pass. figured i’d celebrate a little.”

“respect.” he taps the wheel. rolls the window down two inches.

and the music’s back, some local r&b station, static under the beat, bass rumbling low. the kind of song you don’t know the name of but already like. you hum without thinking, tapping your fingers on your knee.

he turns onto a side road, past the edge of campus. the lights thin out. you smell grill smoke in the distance—maybe someone barbecuing near the dorms. maybe a food truck tucked near the rec center. it’s the kind of night where everything feels close and far at the same time. stretched. golden. soft around the edges.

“you always ride like this?” you ask.

“like what?”

“music up. windows down. driving aimless.”

“you callin’ me aimless?”

“i’m callin’ you vibey.”

he laughs under his breath, glancing at you again.

“nah. i usually ride alone. but this ain’t bad.”

you sink into the seat more. let your head rest against the window. the glass is warm from earlier sun. the car smells like pine and something sweeter. his cologne, maybe. maybe lotion. you glance at his hands on the wheel. veiny. strong. knuckles dark from sun.

“where you from?” you ask.

“hyogo,” he says, grinning. “nah, i’m playin’. nola. me and my brother samu both.”

“so you stayed close.”

“scholarship made it worth it. and i like it here. feels familiar.”

“i get that.”

a pause. the kind that doesn’t need to be filled.

“you got any family out here?” he asks.

“my cousin. she’s in grad school up the road.”

“you like it here?”

“i like the food. i like the heat when it’s not suffocating.”

“but?”

“but it’s hard sometimes. feel like everyone here already knows each other, y’know?”

“yeah,” he says, after a moment. “i felt that way too, at first.”

you look at him. he looks at the road. the lines on his face are soft in the passing lights. like he’s thinking more than he’s saying.

you ride like that for a while. quiet. just the wind through the crack in the window and the occasional cough of static from the radio.

you pass target without realizing it.

he doesn’t turn in.

“wait—”

“i’mma hit samu’s first,” he says. “if that’s cool.”

you blink. “you were supposed to go after—”

“yeah, but i figured you weren’t in a rush. and i need to drop this off now before he leaves. won’t be long. five minutes max. you can stay in the car. i’ll leave the air running.”

you hesitate. you’re warm now. skin soft under the buzz.

he just nods, one hand loose on the wheel, his other fingers toying with the car’s AC dial like muscle memory.

the ride settles quiet again, not heavy, just full. full of the kind of silence that swells around two people still orbiting one another. you shift your weight slightly, arms crossed over your chest, chilly from the vent’s cold air but not asking to turn it down.

you pass gas stations and streetlights and the occasional beat-up sedan with no headlights on. the further you get from campus, the more the world softens: less concrete, more trees. more overgrown grass climbing fences. more sky above you, bruising deep with night.

you keep glancing at him in the low light.

the radio’s humming a 90s r&b loop now, a song you halfway know. his fingers drum on the wheel, a lazy rhythm, wrist flexing just enough to catch the veins on his arm. his nails are clean, cut short. the smell of him curls warm in your nose, faint cologne with a sharper edge of deodorant and skin.

not like he sprayed himself up, just like this is what he smells like after a day.

he doesn’t speak. doesn’t fill space for the sake of it. just drives like he always does this. like driving late into southern dusk with a soft-eyed girl riding shotgun is routine.

“you sure your brother’s home?” you ask after a minute, eyes tracing the power lines out the window.

“yeah,” he says. “told me to bring his charger. left it in my room again.”

you smile. “he does that often?”

“every damn week.”

you laugh, then sigh, pressing your shoulder to the window.

he turns off the main road and coasts into a quiet neighborhood with narrow streets, older houses, cars parked half-up on lawns. porch lights glow dim gold. a sprinkler clicks on somewhere behind a fence.

when he finally pulls into a gravel driveway, you can hear it crunch under the tires.

“you can come in,” he says again, shifting into park. “or stay out here with the AC. i’ll leave the car on.”

you nod. “i’ll come in. i gotta pee anyway.”

his lips twitch up. “figured.”

you both climb out. the heat clings to you instantly, humid, heavy, like breath on your skin. the night smells like cut grass, faint barbecue, and the lingering burn of car rubber from someone doing too much up the street earlier.

he leads the way up the steps. knocks once, then turns the knob.

you walk in behind him, and the smell of the house hits you first. not bad, just lived in. clean floors, slightly burned incense, maybe a faint trace of jambalaya cooked earlier. you hear a tv on in another room, the sound low. footsteps.

“yo,” atsumu calls, voice deeper now.

a man appears around the corner, similar build, darker hair, towel slung around his neck like he just wiped off sweat, like he either just finished cooking or bench-pressing something in the living room.

he stops when he sees you.

dark eyes flick from you to atsumu, then back.

his expression doesn’t change much, but his eyebrow lifts. subtle. like he’s trying to figure out what exactly this is.

“this her?” he says, dry, low, like the words are exhaled more than spoken.

atsumu exhales a sharp breath, dramatic. “bro—she needed a ride to target.”

“mm.” osamu’s gaze lingers on you, not in a creepy way. just observant. assessing. he’s got that quiet, oldest-brother energy, like he’s already weighed three versions of this situation in his head and picked the chillest one to go with.

“bathroom’s down the hall,” he adds, eyes flicking away. “second door on the left.”

“thanks,” you say, stepping past.

the hallway’s narrow, the kind where your shoulders almost brush the walls. hardwood creaks a little under your feet. the air smells like clean laundry and whatever seasoning was left behind in the kitchen pan. you breathe in slow, skin prickling with the quiet intimacy of being in someone else’s home for the first time—barefoot echo of your steps, the soft hum of a fridge, low voices floating from the kitchen behind you.

you find the bathroom. close the door.

it’s small, but not cramped. blue towels, a little air freshener on the counter, toothpaste smeared near the sink like someone rushed out in the morning. you take a beat. wash your hands. splash water on your cheeks and look at yourself in the mirror.

your face is warm. cheeks a little pink. there’s a softness in your eyes, half from the edible, half from this night slowly unfolding like something out of a song you didn’t know you remembered.

you dry your hands on the towel, slow and quiet.

outside the door, you hear atsumu’s voice, low and smooth—then osamu again, louder this time.

“so… target?”

atsumu laughs. “she ran outta tampons, man. i’m bein’ a good samaritan.”

“that what we call it now?”

you stifle a grin, cheeks hotter now, and flush the toilet just so they know you heard. when you open the door, atsumu’s already near the front again, keys in hand, twirling them lazily around one finger. he glances over when you step into view.

“you ready?” he asks.

his voice is easy. nothing forced about it. he doesn’t ask why you took your time. doesn’t comment on the fact that you definitely heard his brother grilling him. just looks at you like you’re still in the middle of something. like the night’s only just started.

you nod. “yeah.”

he opens the door for you. steps out first.

the air outside has shifted. it’s still warm, still thick, but there’s a breeze now. soft and slow, brushing through the trees. you inhale deep. smell the moisture in it, the faint scent of something blooming. the sky’s ink-dark, scattered with stars above the treetops. somewhere in the distance, you hear a boom—low and muffled.

a firework going off early, maybe. or a backfiring truck. it doesn’t matter. it feels like summer.

you both climb back in the car, the seat warm from where you left it. the dashboard clock flashes 9:27. he shifts the car into reverse, rolls back down the driveway smooth as ever.

the silence that settles in the car this time isn’t awkward. it’s the kind that makes you want to fill it with a song. and like he’s reading your mind, atsumu leans forward, taps the radio.

“let’s see if this thing’s still got a good station…”

static. flip. flip.

then, something slow. smooth. bass-heavy.

break from toronto.

the beat creeps in like syrup, warm and low, just barely pushing at the edge of the speakers. the vocals hum through the air, wrapping around the cabin like a weighted blanket.

you smile. “you like this song?”

“who doesn’t?” he grins, one hand sliding across the wheel.

“valid.”

you glance out the window. the lights of baton rouge blur by in long, melted strokes. everything outside the car feels far away now—like the city’s paused for the night and let you have your own little pocket of air.

“you hungry?” he asks, voice still low.

you blink. turn to him. “kinda.”

“you want mcdonald’s or actual food?”

“damn. you just called mcdonald’s fake?”

“i called it what it is,” he smirks.

you snort, then shrug. “i could do actual food. if you’re down.”

“i know a spot. open late. drive-thru’s always fast.”

you nod.

he doesn’t ask if you’re in a rush. you don’t ask if he is either.

you reach target ten minutes later.

not the campus one that one’s always packed and picked over by five p.m.—but the quieter location off college drive, tucked behind an old smoothie king and a gym that never closes.

the lot’s mostly empty, just a few stray carts tilted sideways near the corral and a flickering overhead light buzzing above a cracked parking space. the red glow of the target sign reflects in the hood of his car when he pulls in and parks a little crooked, two spots from the front.

he leaves the engine running.

“i’ll come in,” he says, already pulling his keys from the ignition.

“you don’t have to.”

“i know.”

he slams the door shut with his hip and meets you on your side.

inside, the air hits colder than before, grocery store cold, all artificial chill and soft overhead music. your skin tightens again under your tank, goosebumps rising like clockwork. you cross your arms as you walk, hugging yourself loosely, your steps echoing faint on the polished tile.

“what aisle is it?” he asks.

“ten,” you say automatically, even though you could find it blindfolded.

he trails a little behind you, pushing one of those hand baskets even though you told him you didn’t need it. his sweats swish quiet with every step. you pass a woman in pajama pants and a bonnet, a couple holding hands in the cereal aisle, and a manager restocking the travel-size body washes near checkout.

when you reach the aisle, you pause at the end—just a second too long—and he clocks it.

you turn to him. “i’ll be quick.”

he shrugs. “take your time.”

he doesn’t say it weird. doesn’t make a face. just backs up a few steps and turns to browse whatever’s next to the shelf—vitamins, maybe. chapstick. you breathe in slow, trying to shake the self-conscious edge prickling up your spine.

you grab a box. the purple kind you like. stare at it for a beat. then grab another, because last time you ran out too fast.

“you good?” he calls over his shoulder.

“yeah.”

when you turn back, he’s got something in his hand—cherry lip balm, and he’s squinting at the ingredients like he’s reading for class.

“you putting that in the basket?”

“nah,” he says. “my lips are soft.”

you blink. smirk. “okay…”

he grins. “feel free to confirm later.”

you roll your eyes, but your smile’s creeping in too.

you make a quick loop, all of your items small enough to finish before you’re off campus for the semester: travel-sized face wash, trail mix, a pack of gum, and he follows you, basket swinging from two fingers. the radio in the store starts playing “love galore,” and you catch him nodding a little to the beat, mouthing words like it’s muscle memory.

something in your chest loosens. the buzz is still sitting behind your eyes, soft and sweet.

at checkout, he throws in a bottle of gatorade and a king-size twix bar.

“you want anything?” he asks.

you eye the impulse shelf. grab a mini bag of sour patch kids. he hums like it tells him something.

he pays without blinking.

you don’t argue. just thank him under your breath as you head back to the car.

outside, the air’s even heavier now. summer pressing down like a hand on the back of your neck. it smells like pavement and distant water. sprinklers, maybe, or the bayou miles off catching breeze.

the sky’s darker, but not starless. somewhere far, another firework cracks.

he unlocks the car. you both get in.

this time, you peel the seal on your sour patch before the AC even hits your face. he takes a swig of his gatorade, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and glances over.

“still hungry?” he asks.

you nod. “you said you knew a place.”

“yeah. it’s a little hood, but the food’s fire.”

you grin. “good.”

he puts the car in reverse. pulls out slow. flicks his blinker, even though there’s nobody around.

you reach the restaurant a few minutes later.

drive-thru only, tiny neon sign above the window that just says WINGS & THINGS. a guy in a tank top and durag leans out the pickup window with a cracked phone in one hand and a bored look on his face.

“they got the best lemon pepper in the city,” atsumu says.

you order honey hot and seasoned fries. he gets lemon pepper, extra crispy.

when the food’s ready, he pulls into a half-abandoned lot across the street, just enough light to see your hands, not enough to see your reflection in the rearview. the windows are halfway down. cicadas buzz. your thighs are sticking to the seat a little now, sweat blooming beneath your knees.

he opens your box for you. passes it over. his fingers graze yours.

you eat in silence for a minute. licking sauce from your knuckle. the sound of chewing, the smell of fried food, the slow exhale of r&b through the car’s speakers. his head leans back on the seat, jaw working, the muscles in his arm flexing every time he reaches for a fry.

you glance at him. catch him looking at you already.

he doesn’t look away.

the food’s gone. wrappers crumpled, boxes empty but oily at the edges, tossed into the bag and folded neatly under your seat.

your fingers are sticky, and your lips are warm from spice, and your body? your body feels lazy and loose and alive in that particular way you only get when the night’s turned golden and you don’t know when it happened.

the radio hasn’t been touched since “break from toronto.” it’s playing something slower now—brent faiyaz, maybe, or tinashe. you’re not even sure. it’s just bass and breath and melody curling up against your thigh.

“you wanna stay out a little longer?” atsumu asks, voice barely above the hum of the AC.

you turn your head. blink slow.

“what’d you have in mind?”

he lifts a shoulder, eyes on the windshield. “fireworks show up by the levee.”

you blink again. “those weren’t just random ones?”

he shakes his head. “nah. they do a lil unofficial memorial day thing. nothin’ major. just people pull up, park, and watch.”

your stomach flickers.

your lips part before you can overthink it. “yeah. i’m down.”

he nods. puts the car in drive.

you roll the window down farther this time. let the wind rush in, let it ripple through your tank, lift your baby hairs. the air’s warm again, still sticky, but not in a way that makes you want to run from it. more like it’s wrapping around you, holding you in place. the breeze smells like wet grass and river water. and smoke. distant smoke.

you look at atsumu. his jaw is clean-shaven. his hands steady on the wheel. there’s a sliver of sauce at the corner of his mouth.

you lick your thumb. lean in and wipe it away without thinking.

he stills.

just a beat.

then exhales, slow and shallow.

“thanks,” he says, voice tighter.

“you’re welcome.”

the music keeps playing. you keep looking out the window.

when he pulls up to the levee, you don’t expect the view.

the sky is open here. wide. it yawns above you in deep navy, dotted with low, scattered clouds and stars that actually show. there are maybe four other cars parked nearby, spaced out. people sitting on tailgates, folding chairs, hoods. someone has a speaker playing old drake a few spots over, and you hear the fizz of someone cracking a beer.

atsumu parks near the edge and turns off the engine. leaves the radio on.

and then?

he hops out. opens your door.

“you good up there?” he asks, nodding toward the hood.

you climb out. stretch.

“yeah. lemme just—”

“here.” he shrugs off his hoodie, the one he’d tossed in the back earlier, and hands it to you without hesitation. “it’s getting cold out here.”

you blink at him. then take it.

it’s warm in your hands, still holding the heat of his body, the weight of it heavier than you expected. you slip it over your head slow, the fabric soft against your arms, the neck wide enough to drape loose at the collar.

it smells like him. clean and sharp and familiar now, and the sleeves fall past your wrists.

you pull your knees up slightly, climb onto the hood, and lean back on your palms. the metal underneath is warm from the earlier drive, and the night air feels softer now, hugging your body through the layers.

you look out at the sky.

he climbs up beside you. not too close. just close enough.

for a while, nothing happens.

just the sound of crickets. muffled bass. the rustle of trees behind you.

and then a firework pops.

it’s not huge. not coordinated. but it cuts through the night sky in pink and gold and green, crackling above the trees. you both watch it rise. then another. a few kids cheer in the distance. someone whistles.

you laugh under your breath.

“it is kinda ghetto.”

“yeah,” he says, grinning. “but it’s kinda perfect.”

you look at him.

his leg is brushing yours now.

you don’t know who shifted. you don’t care.

another firework blooms overhead, blue this time, long trails behind it like brushstrokes on velvet sky.

you both look up, breath caught somewhere between chest and throat. you feel the boom in your ribs more than your ears. the kind of sound that sinks into you, low and grounding. it lights up his face in flashes: blue, then gold, then green again.

and god, he looks good like this. quiet. soft-eyed. like he’s letting the night wrap around him just like you are.

you don’t speak. neither of you do.

not for the whole show.

you just sit there on the hood of his car, knees brushing, fingers occasionally twitching toward each other like they forgot how to hold still. the fireworks crackle and whistle and bloom above you in every color. people cheer. a dog barks. someone blasts “march madness” from a bluetooth speaker two cars down. but it all feels far away. like it’s happening through a layer of cotton.

your buzz has mellowed now. everything’s warm. slow. syrupy.

your lips part without meaning to.

you stand, slow and stretching, arms overhead as the last firework sizzles out above the treeline. your hoodie rides up a little, tank clinging underneath, the hem of your sweats resting soft on your hips. the sky’s quieter now, and your chest feels full with the kind of silence that makes you want to keep moving.

“i could go for something sweet,” you say, voice quiet.

atsumu turns, eyebrows raised. “you still hungry?”

you shrug, sheepish. “not food-hungry. just like… dessert hungry.”

he huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “girl, you’ve been hungry all night.”

you grin. “i’m a growing girl.”

“uh-huh.”

his eyes dip, slow and obvious, lingering at the curve of your hips as you shift your weight. his voice drops, smooth as syrup. “yeah, somethin’ back there definitely been growin’.”

you blink at him, laughing once through your nose, heat curling up your neck.

he smirks, already turning toward the car. “c’mon. i know a spot.”

he drives you down a road that doesn’t look like it leads anywhere, trees on both sides, no real lights, gravel crunching under the tires like bones. your phone has no bars. the GPS would’ve given up two turns ago. and then, just when you’re thinking he’s made a wrong turn—a single neon sign flickers to life up ahead.

mr. spoon’s shakes & sundaes.

the building’s barely bigger than a shed. there’s a sliding order window, a laminated menu, and one fluorescent light buzzing hard above the roof. it smells like waffle cones and summer air and cheap cleaning spray. the kind of place you can only find if someone shows it to you.

atsumu pulls up and parks close. shuts off the engine.

the girl at the window looks half-asleep, nails long and red, hair in a puffed-up bun. her eyes flick over you both, unimpressed, and she slides the window halfway open.

“hey. how can i help y’all tonight?”

you lean forward to read the menu, eyes trailing over names like banana bonanza and strawberry lightning bolt and death by chocolate. but the words are swimming a little.

your high’s not loud anymore, but it’s still there, curling around your brain like cotton. you tilt your head. squint.

atsumu watches you for a second.

then turns to the girl.

“we’ll take a double swirl, chocolate and vanilla. extra whipped cream. with the waffle stick.”

she raises a brow. “you sure?”

he nods. “positive.”

she disappears inside and you blink at him.

“you ordered for me?”

he grins. “yes. because you were standing there like the menu was written in spanish.”

“it was blurry!”

“mhm. and you were moving like that girl wasn’t gonna fight you if you didn’t pick in five seconds.”

you cover your mouth, laughing. “she did look mad.”

“she was mad. i saw her grip the edge of the counter.”

the girl returns with your milkshake—if you can even call it that. the cup is massive. layered with thick swirls of chocolate and vanilla ice cream, piled high with whipped cream, fudge drizzle, crushed cookies, and a single crooked waffle cone sticking out the top like a flag. there’s one long spoon and a straw stabbed right in the middle.

“y’all got five minutes. we closin’ now,” she says, already sliding the window shut again.

“appreciate you,” atsumu calls, handing her a bill. she doesn’t answer.

you both climb back onto the hood of the car, this time settling closer without thinking. he balances the shake between you, and you take the first bite, ice cream already melting down the sides, sticky sweet on your lips.

“god, this is good.”

“let me try,” he says.

you nod, holding the cup toward him. but when you go to pull off the lid, he stops you.

“what?” you ask.

“what—you got cooties or something?”

you blink. then scoff. “no.”

“then gimme the straw.”

you hesitate. something in your chest tightens—not nervous, not embarrassed. just… aware. the straw’s slick. your gloss is still on it. your breath, your taste. he leans in and sips slow, eyes on you the whole time.

your thighs press together instinctively.

he pulls back, licking whipped cream off his lip.

“damn,” he murmurs. “that is good.”

you’re not sure he’s talking about the milkshake.

the silence returns, but it’s different now. thicker. your knees are touching. your hip’s leaning into his. and when you glance down, his hand is resting near yours again. closer this time. deliberate.

you look at him and he’s already watching.

and when he finally leans in, you don’t stop him.

the kiss starts soft. softer than you expect. just lips, brushing. then again. then again, deeper.

his hand finds your waist. yours curls behind his neck.

and when he tilts his head, breath sliding hot against your mouth, you open up for him without thinking, tongue brushing his, slow and sweet. like the shake you’re both ignoring now. like the fireworks that lit the night but couldn’t touch this.

he kisses like he’s learning you. like he’s waited the whole night to taste what you’d pick if you had to choose between chocolate and vanilla.

and from the way he groans into your mouth, you’re guessing he’d pick you.

his lips are warm, soft but certain, like he knows exactly how close to hold you without crowding. your fingers are curled in the front of his shirt now, tugging just enough to keep him there, and he’s letting you—leaning into it, mouth moving against yours like it’s instinct. like it’s gravity.

you shift a little, thighs spreading just to anchor yourself to the hood. the milkshake is still balanced between you, but it’s sweating now, melting faster than either of you are keeping track of. your left hand presses to the side of his neck, thumb brushing the edge of his jaw. he kisses you deeper for it.

and then—

plip.

cold drips onto the back of his hand. thick and sticky.

you both flinch.

you glance down.

a long stripe of whipped cream and vanilla is sliding down his knuckle, slow like honey. it’s glistening in the soft light, pooling near the curve of his wrist. your eyes trail it. so do his. and for a second, neither of you moves.

then your gaze flicks up. you lean in. slow. you don’t even think— you just part your lips and drag your tongue up the stripe of cream, a clean, warm swipe from wrist to knuckle. his breath hitches. sharp. the muscle in his jaw flexes, and his fingers twitch like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

your mouth lifts off his hand, slow. a faint pop of suction in the quiet air.

you swallow, eyes half-lidded, and tilt your head just slightly.

he looks stunned. then he laughs once—low and hoarse, and grabs the cup with one hand, sets it down hard on the pavement without even checking if it’s upright.

his other hand’s still slick when it slides to your thigh.

and now? he doesn’t sit back down.

he drops off the hood in one smooth step and steps between your legs, close enough for the heat off him to roll straight into your skin. his hands come up, bracing your thighs, holding you open just wide enough. the air sticks to your neck. your breath’s already shallow.

“you got a habit of lickin’ things that don’t belong to you?” he asks, voice rough, eyes fixed on your mouth.

“i didn’t hear you complain,” you murmur.

he grins.

“i’m not complainin’.”

and then he kisses you again, deep this time, hotter than before. his hands drag slow up your sweats, thumbs stroking the insides like he’s marking territory. your whole body arches forward. your hands grab fistfuls of his shirt. his mouth opens against yours and you taste sugar and skin and something feral rising between your ribs.

he licks into your mouth like he’s chasing the last of the whipped cream.

the metal beneath you is warm through your sweats. the air smells like sugar and pavement and the sweat sitting in the bend of your elbow.

he looks up at you for a beat—really looks. lips pink, mouth slightly parted, pupils blown wide.

and then he leans in again.

his mouth catches yours hungrily, like the dam’s cracked. his hands continue to slide further up your thighs, gripping—not rough, just intentional. his thumbs brush the inside, higher and higher, like he’s testing what he can get away with. you shiver. briefly regret wearing sweatpants.

he kisses like he’s tasting something rich, slow licks into your mouth, tongue brushing yours, teeth just barely grazing your bottom lip. your hips roll without meaning to, just once, right against where he’s standing between your legs.

his breath catches. he presses in closer.

the heel of his hand lands against the hood on either side of your thigh now, boxing you in. your legs tighten around him instinctively. your tank shifts higher beneath his sweatshirt. you can feel your pulse in your neck.

he pulls back for a split second, and then mouths along your jaw, down to your neck. kisses there, slower. firmer. like he wants to memorize the curve of it. his breath fans hot over your skin.

“it’s so damn hot,” you murmur, voice breathy.

he huffs a grin against your collarbone. “so are you.”

your head tilts back when he finds the spot just under your ear—sucks there, gentle but deep. your fingers tighten in his shirt again. your thighs flex around him.

his hand slides up again. this time, fingers slipping beneath the hem of your hoodie. resting there. not rushing. not asking.

just waiting.

you press your mouth to his again before you can think better of it.

he groans—low, ragged. his hands slide up your waist now, warm palms beneath your hoodie, fingertips grazing the bare skin of your sides. you gasp into his mouth. he eats the sound.

his body is all heat, all pressure. his thigh brushes right between yours again and lingers. not grinding, not humping, just there. like a placeholder. like a promise.

he pulls back, just slightly, lips still grazing yours.

“you good?” he murmurs, voice rough.

you nod, dazed. “yeah.”

his hands pause. “you sure?”

your eyes open. you find his. something in your chest tightens. not with nerves, just with want.

“i’m sure.”

he kisses you again. slower now. deeper. your arms loop around his neck. your whole body is arching into him. he shifts closer, one hand bracing your lower back, the other cupping your jaw. he kisses like you’re a song he just discovered, like he wants to learn every note by heart.

and when he pulls back again, finally—finally, you’re both breathing hard. faces close. noses brushing. your lip’s kissed pink. your pulse is skipping.

“that milkshake,” he murmurs, eyes still locked on your mouth, “didn’t stand a chance.”

you giggle, quiet.

he smiles. not cocky. not smug. just soft.

and then he kisses the corner of your mouth— once, gentle.

like he wants this to keep going long after tonight ends.

[moonsaver]

College au veritas ratio just because

He's one of the smarter kids, joins like a hundred clubs but leaves them all to make his own, it's practically a tutoring class for anyone who joins but he grills and shreds his own club members to pieces so it's practically barren except a few unlucky souls and other intellectuals, no idea which classes he takes because when you ask he just lists every single one of them including ones that you're sure arent provided by the college

But he's so annoying too. For some reason, ever since he's realised you're in some of his classes, he makes it his life mission to annoy you to death. He sits beside you in every lecture, passing on pointers in specific topics, telling you to stay with him after class in the library when one of your professors doesn't teach well, drags you to those gruesome 8 AM classes, forces you to sift through the bulks of study material he has with him. It makes you groan dramatically, lean back into your chair with a hand over your head, languishing the sacrifice of all your free time which is shrugged off by him, as he harshly tugs you back to reality.

If he doesn't occupy your time with studies, he does it with class or club projects. It doesn't even matter if you share any of them with him – not like Veritas isn't familiar with those topics. He's scoffing at you as you scrunch your eyes at a topic you've never heard before in your life, before explaining in depth about it and practically teaching you half of the entire syllabus. You wonder how you can fit it into the cramped slides?

And that's not all – he goes over your class projects himself, and swears up and down they're not good enough. 

You suspect he may have ulterior motives, however. Everytime you sit down with him to “redo” the work, he swiftly shifts the conversation to more personal topics. Perhaps.. he just feels lonely? Asking him directly is useless, he shuts down the idea immediately, and prattles on about how his time is too precious. But you can tell from the slight fidgeting of his hand towards yours, or his bored eyes scanning the crowd until they burst with vitality when they fall on you, or the dampening of his mood when you tell him you're actually busy for once and won't be able to make it to a study session.

Maybe.. you can accompany him for a little longer. It doesn't take much to open up to a person, right?

[sunshineyuyu]

gravitational attraction (k. ys)

★ summary: you’re taking intro to physics late as an upperclassman, but thankfully there’s another student in the same predicament–kang yeosang. the two of you end up as lab partners, and as the semester goes on, you become friends and maybe something more. ★ pairing: yeosang x gn!reader ★ genre: college, fluff ★ word count: 3.4k ★ tags/warnings:  college soccer player!yeosang, no y/n, physics lab partners to lovers, intentionally lowercase, platonic (or is it?) bed sharing/cuddling, this is all fluff :3 ★ notes: i know yeosang is actually really smart he'd probably be helping ME with physics in reality ! as always, beta'd by @starhwas-bunny ♡ ★ masterlist | read on ao3

you meet him during your first physics lab.

you’re a junior sitting in a class of mostly freshmen, all buzzing with that excited hum of making it through their first syllabus week. while you click your pen aimlessly, you think about the several ways you could’ve avoided taking introductory physics this semester: you could’ve manned the fuck up and gotten it out of the way freshman year, but you’d been scared off after doing poorly in high school; you could’ve taken it sophomore year, but that you would’ve had to take physics and linear algebra in the same semester; you could’ve switched your major entirely!

but unfortunately, you’re not sitting in the quad with your friends, leisurely throwing a frisbee while nursing a cold beer. instead you’re sat at a lab station, waiting for the teaching assistant to give instructions, and cursing yourself for arbitrarily choosing 2:30-5:30 on fridays as your designated weekly lab time.

you glance around, noticing how the other lab stations are filled with at least 2 people already, most of them chatting quietly. it’s not that you mind working alone―in fact you usually prefer it―but you’re shit at physics and you’re hoping for a budding astrophysicist to choose you as their lab partner.

instead, right at the moment that the TA clears his throat to introduce himself, the door into the lab creaks open and a chocolate-haired boy steps inside, calmly but a little breathlessly. he pinpoints the only seat still available (the one next to yours) and makes his way over. he moves with a kind of shamelessness that tells you he’s definitely not a freshman.

he’s lowkey jacked, you notice as he sits down beside you. his shoulders are solid and prominent, and you can see his biceps flex as he grabs a pencil out of his backpack. his hair falls over his forehead and just barely into his eyes, but he runs a hand through it to sift it out of the way. he’s attractive, your brain supplies uselessly.

right next to physics in your mental shelf of things you’re bad at is talking to pretty boys.

and oh, he is very pretty.

over the next hour, you learn that although your lab partner is quite beautiful, he’s also quite dumb. as nervous as you’d been about physics lab, this first one is simple enough, and you end up having to coach the boy sitting next to you through basic kinematics.

“thanks,” he says, scratching the side of his neck with the back of his pen. “i missed a couple lectures.”

“it’s the first week,” you say. “you’re already skipping classes?”

“the season just started and my sleep schedule is still a little wack,” he winces. you don’t blame him though―lecture for this class is at 8 am.

“season?” you say.

“soccer,” he says.

“oh,” you say. “that’s why you’re so…” you break off before you accidentally tell him that he’s jacked to his face.

he just hums in response.

thankfully, the two of you manage to finish the lab in less than two hours, and you note with a decent amount of satisfaction that there’s at least five other groups still working. you scribble your name at the top of your lab report, before trading to fill in your name on his sheet.

you glance over at his name.

kang yeosang, it reads. his handwriting is neat and thin.

“uh, so see you next week?” he says, as you exit the classroom together.

“yeah,” you say.

⋆⋆⋆

it takes fifteen minutes for the two of you to find the study room, which cuts into the two hours you’d reserved the room for. you’ve worked up a sweat while frantically walking around the third floor of the library, from both embarrassment and the presence of yeosang, who hovers over your shoulder as you lead him on a wild goose chase. you finally unlock the room and walk inside, only to be met with a whiteboard covered in phallic drawings and a questionable stain on the chair you happen to choose.

while you wrinkle your nose at the stain and tug on the hem of your shorts so that you can avoid any direct skin contact with it, yeosang settles into his chair and begins taking out his laptop and notebook. 

“how many problems did you get done?” you ask, mirroring his actions with your own things.

“bold of you to assume i started,” he says without a note of shame. he lays out his notebook and pen and calculator and looks up at you expectantly.

“yeo-sang,” you say. “it’s due tomorrow!”

“tomorrow at 11:59 pm,” he says. “that means i have all of tonight and all of tomorrow.” he pauses while you finish pulling up the assignment on your browser. “and i have you to help me.” he smiles at you smugly.

“bold of you to assume i’ll help you,” you retort.

he pouts, which creates an interesting contrast against his strong, muscly college-athlete figure.

“at least try every problem before i give you the answer,” you mumble, because you could never refuse kang yeosang. you cross your arms across your chest, but yeosang is smiling again. “you know if you don’t actually do the homework you’re not going to do well on the exams.”

yeosang hums in response, and you sigh.

over the next half hour, you walk him through the first few problems that you’d managed to finish relatively easily. he honestly picks up material faster than you give him credit for, and he’s never shy to ask even the dumbest questions. as you draw out a free body diagram to explain a question on potential vs. kinetic energy, a shiver runs through your spine. while the blasting ac had been welcome at first, you’ve always been sensitive to the cold, and your body is starting to reject the cool breeze. you can feel goosebumps on your arms, and your legs shake slightly.

of course yeosang notices.

“are you cold?” he asks.

“it’s one of my things,” you say, teeth chattering and waving a hand to brush his concern away. “i’m always cold and i cry at everything.”

“i’ve never seen you cry,” he says.

“hmm,” you say. “i cried during the midterm.”

he narrows his eyes. “you got an 84.”

“i thought i failed!” you say. “anyway.” you turn back to the diagram, adding extra arrows and labels. ��so do you see how the potential energy becomes―”

“here.” yeosang shoves something at you, navy blue and soft. you blink at it until he unfurls it for you. it’s a hoodie. an official university athletics branded hoodie. 

“i’m fine!” you say, and with the rush of heat in your face from kang yeosang offering you a jacket, you honestly don’t feel the chill anymore.

“it probably smells kinda bad but―here, take it. you’re shivering.” a light pink dusts his cheeks, and he avoids your gaze. to save him the embarrassment, you take the hoodie from him. you stare at it in your hands, before finally pulling it over your head.

it’s so soft and warm, and you almost immediately feel your body temperature evening out. 

“thanks,” you say softly, burrowing into the neck of the hoodie. it does smell a little interesting―cologne and aftershave trying their hardest to mask the smell of sweat. but you don’t mind, because it smells like yeosang.

“not a big deal,” he mutters.

the two of you keep working on the homework for the next hour, and you manage to finish 13 out of the 15 questions. the last two are the hardest and longest, and it’s already nearing the end of your reservation for the study room.

yeosang yawns and rubs the heel of his palm into his eye.

“i can ask ryujin for help,” you say, knowing that yeosang’s strict athlete’s schedule means he should already be in bed by now. “and we can work on the last two problems tomorrow?”

“sounds good,” yeosang says. “i’m so tired.”

you pack up in silence. the two of you manage to find the elevators without much hassle, and the ride is likewise quiet, punctuated by yeosang’s occasional yawns. you stare at your hazy reflections in the elevator doors, eyes running over how his hoodie sits on your figure. you hate how much you like it.

you return the key for the study room to the front desk, and you walk out of the library together.

“i’m heading this way,” you say, gesturing in the opposite direction of the parking lot. “gotta meet up with ryujin to get that help.”

“thanks, again,” yeosang says. “i owe you.”

“good night, yeosang,” you say.

“see you tomorrow!” he calls, yawning again and turning to trudge away to his car.

he doesn’t ask for the hoodie back, and you nestle into it even thought it’s warm outside.

later, while you brush your teeth, sleeplily getting ready for bed, you catch a glimpse of white text in the mirror and you contort yourself to read the back of the hoodie. in thick square text is his last name kang and his number 8. you flush, realizing that you’re not only wearing his hoodie, you’re wearing his name and number.

⋆⋆⋆

you brush pale green crumbs off of your practice exam, scowling at yeosang seated next to you, munching contently on a stick of matcha pocky.

“stop making such a mess!” you complain, sending your shoulder into his to give you some space while you read over the last free response question.

“i don’t get this at all,” he says, peering at the question too. “i’m totally gonna fail this midterm.” he groans and drapes himself over the back of his chair, letting his head hang back dramatically in despair.

“with that attitude, yeah,” you say. you rummage with the foil packet of pocky, finding it disappointingly empty. “did you seriously finish all of the pocky? that was my last bag!”

his head swings back up to give you a sheepish grin.

“you owe me,” you mutter, reaching over the desk to swipe his still unfinished bottle of calpico. he doesn’t fight you, but watches quietly as you unscrew the cap and take a deep drink of the thing.

“there,” you say. “we’re even. actually―” 

you tilt your head back and raise the calpico to your lips, draining the bottle.

“there,” you say, slamming the now empty bottle onto your notebook with a satisfying plastic crunch. “now we’re even.”

“you didn’t waterfall,” yeosang chooses to comment. you whip around to stare at him.

“so what? do you have cooties?”

he hums instead and tugs the practice exam out from under your hand.

“so you’re totally gonna have to walk me through this whole problem.”

the sun sets, and the natural light seeping in from your large windows fades from white to orange to red to nothing. in the thirty minutes since the room has plunged into semi-darkness, neither of you have gotten up to turn on your ceiling light. instead the two of you sit crouched over your desk, illuminated by your desk light and the rotating rainbow colors from the LED lights that wrap around your walls.

“i’m going to fall asleep,” yeosang finally announces, throwing down his pen and collapsing over the desk, eyes shutting and forehead thumping against the wood.

“we still have three practice problems!” you say, nudging at his shoulder. it’s surprisingly taut under your finger, and you flush thinking about the amount of muscle packed into his body.

“i’m too tired,” he whines, muffled.

you consider his statement.

“why don’t you take a power nap?” you suggest. “chaeyoung does it all the time. she takes, like, fifteen minute power naps and feels loads better and just keeps studying.”

yeosang perches his chin on the desktop, peering at you through half-lidded eyes.

“how does that even work?” he says. “i don’t think fifteen minutes is enough.”

you shrug.

“she sent me an article once.” you begin pushing him towards your bed. “i think there’s science behind it. just―nap. i’ll finish the problem we’re on and then we can switch for the next one.”

it’s a testament to his fatigue that you’re able to maneuver him out of his chair and onto the bed behind you. you think vaguely of a different context for you to be pushing him onto your bed, but you dismiss those thoughts quickly. your biggest concern right now is making it through this practice exam, especially when one of your friends had mentioned how much the professors like to reuse old exam questions. and you aren’t going to do it alone. after you’d helped yeosang through the last five homework assignements, he’d promised that he’d work through the practice exams with you, and you aren’t about to let him flake on you when it’s only 11:30 pm.

“fifteen minutes,” you say, setting the timer on your phone and showing it to him.

he’s already made himself at home on your bed, wrapping himself in your soft blanket and grabbing your favorite cat plush to sandwich between his arms.

“don’t squeeze her like that,” you complain.

“shhh,” he says. “don’t make me waste my fifteen minutes.”

you huff, but you drop it, heading back to your desk to decipher the question you’d left half-finished. 

five minutes later, yeosang’s soft snores are the soundtrack to your struggles through the next problem. you’re tempted to check the answer key, but after preaching to yeosang the consequences of just looking up answers without doing the work, you’re caught in your own high standards.

eventually, your phone chimes to indicate that fifteen minutes are up. you swivel around in your chair, intent on tormenting yeosang but you find him still sound asleep, snuggled deeper into your bed. he’s tucked your plushie under his chin, his grip looser around the stuffed animal’s round body. vaguely, you think you might be a little jealous of that inanimate object.

you’re so fucked, you think numbly, evaluating the situation.

you have a midterm in two days, and a slumbering hot athlete in your bed.

why on earth did you think convincing yeosang to take a nap in your bed would be a good idea?

you shut off the alarm when it becomes clear that nothing will rouse yeosang from his slumber. you figure he needs his sleep, and you’ll wake him up when you finish the practice exam.

an hour later, yeosang’s still sound asleep and at the rate your yawns keep increasing in frequency and length, you’re heading in the same direction.

you’ve managed to finish two out of the last three questions, but the final problem is so convoluted and scary that you betray your own principles to just copy off of the answer key. 

you clean up your desk and shut off the desk light, shuffling towards your bed. you poke and prod and whine at yeosang to wake him up.

“yeosang,” you say, focusing your attacks on his shoulders. it’s the one area of his body you allow yourself to touch. anywhere lower and you think that you’ll be picturing exactly what is beneath your hand, and anywhere near his face will make you want to kiss him stupid.

“yeosang. yeosang. yeosang,” you chant. “wake. up. stupid.”

he finally stirs, shifting onto his back and exposing a small circle of darkened fabric on the pillow case where his mouth had been seconds before.

“you drooled on my pillow!” you shriek.

“shhh,” he mumbles. “i’m sleeping.” his voice is deeper, shrouded in sleep, and oh, it sends a tingle down your spine.

“no!” you say. “you’re leaving. go home. i finished the practice exam so i’ll just go over it with you tomorrow. you owe me big time.”

“but it’s so comfy,” he says, his eyes still shut and voice still husky. “my bed isn’t this nice.”

“it’s memory foam,” you mutter.

“mmm,” he says, and then suddenly you feel a hand, a large and warm hand wrapping around your waist and tugging you down. you tumble onto yeosang, face positively on fire as your hands go out to catch yourself and oh―

your cheek is pressed up against his chest―his very firm chest―and your hands are grazing the sides of his equally firm abdomen.

“hm this is nice,” he says, the arm around your waist tightening. you feel his chin brush against the crown of your head. 

“go home, yeosang,” you say, but without any of the conviction you’d had before. you’re cuddled up against your insanely attractive crush, and even you understand the need to take advantage of situations handed to you on a platter.

“nah,” he says. “too tired to move.”

you laugh quietly into his body.

“at least let me get under the covers.”

⋆⋆⋆

he confesses under the illumination of the numerous string lights strung along the porch of your favorite burger joint. it’s a chilly december night, and yet you’d been craving a birthday cake milkshake, and like always, yeosang had obliged.

“you know i like you, right?” he says, licking at the bit of pink shake dripping over the edge of his cup.

you freeze, quite literally, since you have always been sensitive to the cold. the milkshake hits your head in a splitting brain freeze, just as a particularly strong breeze ruffles through your hair.

“huh?” you manage.

“i like you,” yeosang continues, casually. he’s taken off the plastic cover of his shake and he’s digging at the shake with a spoon. “i feel like i’ve been pretty obvious about it, but i figured it was about time i confess for real.” he takes a spoonful of his strawberry shake into his mouth, savors it and then swallows. “especially since you’re going home soon so i won’t be able to see you in person for, like, a month.”

he hums around another spoonful of milkshake, while you nearly drop yours in surprise. your mind moves in fast forward until suddenly it cuts to complete emptiness. you stare at yeosang, mouth agape and head absolutely empty, no thoughts.

“what?” you shriek.

this causes an actual reaction in him. he jumps a little and turns to you, eyes slightly wider and spoon hanging out of his mouth.

“you like me?” you say, voice shrill.

“yeah,” he says, a little incredulously. “i thought you knew?”

“i- you- you thought i knew?” you say.

“it was obvious?” yeosang says.

“how was it obvious?” you ask.

“i dunno,” he says. “like i gave you my hoodie. isn’t that a thing boyfriends do? and i tease you all the time? and i slept over. we cuddled.��

“that- it- it wasn’t- it was purely platonic!” you hiss, ripping off your thick scarf so the cold can combat the warmth spreading from your cheeks to your forehead.

“oh,” he says. “so does that mean you don’t like me back?” he peers at you, almost void of emotion, still sucking on that stupid spoon.

“what makes you think that?” you say, breathless now.

“you said the cuddling was platonic,” he says.

“that’s- that’s because i didn’t know how you felt,” you say.

“and now you do,” he says.

“and now i do,” you parrot.

“and?” he prods.

“and―” you gulp. “―and i like you, too.”

“hmm,” he hums. “good.” he’s smiling now, this stupid shit-eating grin that you’ve only ever seen a handful of times. yeosang’s not one for big expressions, but this―

this is how you know he’s not joking with you.

“good?” you repeat faintly.

“yeah,” he says, setting down his milkshake and spoon onto the table. “so, can i be your boyfriend?”

“boyfriend?” you say.

“i thought i was the dumb one in this relationship,” he says.

“relationship?”

“seriously?” he sighs. “alright, how about this.”

he surges forward then, hands cupping your jaw. his lips slot over yours and suddenly you’re kissing kang yeosang. closed mouth, but substantial, and oh his lips are so soft.

yeosang pulls back, but his hands stay on your face, thumbs rubbing circles into your cold and slightly numb cheeks.

“oh,” you say.

“yeah,” he laughs. “you get it now?”

“yeah,” you say. “yeah―you can be my boyfriend.”

[dramatic-dolphin]

When I was in school in like 2012 iirc, the Hungarian government made it mandatory for children to either attend a religion class of their choice or a "morals and ethics" class, which already says incredible things about the government if they think these two are in any way interchangeable. Even though there was incredible religious variety offered (a hundred different christian sects, plus two jewish and one buddhist), I do not recall enough of my classmates choosing a religion class that they'd actually start one, so we were all in Morals And Ethics.

Now, ethics is a fascinating class in the Hungarian school system, in that I'm sure a syllabus exists for it but I have never heard of any two teachers who taught it in any way similarly. In some places it's like Bible Study Option Two, You May Not Be Christian But We're Forcing You To Do This, and there are even some suitably culturally christian conservative textbooks that made me wince when I found them online. The only morals happening in there are good little christian-conservative life lessons. This is presumably the government's actual intent.

Anyways the teacher who taught us the subject from grades 5-8 was our homeroom teacher, who decided it was actually an extra homeroom class. Which was sometimes an extra history class, since he was also our history teacher and terminally behind schedule. We never discussed a single thing related to Morals And Ethics in those four years. Everyone had straight 5's (the best grade). It was the best class. 10/10.

In high school however, the subject was given to the teacher who also taught philosophy, and he decided it would be an Intro To Philosophy class before our actual philosophy classes. Ethics And Morals? Sure, sure, but let's take this seriously. So, according to Socrates–

The fun part is that both of these men were in fact christian conservatives. They just either cared too little or too much about the actual subject, and so we managed to escape unpropagandized. Thanks guys.

[okay-j-hannah]

Part 1: Her Broken Heart

Teen Wolf : Multishot

Stiles Stilinski x Reader

Word Count: 10.1k

Warnings: series rewrite, start of season 1 {aka 2011}, slow burn, strangers to friends, friends to lovers, eventual pining, eventual NSFW, usual teen wolf levels of violence and gore, heart conditions, health problems, lightheadedness, fainting

Request: This just came from my own head 😊

A/N: Just a note that the reader will be in the dark for a while, meaning that lots of episodes/scenes will be skipped. Also, the heart conditions/problems the reader has comes solely from extensive research and isn't meant to be completely accurate - I did my best.

Part 1: Her Broken Heart {You Are Here}

Part 2: A Lacrosse Boyfriend

Part 3: Blue Handprints

Part 4: Ollie's Catnip

Part 5: Mieczyslaw

Part 6: Orange Cream and Peachy Sugar

Part 7: The Summer Filter

Part 8: The Favor

Part 9: The Weight of Decisions

You walk purposefully to your last class of the day, holding onto the straps of your backpack like your life depended on it. New school. Old town.

It was just so noisy.

The squeak of your sneakers was drowned by the bustle of the dozens of highschoolers weaving through the hallways. Side conversations rose in volume, laughter was piercing, lockers slammed metallically, and the morning bell rang with a sharp noise.

You avoid rubbing shoulders with your peers, but inevitably a lacrosse player rams into your side while chasing a ball. You put a hand protectively to your chest, a glimmer of pain dancing across your ribs.

Breathe, you remind yourself. Just breathe.

Walking into English, you eye the rapidly filling seats. You recognize most faces even if they don’t recognize yours. A few skittish steps forward and you spot the dark silhouette of Scott McCall.

The uneven beating of your heart seems to lessen at someone you could at least talk to amicably. He appears to feel the same as he finds your gaze and smiles crookedly.

“Hey, (Y/N),” he whispers encouragingly. “It’s nice to see you finally at school.”

You smile back, “Thanks, it’s good to be out and about.” You pick the desk beside him, closest to the window. “There’s a lot of people here.”

Scott laughs, “What did you expect?”

“Less than this,” you say, thumbing the syllabus in front of you. “I thought Beacon Hills was a small city.”

You hear a cough directly behind you, fingers drumming against the metal desk surface. You flit your gaze to Scott, but he merely rolls his eyes.

“(Y/N), this is Stiles. Stiles… meet (Y/N).”

You turn in your seat to see a closely shaved head, wrinkled hoodie, and widening brown eyes.

“Uh… hi,” he says.

You swallow hard, “Hello.” Your brow furrows, “You’re Scott’s best friend.”

Stiles nods, playing with his fingers, “Yeah, for years. And you are…?”

“Another friend,” Scott interjects, “Friend of the family.”

You feel warmth as Stiles leans forward in his seat, “A friend that I’ve never heard about?”

That made your stomach clench. Of course you didn’t have many close friends, more acquaintances than anything else, but it still scared you to think you’d be judged on that fact.

“We don’t talk much,” you say quietly, turning back around.

Scott had what you hoped wasn’t a pitying look in his eye when he got distracted by neighbors ruffling through papers; then to a pencil dropping; then to a charm bracelet clanking against a desk. With each new noise his head was whipping about.

You tried to read the first page of your syllabus when a gentle tap on your shoulder startles you. You contained the jump in your heart as you turned towards Stiles.

He spoke with a soft but urgent voice, “Are you new to the town?”

“No,” you answer shortly.

“Then how come I’ve never seen you at school before?”

“I was homeschooled until this year.” The anxious fist in your stomach continues to clench further. “I’ve lived here almost all my life.”

He continues to lean forward as the teacher rose to address the class. “How do you know Scott?”

“Our parents are friends.”

“How come he’s never mentioned you before?”

You give a breathy laugh, “Do you always interrogate newcomers or is this just your usual charm?”

He finally leans back in his seat, “I like a good mystery.”

Your smiling reply makes the corner of Stiles’ mouth quirk upward, just as the teacher declares:

“Stiles, are we really going to end the day with a detention?”

Stiles looks up, frowning, “No, sir – just welcoming a new face.”

“Yes, Miss. Westbrook. I’d suggest surrounding yourself with different company. We don’t want a tainted reputation now, would we?”

Scott put a hand to his mouth, stifling a laugh as Stiles lifted his arms in silent outrage. You are stunned but feel a giggle rise in your chest.

The teacher continues, “As you all know, there indeed was a body found in the woods last night.”

The laughter in your chest dies in a cough as you replay the teachers unfeeling words in your mind.

“And I am sure your eager little minds are coming up with various macabre scenarios as to what happened. But I am here to tell you that the police have a suspect in custody, which means you can give your undivided attention to the syllabus which is on your desk outlining this semester.”

There was a collective groan, but you had already started dating the semesters projects in your academic calendar. The different books you’d be reading were some of your favorite classics: The Scarlet Pimpernel, Jane Eyre, The Count of Monte Cristo, and Sense and Sensibility.

You could already see the outline for your midterm paper on the differences between loving with sense and loving with sensibility.

Then the classroom door opened, and a pretty girl walked in with someone from the office.

“Class, this is our new student Allison Argent.”

You silently thanked the heavens that you weren’t introduced like that to the entire sophomore class. But the introduction intrigued you. Perhaps you could befriend this new student as you were somewhat new yourself.

You met her quickly by her locker after class.

“Hello,” you say in your gentle voice, “I’m (Y/N). I’m new to the school too.”

“Oh, thank god,” Allison says, “Just when I thought I’d never survive the first day.”

You grin, “New kids on the block need to stick together. How are you feeling about the move?”

“I’m used to it,” she says, leaning against the wall of lockers, “What about you?”

“Oh, I’m not new to the city, just the school. I was homeschooled before this. Jumping into the school year in January isn’t preferable, but it’s better than listening to your mom lecture about the Pythagorean theorem while doing the dishes.”

Allison laughs just as another girl walks over to introduce herself and her boyfriend. This new face, Lydia Martin, was clearly a commanding personality. And you quickly quiet yourself as she speaks to Allison.

“So, this weekend, there’s a party.”

“A party?” Allison says, taking a step closer to you.

The boyfriend, Jackson, adds, “Yeah, Friday night. You should come.”

Allison clearly didn’t want to go, judging by how she closed herself off and turned towards you. She fumbles for something to say as you note how the two popular kids never acknowledged your presence.

“Actually, we’ve already made plans for Friday night,” you say quickly, the beating of your heart increasing as Lydia made eye contact with you. “I’m helping her finish setting up her room.”

“Who are you?” Lydia asks, surveying you with her wide eyes.

Allison interjects, “This is (Y/N), she’s new to the school too.”

Lydia seems satisfied in her findings, “Pretty.” She pulls on both of your sleeves, “Let’s go to lacrosse practice.”

You panic, “Oh, no – I actually need to head to the library. The first day came with a lot of homework.” You curse the lines of judgment creasing Lydia’s brow. “I’m sorry, I need to catch up.”

“You need to pick, sweetheart. Beauty or brains. You can’t have both in this school.”

You believe that to be blatantly untrue, but you apologize again as Allison gets dragged off. You sigh, steadying your heartbeats. Your mother will be coming soon to pick you up anyway.

~~~

It was another long evening shift at the hospital working in the clinic. You assisted with logging patients in, taking their medical histories, noting their blood pressure, and administering medications.

You were currently disposing of some items in the sharps container when Nurse McCall came around with a dirty gown and gloves.

“(Y/N)!” she says cheerfully, “How are you?”

You smile, washing your hands in the nearby sink, “Tired, but that’s not unusual.”

She gave you a motherly look, eyeing you like the nurse she was. “How’s your breathing? Have you gotten lightheaded tonight?”

“Nope.” That was a lie. “I’ve been doing great. I worked through the line waiting in the clinic. Now I’ve just got to clean up before heading home.”

She raises her eyebrows, impressed. “I wish your work ethic came in a bottle. I’d give a dose to my son.”

“Oh, you should give Scott more credit. He’s working hard on the lacrosse team, I hear.”

“Have you two… has he been…”

You give a soft smile, “He’s been talking to me in class, yes. He’s been very kind to me.”

“Good,” that seems to relieve her. “I know you’re not the closest of friends but starting school in the middle of the year can’t be easy.”

“No,” you say with a sigh, “But I think I’ve made a few friends. Scott and Lydia and Allison…”

“So are you going to the party tomorrow night?”

You give a weak laugh, “I don’t think I’m made for parties, Melissa.”

“I mean,” she laughs too, “Scott is taking Allison to that party – I figured if you’re all friends now then…”

“Oh,” you compose yourself, “No, I’m not going.”

“Shame,” Melissa folds her arms, “I would’ve liked a trusted pair of eyes on my son. I tell you he’s gotten all squirrely since coming back from winter break.”

You shrug your shoulders, “I’ll check up on Allison to make sure she’s alright.”

Melissa leans over and rubs your arm, “You’ve been working like a madman since the summer. We’re all very impressed with you, (Y/N). But you have a habit of doing too much and telling us too little. You have to promise me you’ll be honest about how you’re feeling.”

You brush her off, “How many times have we had this conversation?” You take a step back, “I feel fine. The summer tuned me up. I feel I can do anything now.”

“I like the confidence,” Melissa says warmly, but she still held worry in her eyes. “I’m just looking out for you. I promised your mom.”

You grimace, “Has she been bombarding you much?”

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

The pair of you share a laugh, “I wish she’d stop worrying.”

“We all worry,” Melissa sighs, grabbing a new box of gloves for the nurses station. “That’s what happens when you have people that care about you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you walk around her, “I gotta go before my dad waits in the urgent care drop off too long.”

“Hey, about that…” Melissa calls after your retreating form. “I was thinking about your carpool situation and maybe you and Scott could drive together. You know – so you don’t have to rely on your parents as much.”

Anything to get more independence from your parents. “I didn’t think Scott had a car.”

“No, he doesn’t. He gets rides from his friend Stiles. Maybe you could join them?” She watches your expression grow anxious, “Or you could ask your new girl friends?”

“Yeah, right,” you snort, “Lydia and Allison live on the other side of town in those big important houses with the four-car garages.”

Melissa shrugs, “Then ask the boys. Stiles is a little… odd. But he’s a good kid.”

“Thanks, Melissa,” you give her a tired smile, “I’ll see you over the weekend.” You pull out your phone as you head to clock out.

Your connected watch reports to you the steady heartbeat you’ve had during the day – just two rapid spikes. Swiping away the health report, you text Allison and wait for her replies as you head towards your father’s car.

“So you’re actually going to the party?”

“What can I say… Scott asked me.”

You smirk, “I saw that coming a million miles away.”

“Sorry about our hangout though, I was going to tell you at school tomorrow.”

“It’s alright. I’ll just get started on the chemistry homework for next week.”

“You don’t want to come with us?”

You scoff, “And be a third wheel? No thank you.”

Your dad continues a conversation about your workday as he drove out of the hospital parking lot. “Any big cases come in?”

“No, nothing particularly stressful. Maybe one guy who was nervous around needles.”

“Good,” your dad says. “I’m proud of you sweetheart. And not a single fainting in five weeks.”

You lean your head against the window, suddenly glum, “Let’s hope it continues.”

~~~

Friday comes and you’re on the couch enjoying another read of Harry Potter. You were just getting to the confession scene in the Shrieking Shack when your mother came in with a cup of herbal tea.

“You seem a little quiet today,” she says, nestling into the opposite end of the couch.

“No more than usual,” you say, sipping the honey and herb concoction. “I usually spend Friday nights reading, mom.”

She nods, stirring her tea in thought, “Yes, usually. But in the last few months you’ve been branching out. Going to public school, getting a job at the hospital, making some new friends.”

“And while that’s all terribly exciting, I still enjoy a quiet evening with my books.”

“Of course,” your mother replies, “How have you been feeling?”

“Mom,” you groan, “I feel fine!”

She sat straighter, “You have had two dizzy spells this past week. It’s not a crime to ask how you’re doing.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, “I started school this week, I’m bound to be a little stressed about that, aren’t I? When I started my job at the hospital there were a few dizzy spells in the beginning, remember?”

“Yes, but you don’t tell us about them anymore. I have to pull up your watch readings to find out.”

“What’s the point? I can’t control them all. Sometimes they happen out of the blue.”

“Precisely,” she says louder, “Which is why it’s important to monitor them for your doctor’s appointments.”

You open your book in a huff, “Can we not talk about this anymore? It always puts the house in a mood.”

Your phone buzzes with a text from Allison. Your mother peers over your shoulder to see if it was a notification from your health app.

“Allison is getting a ride home from the party,” you whisper, texting a reply, “I wonder what happened with Scott.”

“Weren’t they on a date?” your mother asks, relaxed now that she knew the cause of your phone lighting up.

You shrug, “I thought so. I’m going to check on her. I’m sure she’ll want to vent.” You get up with your book and find your sneakers. “Could I have a sleepover?”

Your mother battled the rebuttal of keeping you at home – to coddle you with her security. “As long as you have your medication I don’t see why not.”

“I can drop her off on my way to the firehouse,” your father says, adorning his firefighter t-shirt and cargo pants. It would appear he had another overnight shift.

Fifteen minutes later you were outside the Argent residence, Allison waiting by the front door to welcome you with her frustrations.  

The home was tall with big, open rooms full of chandelier light. It was rich with mahogany browns and beamed ceilings. Allison was guiding you up the stairs after a quick introduction to her mother in the living room.

“I just don’t understand why he left me there,” she says with an edge, “I thought he liked me.”

“I think he does like you,” you say as you enter a beautifully decorated bedroom. “We have to remember he is a high school boy.”

Allison quirks a faint smile, “But to leave me at a strangers house… he has to know I’m new to the town. I don’t know anybody well enough to get some help! And I was not about to call my parents for a ride. That would’ve been reputation suicide.”

You clear your throat, recalling every instance your parents have carted you around, refusing to let you drive yourself. “Who gave you a ride anyway?”

“Someone named Derek Hale. He said he was a friend of Scott’s.”

You feel your uneven heartbeats pick up, “Derek Hale? He’s back in town?”

“Do you know him?”

“No, it’s just…” your mind wanders to old police reports your mother talked about and past newspapers on the dinner table. “There was a fire that burned up the Hale House years ago. Most of his family died in that fire. He hasn’t been seen for years.”

Allison crosses her arms, suddenly giving herself a kind of protective hug. “You mean, he isn’t a friend of Scott’s?”

“Not that I know of, but I’m as much of a new friend here as you are.”

“But Scott said you’re a friend of the family.”

“Yes, I do work with his mom at the hospital,” you fight to keep the Hale memories at the forefront of your mind. “But that doesn’t mean that I’ve hanged out with Scott much.”

Allison nods, still gripping her arms as creases of worry etch her face. “Why would Derek lie about being friends with Scott?”

“He didn’t try anything in the car, did he?”

“No!” she says quickly, “He was really kind, even held the door open for me. He just asked about my relationship with Scott.”

You could feel the beats in your chest stutter. They were loud in your ears, “What did you tell him?”

“Just that I met him this week. I got help from him at the veterinary clinic – I accidentally hit a dog – and he asked me to this party.”

You sit on her bed, afraid that your heart rate was increasing more, “Did Derek seem interested in just Scott?”

Allison thought about it for a few seconds before sitting in her desk chair, “Yeah, it was the only thing we talked about.”

“Which would make sense if that was the only thing you guys had in common.” You put a hand to your chest, hoping to steady yourself with some pressure. “But I still don’t think him and Scott have ever been close friends.”

“That’s slightly concerning,” she says with a shaky laugh.

You return it, trying to take a deep breath without making it too noticeable. “Other than the abrupt departure and unfortunate ride home… how are you and Scott?”

A genuine smile returns to Allison’s face, “He’s so sweet. You can just tell how nervous he is and it’s so cute. After being jumped by Lydia and her friends it was nice to meet someone more sincere.”

“Lydia can be a little overbearing,” you agree, checking your watch to see your heart rate drop to a more acceptable number. “And Scott really is a sweetheart. He can be a bit of a worrier, but I find those are the ones who care the most.”

Allison likes the calming reassurance until the sound of her mother’s voice pierced the air.

“Allison! It’s for you.”

The loudness prompts the two girls to their feet. Up on the walkway towards the staircase, the pair of you had a perfect view of the door… and the boy standing out in the cold.

“Stiles?” you say confusedly.

Allison’s mother left the door open as she returned to her spot in the living room. Stiles stood awkwardly under the porch light, “Uh… yeah, hi.”

“What’s going on?” you ask, leading the way down the stairs, “Is everything okay?”

“Is Scott okay?” Allison asks quickly, following you to the doorway.

Stiles rambled, hands on his hips, “Yeah! Yeah, Scott is fine.” His eyes lingered on you as he paused. You had an instant suspicion that he was lying. “He asked that I check up on Allison since he had to run out.”

“Well, I got home all right, no thanks to him,” she replied with a huff. “But he seemed off, like he was sick all of the sudden.”

Stiles took hold of the sudden excuse, “Yes! That’s what happened. Scott just got really sick out of nowhere, like really sick – like find me a bathroom right now kind of sick.”

You wrinkled your nose at his lack of a filter, “But you said he’s fine.”

“I mean, yeah now he’s fine,” Stiles said loudly, as if that would cover up his little slip. “He met with his mom at the hospital and she gave him some… treatment.”

Your pulse was picking up again at his obvious covering up, “You know what… I told Melissa I would stop by the hospital late tonight to get my new schedule. You just reminded me,” you smile easily, putting a hand to Allison’s arm. “Raincheck on that sleepover, I don’t want to keep Melissa up all night, especially if Scott isn’t feeling well.”

“Yeah, of course,” Allison said instantly, “And would you text me if you see Scott there?”

“Sure,” you smile, “Stiles?”

He looked to you with wide eyes, “Hm?”

“Could I get a ride?”

~~~

Stiles’ jeep was old and clanky, but in an endearing sort of way. You sat with your back more against the door than the seat, arms wrapped around yourself. Your heart hadn’t stopped beating rapidly. Any faster and you were worried about another attack.

“I’m sorry the heater doesn’t work,” Stiles said with a hint of embarrassment. He smacked the dashboard, “You look cold.”

“It’s alright,” you say quietly. You try to focus on the beats of your heart, willing them to calm down before you started to get lightheaded.

“You know what…” Stiles started to flail his arms around the wheel, trying to remove his suit jacket. He banged his head against the door before straightening out, “Here.”

You look at the outstretched jacket with endearment before quietly taking it, “Thank you.” You were much more graceful putting the jacket on, smiling at how Stiles mistook your concentration on your heart rate for being cold and uncomfortable.

“Now you need to tell me where Scott really is,” you say in your gentle tone.

Stiles suddenly gripped the steering wheel, “What do you mean?”

“I mean, Scott isn’t really at the hospital. And I know something is going on with Derek Hale because he lied to Allison. And I have a funny suspicion that you know more than you were telling us.”

There was a twitch in his fingers as Stiles thought about how much to reveal, “You’re right. Something’s wrong with Scott. I don’t know exactly what, but I think he ran off and got lost in the woods.”

“He didn’t give you any hint as to why he would do that?”

“He’s just been acting weird the last few days,” Stiles continued, driving slowly. “When I saw him leave tonight and Allison get picked up… I went after him. But he ran away.”

You wrap the suit jacket closely around you, giggling at how the wide shoulders stuck out on your own frame. It smelled wonderful.

“This calls for a search party.”

Stiles looked worried and frantic again, perhaps still hiding parts of the truth from you. “You don’t mind wandering the roads by the woods? I could still take you…”

“No, I want to help,” you say against your better judgement. Your heart rate still hadn’t gone down. “Let’s start on the north side closest to where the party was at.”

It was already past midnight by the time you started scouting the woods. You kept your eyes out the window, tightly bound in Stiles’ jacket. Your heart rate remained high, the lack of proper oxygen to your brain was starting to make you feel woozy.

Your mother was not going to be happy when she checked your watch monitor.

“Hey, you alright?” Stiles asked, “You need to sleep?”

You shook your head, wincing at the slow motion feeling it produced. “No, I can stay awake.”

“It’s not a problem, really. I can drop you off at home.”

“That’ll waste time when we could be searching.” You sit up straighter in an attempt to expand your lungs. “I just need to take a breath.”

Stiles kept looking towards you just as much as he was looking in the surrounding forests. “How close are you and Scott?”

“Not very,” you say, “I’ve met him a couple times with his mom. Our parents are closer than we are.”

“And you’ve lived here most of your life and yet I’ve never met you before.”

You smile, trying to anchor yourself in your surroundings. It was another attempt to control your heart rate.

The smell of Stiles’ jacket. The rough road beneath the tires. The stale, cold air of the jeep. The sound of Stiles’ investigative voice.

“I don’t get out much.”

He laughed, “Then why the sudden change?”

“I felt like it.”

“Woman of many words,” he smirked, “You said you knew Derek Hale lied to Allison. What do you know about the guy?”

You sigh, “Just a little about his past with the house fire. My mom was a part of the dispatch call that handled the case.”

“Wait, did you just say a dispatch call?” Stiles jumped in his seat, “As in, your mom is a police officer?”

“No,” you laugh at his quick movements, “She works at the front desk helping transfer calls between civilians and officers. She hasn’t been on the active force in many years.”

Stiles had a comical scrunch on his face as he thought for a few seconds, “Your mom is Angela Westbrook? Front desk Westbrook?”

You nod, a strange furrow in your brow, “And you know her because?”

“Because my dad is the town sheriff!”

“You’re a Stilinski?”

Stiles had a shock of energy zip through him, “Yes, a Stilinski! I can’t believe our parents work together.”

“Your dad has been to my house a few times,” you say, amazed at the connections. “I wonder why he never mentioned me.”

“I guess I knew Mrs. Westbrook had a daughter, I just didn’t realize we were the same age.”

The hours ticked by as the pair of you searched the woods by the road. You both thought you’d seen some flashlights and decided to avoid them. Stiles came up with the idea to search by foot away from the woods for a mile or so.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Yeah, I’ve got a spare flashlight in the back,” he unbuckled his seatbelt.

You sit straighter, “I mean, wasn’t there a dead body found out there earlier this week?”

“The police are handling it.” He steps out of the car to grab his flashlight.

You stay where you are, uncomfortable with the idea of standing up when your heart rate was so close to an attack. You were lightheaded enough that the rush of standing would not bode well.

Stiles came around the other side with an exaggerated expression on his face as he opened your car door. “Forgotten how to use the handle?”

“No, I’m just…” you tug on the jacket sleeves. “I’m a little lightheaded to be honest.”

“What do you mean?” his face fell into concern immediately, “Is something wrong?”

You smile shakily, “Not at all,” you lie through your teeth. “Just be prepared to catch me if I fall.”

Stiles seemed to take that with the most seriousness as he backed up and held out a hand, “I got you.”

You struggle to breathe as you clamber out of the vehicle. You hold tightly to Stiles’ outstretched hand and wait for the inevitable feeling of the blood rushing to your legs. Your head felt empty, and stars started to twinkle in front of your eyes.

Stiles held onto your hand and put an arm around your shoulders as you swayed, “Woah, you weren’t kidding. You alright?”

After a few seconds leaning into him, squeezing his fingers with light pressure, your breaths started to come easier. Your head became clearer.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks.” You let go of him, checking your watch to see that your heart rate decreased to an acceptable amount.

Stiles backed away quickly, rubbing his hands awkwardly down his pants. He was hesitant to look at you when he replied, “No problem. Does that happen a lot?”

“Oh, you know…” you start venturing towards the tree line, “People get head rushes when they sit too long all the time.”

“Right,” Stiles said faintly, jogging to catch up to you. He clicked on the flashlight and aimed it towards the trees. It was dark and misty and cold. The pair of you kept hearing rustlings between the tree roots and bumping into each other.

You could have sworn you heard howls and growls, but it must’ve been the wind.

“Can I ask why you weren’t at the party?”

“You can, but the answer is boring.” You cross your arms, the too long sleeves engulfing your hands. “I don’t go to parties.”

“Because?”

“Because they make me lightheaded,” you say with a smile.

Stiles tried to pick that apart, but smiled, nonetheless. “You know the more I try to get to know you, the more confusing you become.”

“I thought you liked a good mystery.”

“I do,” Stiles confirmed, shining his flashlight up through tree branches, “I don’t like not knowing things.”

“Sorry, I’m a pretty tightly sealed book,” you shrug, “I can be very evasive.”

“And I can be very persuasive,” Stiles mocked, using a silly voice.

You bump into him again, sort of on purpose and less because you tumbled on a stray twig. “You already know plenty about me.”

“Let’s check the list, shall we?” he chuckled, “You were homeschooled. Your mom works at the station. You suffer from frequent lightheadedness. You don’t get out of the house much. And you’re already a part of the pretty girls club.”

“Excuse me?” you laugh, “The pretty girls club?”

Stiles kicked at the leaves, “Yeah, you know Lydia, Allison… you.”

“Stiles Stilinski, did you just call me pretty?”

He comically puffed out his chest, “In a roundabout way, yes I did.”

You chortle, “See you know a lot about me already. We’ve only known each other three days.”

“You’ll find I can be very determined, (Y/N),” Stiles sighed, “I’ll figure you out soon enough.”

They continued their way through the woods until they came back to the car. It did not go unnoticed that Stiles went to help you open the door and climb into the tall vehicle.

The morning light was starting to peek over the horizon by the time they got back to the roads. The pair of them were starting to grow more worried by the minute. It wasn’t a friendly search party anymore.

“I hope he’s okay,” you say quietly.

Stiles looked your way before resting his hand against the stick shift between you. “We’ll find him. Or he’ll text me as soon as he gets to a phone.”

You lean towards the dashboard, “I guess we’ll find him first.”

Walking along the side of the road, pants covered in dirt and his shirt missing, was Scott. He looked ruffled.

“What happened to him?” Stiles murmured as he pulled over.

“What happened to his shirt?” you say just as quietly. Stiles shot you a look as you strip yourself of his suit jacket.

Scott came to the door and looked shocked to see you handing over the coat. “(Y/N)?”

“Scott,” you say with a smile, “Get in.”

You scoot over to be in the middle. Stiles immediately yanked his arm away as your thigh got in the way of how he was resting his hand on the stick shift. You rubbed shoulders again as Scott got comfortable.

“Long night?” you ask.

Scott rubs at his eyes, banging his head against the window, “You have no idea.” He suddenly turns to you, pressing into your side, “How is Allison?”

“She’s fine,” you say, “I’m a little more worried about you.”

“You know what actually worries me the most?” he grumbles.

Stiles licks his lips, “If you say Allison, I’m gonna punch you in the head.”

“She probably hates me now,” Scott frowns, turning to you with regretful eyes.

You take pity on him, rubbing his shoulder, “She’s upset with you, but she doesn’t hate you.”

“But you might want to come up with a pretty amazing apology,” Stiles says candidly.

Scott groans, leaning against the headrest. You sit scrunched between them, almost scared to lean into either one. “I hear you were really sick last night. Though I don’t see how that explains your lack of clothing.”

“Night sweats,” Scott mumbles, “When I couldn’t sleep through it at home I decided to take a walk through the woods.”

“That’s a long walk,” you say, “Don’t worry, I’ll put a good word in for you with Allison.”

“Would you?” Scott says, looking at you like you were the answer to all of his prayers. “Could you make sure she knows how sorry I am?”

You pull out your phone to send that update text you promised her. “As long as you apologize in person too, I don’t see why not.”

“You’re an angel, (Y/N), thank you.” He bows his shaggy head to your shoulder before pouting against the headrest again.

“Could you drop me off a few blocks from my house? My parents think I’m sleeping over at Allison’s.”

Stiles nods, “Protective parents?”

“A little,” you smile.

“I’ll add that to the list,” he smirks. “I’ll have to open a full case file on you now.”

“That’ll be a dead end.”

Scott opens his eyes to peer at the pair of you, “Sounds like you two had as long of a night as I have.”

You yawn, “Stilinski here is trying to play high school detective. He’s on a role trying to figure out my criminal past.”

“Criminal you say,” Stiles drums his fingers against the steering wheel. “That’ll mean I need a corkboard and some red thread too.”

“What have you found out so far?” Scott muses, somewhat enjoying the change of subject.

“Not much.” Then Stiles points a finger at his best friend, “But you’ve known her longer than me – fess up. What do you know?”

Scott holds back a smile, “Did you figure out her mom works at your dads station?” After a swift nod he continues, “And that her dad is a firefighter?”

“Really?” Stiles says dramatically, “Any siblings?”

“Only child,” Scott continues, rubbing the tired from his eyes, “And she loves to read. Every time I saw her, she was always reading something.”

Stiles had a look of triumph on his face, as if it were a breakthrough in the case, “What book you reading right now?”

“Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban.” You point the directions to your street, “I’m at the end when Lupin turns into a werewolf.”

“A what?” Scott says, shooting forward.

The friendly banter between you and Stiles suddenly shifts into surprise, “A werewolf. Haven’t you seen the movies?”

“Right,” he swallows hard, “It’s been a while.”

Stiles licks his lips again, “It’s ironic because last night was the full moon.”

“Oh, was it?” you hum, “That’s funny.”

~~~

You sleep off most of the weekend, having a lecture from your parents about the heart rate spike on Friday. You told them a night of rom coms and silly boy stories with Allison got you excited – that it was all fun and games.

You didn’t tell them you almost fainted because of it.

The next week was more enjoyable than the last. You excelled in your classes and spent your lunch periods reading in the library – you were already halfway through Sense and Sensibility for your midterm report.

Chemistry, History, and English were your favorite, most likely because your new friends were in those classes. Scott had become infatuated with Allison, especially after she had given him a second chance. Lydia was scheming something over her boyfriend being the captain of the lacrosse team. And Stiles was quickly becoming your highlight of each day.

He’d sit beside you during class and ask a personal question. “At least one a day,” he wagered, “I can ask at least one a day and get an answer.”

“As long as I reserve rights to refuse to answer any question.”

“I’m going to add those refusals to your case file.”

You’d roll your eyes, “Whatever you say, Stilinski.”

You were proud of the fact you hadn’t had another heart rate scare since the week before, meaning your body was adapting to the new stressful environment at school. That didn’t stop Stiles from insinuating you were going to have a lightheaded moment whenever you rose from your seat.

You never noticed how he prepared himself to grab you whenever you’d been sitting too long.

Chemistry had come around later in the week, you having arrived early to prepare the days experiment. Goggles adorning your face, you lit the Bunsen burner and tightened a flask of a chemical liquid above it.

Stiles skid over, sliding on his sneakers, “Hey, partner.” He threw his bag down and took the goggles you hand to him. He snaps them onto his face with a sharp, “ow.”

“I’ve started filling out the notes,” you say, observing how the liquid was starting to bubble with heat. “Why are you late?”

“I’m not late, you’re just early.” He sits on the stool beside you, resting his crossed arms on the tabletop. “Where were you at lunch today?”

You put a thermometer in the liquid, waiting for the right temperature, “In the library.”

“Is that where you always eat lunch?”

“You can’t eat food in the library, Stilinski.”

Stiles rubs at his nose fidgetily, “Scott and I were looking for you today.”

You pause, warmth filling your chest as you pour granules into the bubbling vial. “Sorry, I was reading for my book report.”

“(Y/N), book reports aren’t due for weeks.”

“Might as well get it done so we don’t have to worry about it,” you hum, writing down observations about the chemical reaction.

Stiles slumps a little, “Well, we missed you.”

“Scott just wants to gossip about what Allison thinks of him.”

“And what’s my excuse?”

You turn off the burner and remove the vial with tongs, “You’re trying to question me to continue your investigation.”

He sighs out a smile, “You’re right, of course. I haven’t asked you my question of the day yet.”

“I suppose I have no choice but to answer one,” you sigh with a smile on your face. “What do you have for me today?”

He was playing with his fingers when he asks, “Why do you spend lunch in the library rather than in the lunchroom with everyone else?”

You think about your answer carefully as you put away your supplies and let the vial cool down. “I don’t like being around a lot of people.”

“Why?” he presses.

You grab his goggles and snap them against his face, “Because it makes me lightheaded.”

He yelps and sways on his stool, “I’m beginning to think ‘lightheaded’ is code for something else.” He yanks the goggles from his face, and you snort at the deep lines they left around his eyes.

“Hey, there’s a science project that we need partners for,” you say as a way to change the subject. “Do you want to do it together?”

“(Y/N), we don’t have to do that project until the end of the semester.” He smiles at your antics of avoiding his questioning.

You shrug, “I like getting things done.”

He takes a deep breath, “Alright, at least I know I won’t fail the class if you’re helping me with the final project.”

After class the pair of you separate for final period, you heading to a different floor and running into someone at the bottom of the staircase. Someone tall and dark with light eyes.

That someone you recognize as Derek Hale.

You freeze on the last few steps, holding onto your backpack and feeling your heart beat unevenly again.

“You’re Derek.”

His face was cool and solemn, “What do you know about Scott McCall?”

“Why should I tell you?” Your arms erupt in goosebumps.

He steps closer, “Because I’m trying to help him. He needs to get it through his skull that I am not the enemy here. I need your influence in this.”

You hold back a scoff, fear overtaking that, “What business do you have with helping Scott?”

“Do you not know?” his eyes suddenly darken, “I thought you were one of his friends.”

“I am his friend,” you reply, “And I know people are suspicious of you.” A seed of doubt creeps up your spine, “I don’t like that a shady adult is creeping around the halls of a high school looking to make connections with students.”

He growls, actually growls much to your surprise. “I need you to tell Scott that I am here to help. I am innocent in whatever he thinks I’ve done.”

“What does he think you’ve done?” you ask quickly as Derek backs off.

“I can hear your uneven heart,” he says, turning around, “You should calm yourself.”

You put a hand to your chest, mouth agape at his retreating form. How the hell can he hear your heartbeat? A thrum of fear ripples through you as you run for your last class. You check the monitor on your watch until your heart rate was controlled before entering.

You didn’t see any of your friends until the next day. You were reading in the library over lunch again, finishing Sense and Sensibility and planning your report. You keep getting distracted by the whole situation with Derek and Scott.

What had the adult meant by befriending Scott? Why were you approached? What secret does Scott have that you didn’t know about?

You squeal as someone launches themselves over the library couch and sits beside you. Your cushion bounces as your heart leapt.

“Stiles!” you cry, “Don’t startle me like that!”

He nudges your shoulder, “Sorry, we were looking for you.”

Scott came around and sat on the arm of the couch, “It’s lunch.”

“Yes,” you say, “And I’m working on stuff in the library like I do every day.”

“No,” Stiles says, closing your book and stealing your pencil, “You’re going to join us for lunch today.”

You fight to get the pencil back, “I think I’ll just finish my report here.”

“(Y/N), there aren’t that many people in the lunchroom,” Scott says quietly, “And you’ll have us there.”

You stare Stiles down, “Did you tell Scott about my thing with lots of people?”

He shrugs sheepishly, “Come on, let’s go.” He waits as you stand, picking up your backpack for you. Scott led the way, nervous by how he wrung his hands.

“Has Allison talked about me lately?”

You shove his arm, “Scott, I can’t tell you everything we say during girl talk.”

“Girl talk?” Scott says in a panic, “I didn’t know about girl talk.”

“Yes, it’s where we drop all our juiciest secrets,” you snicker, “Including our thoughts on certain cute boys.” Scott points at himself, eyebrows raised, making you laugh. “Yes, Allison has been saying good things about you.”

Stiles matches your stride, “What about me?”

You look at him with a wide smile before leaning into Scott with another laugh.

“What? I’m a cute boy,” Stiles says, flabbergasted. “Aren’t I?”

They walk into the lunchroom that was still full of students. You spot Allison and Lydia sitting at the popular lacrosse table. Stiles, your backpack still on his shoulder, nudges you to one of the front tables.

Sitting down, Scott kept peering over at the back of Allison’s head. “See it’s not so bad in here, (Y/N).”

The patter of your heart would say differently, but you sit next to Stiles, nonetheless, pulling out your book report.

“I did mean to come talk to you guys about something that happened yesterday.” The boys lean in, eager for any strange story. “Derek Hale came to talk to me.”

Stiles slips out of his chair and crashes to the ground; Scott was stunned, “Derek Hale? Where?”

“On my way to my last class yesterday. He was waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs.”

Stiles crawls back onto his chair, winded, “He was inside the school? What did he want?”

You shrug, twiddling your pencil, “He wanted me to convince Scott that he was a friend. He said he was innocent, whatever that means.”

The boys share a look. You start outlining your report, “And I don’t know why but I think I believe him.”

“No, (Y/N), listen…” Stiles pulls on your shoulder so you would face him. “You cannot trust that guy. Whatever you do, do not be alone with him again, got it?”

“I don’t get it, why?”

Stiles licks his lips, urgent in the way he looks at you, “You need to trust me on this. If he tries to talk to you again, call me.”

“I would if I had your number,” you laugh. The boys pull out their phones immediately to exchange numbers. You snort at their seriousness, “If you wanted my number that bad you could’ve just asked instead of coming up with this elaborate Derek Hale story.”

“We’re not making it up,” Scott says, “That guy is dangerous.”

~~~

At the end of the week you were busy with your shift at the hospital. You had just finished checking on Jackson Whittemore who had a dislocated shoulder, and you were logging notes into the computer at the nurses station.

You were just updating a patient file when a hand slams onto the counter. You jump, clutching your chest.

“Jesus Christ, Stiles!”

Stiles was shocked at seeing you there, “Do you work here?”

“Yes, and for the love of god please announce your presence like every other normal human being and stop scaring the ever living daylights out of me!” It was a good thing they were in a hospital because your heart was about to give out.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says with wide eyes. He rubs at his face, hiding a smile, “This is how you know Scott’s mom so well.”

“Yeah, add it to my case file,” you wave a hand, fixing your scrub top, “Why are you here?”

His eyes linger at something on your chest, making him stutter, “Um… Scott and I were uh… coming to check up on Jackson.”

“That’s right, you’re all on the lacrosse team. I heard it was Scott that knocked Jackson’s shoulder out of place.”

“That would be correct,” Stiles laughs nervously, scratching at the back of his head. “Is he alright?”

You smirk, nodding towards the end of the hallway, “See for yourself.”

Lydia had come to pick Jackson up, and the pair of them were currently making out in the middle of the hall. You turn away, slightly nauseous, but Stiles keeps observing like he’s never seen a kiss before.

“She’s never been subtle,” you grimace.

His mind seemingly elsewhere, Stiles fumbles for something to occupy himself with as he waits. He picks up a pamphlet on the menstrual cycle.

“Where is Scott?”

Stiles was stuck on a diagram of the uterus, “Hm?”

“Scott,” you say again, staring at the pamphlet cover, “I thought you said you were both looking for Jackson.”

“He went to find his mom first.”

You squint your eyes, “Melissa’s shift ended two hours ago.”

“Could you explain to me the function of the fallopian tubes?”

You snatch the pamphlet away from him, “What are you two hiding?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Stiles says nervously, “Don’t you have other patients to see or something?”

“First Derek Hale is telling me that Scott is keeping a secret and then you’re here covering for Scott while he snoops…”

“Who said anything about snooping?”

You stand from your chair, leaning towards the counter and Stiles, “Listen, I’m glad we’re finally friends. I like you guys. But I won’t be lied to forever. I deserve better than that.”

Stiles feels his chest collapse a little, sinking in on himself. “I could say the same thing about you. You’re always keeping things to yourself and giving vague answers to my questions. What do you have to hide, hm?”

A pang of hurt hit your chest, “Stiles, I’ve never lied to you about anything. If I don’t want to answer a question outright because it’s too personal, I tell you so. I’ve never hid something from you deliberately by lying to you.”

Stiles bit his tongue, folding his arms defensively.

You let the hurt show on your face, “I think you and Scott have been lying to me for a long time. About the party that Scott ran out on. About why you checked up on Allison last week. About your trust issues with Derek Hale. About what you and Scott are doing in the hospital right now…”

The will to argue was gone in Stiles, he just looks defeated as he watches the hurt fill your face. “It’s been for your own protection.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” you whisper angrily.

Scott suddenly appears by the counter, out of breath. “Hey…” he saw your face, “Oh, hey what’s up?”

“Find what you were looking for?” you ask sourly before returning to your keyboard.

Scott shares a look with Stiles before muttering, “Yeah, uh… Jackson’s alright.”

“He left a few minutes ago.”

Stiles turns around to see that Lydia and Jackson really had left. He tugs on Scott’s arm and gave an imploring look towards you.

“I promise we’ll explain everything eventually.”

You keep looking at your computer screen, ignoring the words. Stiles flickers his eyes to what he noticed on your chest, just along the edge of your scrubs. Scott knits his brow as he listens to what was unmistakably the uneven pounding of your rising heart rate.

Stiles led the way to the elevators, cursing himself and smashing the downward button.

“What was that about?” Scott whispers.

“(Y/N)’s mad at me,” he rubs at his eyes harshly, “Mad at us. She knows we’re hiding stuff from her.”

“For her own good.”

“Yeah, but she sees it as us lying to her. I don’t blame her for being upset. We’ve been pretty crappy friends keeping her at arm’s length.”

Scott frowns, walking into the elevator, “You forget that keeping her in the dark keeps her safe.”

“Well, not anymore with Derek roping her into it.” He leans against the wall, holding tight to the railing. “Did you notice the scar on her chest?”

“No,” Scott says, “But I did notice her heartbeat. It was all over the place. She must’ve been really upset.”

Stiles takes a deep breath, “Did you find anything in the morgue?”

~~~

The next evening you drove with your mother back to the hospital. You were still aching with the argument you had with Stiles. You knew something was going on between him and Scott, but you still didn’t know what.

Your mother sensed your mood and said in a cheery voice, “We made an arrest today about that woods murder.”

“Did you?” you say in a quiet tone.

“Yeah, Derek Hale. He’s been back in town for a couple weeks. I guess there was evidence on his burnt property.”

You close your eyes, thinking back to the warning about Hale. “Good thing you got him.”

“And then I got a strange call on dispatch today from the Sheriff’s son.”

“Stiles?” you say.

She hums, “He’s one strange kid.”

“Does he call dispatch often?”

“He’s not allowed to anymore, but he did call today about a dog sighting.”

You shake your head, “You’re right, he can be real strange.”

“Are you sure you can’t make the big game tonight?” your mother asks. “Everyone is going, even the Sheriff.”

“I can’t. I’m helping on Melissa’s floor since she took it off to see the game.”

“That’s right,” she replies, “Shame. I’m sure your friends would’ve liked to see you in the stands.”

You turn in your seat, staring your mother down, “I thought you’d object to me watching a heart racing game surrounded by loud, rowdy people, standing in the frigid cold air.”

She shrugs, “You’ve been proving yourself capable of handling your heart rate, even when it’s the spur of the moment.”

A sudden warmth creeps up your chest. Your mother was starting to trust you despite the illnesses. It was just enough of a mood shift to prompt you to text Scott and Stiles good luck at the game.

The shift was long and grueling; you were exhausted by the end of it. Another medical assistant drove you home late, no doubt long after the lacrosse game was over. You made a mental note to commend Melissa for handling such a difficult floor of the hospital.

Your mom had been called away because of a case update and your father was on an overnight shift at the firehouse again. You were quick to shower the nights worth of patient grime off your body and throw your scrubs right into the washer.

You were just applying lotion in your pajamas when something hit the glass of your window. Startled, you stood from your bed and waited for it to happen again.

A small pebble flew through the air and pings against your window.

Peering through the glass, you saw a disheveled, sweatshirt-wearing Stiles holding a handful of your garden rocks. He waves at you shyly as you struggle to slide the window open.

“What are you doing?”

Stiles holds up his hands, “Seeing if you were awake.”

“And you couldn’t think to text?” you say incredulously, “Put those rocks back.”

He threw his handful of rocks on your mothers tulips, “My phone died like an hour ago.”

You stood there, leaning on your windowsill, regarding him with a soft expression. He looks tired and scared, eyes looking up and imploring as he stuffs his hands in his pockets.

“Then what’s up?” you ask.

He swallows hard, the cold air making his breath come out in icy clouds. “I wanted to talk… about what you said yesterday.”

“How did you know where I live? You dropped me off at the end of the street, remember?”

“Well, yeah,” he chuckles, “And I just watched you walk to this house.” He scratches the back of his head, “Or maybe I looked up your mom on my dad’s computer and found her employee records.”

You nod your head slowly, “That sounds about right.”

“Can I… Can I come up?”

You bite at your lips, hair still wet from the shower. “Sure.”

It was like letting a dog off a leash. Stiles frantically jumps to the garden trellis growing on the front of your house. He struggles past the vines and up the wooden ladder, ignoring your calls of disapproval. He was huffing and puffing by the time he made it to the roof and next to your window.

“Stiles,” you say in your gentle voice, “My parents aren’t home. You could’ve come through the front door.”

His mouth was dry from panting in the cold night air, “Right, but that wouldn’t have been as impressive.”

You watch his fumbling figure fall from the window and onto your carpeted floor, “Yeah, that was real impressive, Stilinski.”

There was only a side table lamp on, lighting the bedroom in a soft peachy glow. You went to sit cross-legged on your bed, patting the covers in front of you for Stiles to sit.

He fixes his shirt, taking your offer before looking you in the eye. “(Y/N), I wanted to say that I was sorry.”

You look towards your hands, playing with the edge of your comfy pajama shirt. You could smell the fruity scent of your lotion still on your fingers.

“I didn’t realize our covering up was so obvious to you. We just wanted to protect you, but I guess it does seem like we betrayed your trust.” He keeps his eyes on you, waiting for you to look at him again, “When I got your good luck text I thought maybe there was still a chance you weren’t super angry with me.”

“Just a little,” you say quietly, giving him a soft smile.

“I wanted to tell you some things that we’ve been hiding from you,” he holds his hands up, “As a peace offering.”

You shake your head, “How generous of you.”

“The body that was found in the woods… Scott and I found it. Us visiting the hospital? That was Scott and I trying to find evidence on the partial body. Derek Hale? He had been seen on the property where we found the other half of the body. He was also in the woods with the first half. We were suspicious of him, and he was basically stalking us because of it.”

You listen carefully, your heartbeat was loud in your ears. “And when he came to talk to me?”

“That terrified us. We thought he was a murderer, and he was talking to you… alone.”

“You thought? My mom told me he was arrested today for the murder.”

Stiles rubs at his face with a tired hand, “Not anymore. The coroner’s said the cause of death was from an animal attack. And the victim was Laura Hale – Derek’s sister.”

“Must be nice having your dad be the sheriff,” you smile. “So Derek’s innocent like he told me he was.”

“I still don’t trust him. He’s not telling us everything. And since we’ve gotten him thrown in jail, my guess is he’s not very happy with us.”

You nod, your head clearer than it was at the beginning of the week.

“Is that everything you’ve been hiding?”

Stiles licks his lips, a nervous habit you’re realizing. “Do you remember when you said you don’t lie, you’re just honest about not sharing the whole truth?” At your nod he continues, “There is one more thing, but it’s not fully my thing to tell. We want to tell you, but it’s not exactly safe at the moment.”

You take the cryptic words and stew with them for a while. “Apology accepted.”

He let out a deep breath, “Thank goodness. Scott would have never forgiven me if we lost our one connection to the pretty girls club.”

You punch his shoulder and laugh, “The one thing I’m good for… gossip from the girls.”

Stiles rubs his shoulder, “That’s not why we want you around.” He clears his throat at your sudden undivided attention, “What I mean is… you’ve been a good friend, and we like you.”

“You and Scott,” you smile.

“Yeah, me and Scott.”

“Scott and I,” you correct, brushing the wet hair from your face, “How was the game?”

Stiles sat more relaxed on your bed, “It was great, we won. And there weren’t any injuries like Jackson’s.”

“Good,” you smile, “And Scott had a pretty victorious after party, so I’ve heard.”

“Allison texted you?” Stiles questions.

You shrug, “Of course. She said you were watching like a little pervert.”

Stiles chokes on his gasp, “I am not…” 

“You were watching Lydia and Jackson too. There’s a trend I’m noticing,” you tease.

He shoves your crossed knee, relishing in your laugh, “Very funny.” He eyes the neckline of your pajama top, searching for the edge of the scar he noticed yesterday. “Can I ask you my one personal question of the day?”

“Fine,” you sigh, “Ask away.”

“Where did you get that scar?” he nods towards your chest.

You immediately clam up, covering the spot protectively. “I got it over the summer.”

Stiles raises his eyebrows, egging you on, “How?”

“I had a surgery.” You watch the concern begin to etch into Stiles’ face. “I don’t like talking about it.”

He bit the inside of his cheek, blinking rapidly as he tries to compute the information, “But you’re okay now. The surgery helped you be… healthy?”

“For the most part,” you say quietly, “The surgery did help me be healthier.” You could already see the cogs turning in his mind. He was going to head home and research what surgeries would leave scars like that on the side of the chest.

His eyes wander your room for a minute before landing on your nightstand. There were three different sized prescription pill bottles resting there. He returns his gaze to you, but didn’t ask further questions, “So I was thinking… how about I give you rides to school from now on.”

You let out an anxious smile, grateful he didn’t press you about your health problems. “Honestly, that would be great.”

“Good,” he seems pleased with himself, “And in return for gas money, you come to our lacrosse games.”

You outstretch a hand, “Deal.”

Stiles takes your hand to shake and instantly blurts, “You smell really good.”

You laugh, “I did just shower.”

He awkwardly lets go of your hand, standing from the bed, “No, you always smell good.”

“Thanks Stilinski.”

[panerasbox]

—CINNAMON SIN; 3 Days To Go

Pairing: Melissa Schemmenti x fem!Reader.

Genre: adult Student/Professor AU, Slow Burn, Age Gap, Power Dynamics, light smut

Word count: 1,804.

summary: You didn’t mean to fall for your political science professor. But Melissa Schemmenti—with her sharp tongue, red nails, and no-bullshit attitude—makes it hard not to.

30 DAYS OF MELISSA SCHEMMENTI MASTERLIST

You weren’t trying to get a crush on your professor.

Honestly, you weren’t.

You signed up for her class because it was the only political science elective left that didn’t meet at 8:00 AM. That was it. You hadn’t expected to find her interesting, much less attractive. And you definitely hadn’t expected her to be… Melissa Schemmenti.

Sharp voice, sharper eyes. Red nails, red pen, pressed slacks, and a presence that made everyone sit up straighter without her even asking. Her syllabus warned of no late work, no phones, and “no bullshit,” which you thought was a joke until you saw her deduct a full ten points when some sophomore tried to sneak a Snap during lecture.

You should’ve been terrified. And okay, maybe you were a little. But then she started talking about political theory in that Philly accent, voice just rough enough to curl around your ribs, and it was over.

You were screwed.

Not academically—your grades were fine. But mentally? Emotionally?

Screwed.

It wasn’t even the power thing that got you. You didn’t want to be the girl with the hot-for-teacher fantasy. But Melissa was different. She spoke like someone who’d lived it, seen it, survived it. Her lectures never felt like lectures. More like—well. Arguments. Stories. Like she wanted to teach you something real, not just feed you facts for the final.

You’d started going to office hours three weeks in, just for clarification on a reading. The first time you went, you’d nervously tried to organize your notes.

“Don’t worry,” she’d said, looking up from her desk. “You’re not in trouble. Not unless you’re about to tell me you didn’t read the damn article.”

You hadn’t, fully. But you blurted out the thesis anyway, and Melissa gave you a dry look before sliding a chair out for you.

From then on, it became a habit.

You’d show up with questions. Sometimes real ones, sometimes made-up. And she’d entertain them, eyebrow quirked, mouth tugging in a smile she rarely gave in class. She never crossed any lines. Never got too friendly. But something about the way she said your name… low and careful, like it was a secret she didn’t want to share… made you hope.

God help you, it made you hope.

You tried to be subtle about it. Really, you did.

You didn’t flirt. You didn’t linger. You didn’t add her on anything, and you never once said anything that could be twisted the wrong way. You told yourself it was a crush, not a problem. Temporary. Harmless.

But then the semester ended.

Grades were posted. Class was over. No more office hours, no more lectures.

And you felt… weirdly hollow.

It was ridiculous. You weren’t owed anything. You weren’t even sure she liked you like that. She was your professor, and you were her student—were. You hadn’t talked to her since finals week, and yet you kept checking your email like maybe she’d reach out.

She didn’t. Of course she didn’t.

You were just about ready to let it go when fate, in the form of caffeine withdrawal, shoved you into her again.

You walked into the off-campus coffee shop on a rainy Thursday, head down, hoodie up, only to freeze in the middle of the doorway.

There she was. At a corner table, sipping something from a to-go cup, book cracked open in one hand, glasses low on her nose.

You almost turned around. Almost ducked out, right back into the storm.

But then she looked up.

And smiled.

“Hey, look who’s alive,” she said, waving you over.

Your legs moved before your brain caught up. “Hey, Professor Schemmenti.”

“Melissa,” she corrected gently. “Class is over. You’re not my student anymore.”

You blinked. “Right. Of course. Hi… Melissa.”

It felt weird to say. Like getting away with something.

She nodded toward the counter. “Go grab your coffee. You can sit if you want. I’m just killin time.”

Your stomach flipped. Sit if you want. Not a command. Not a test. An invitation.

So you sat.

And for the next forty minutes, you talked about everything but class.

You made her laugh. You’re sure you did. You’d never heard it in class—not like this.

And when you finally stood to go, half-reluctant, she surprised you again.

“You know,” she said, standing too, “if you ever want help with that thesis, I still got an office.”

You hesitated. “You mean… I could come by?”

“I mean, I’ve got free time between lectures on Tuesdays and Thursdays. And you’re an adult. I can talk to whoever I damn well please.”

That smile again. Half-smirk, half-something else.

You smiled back. “Okay. I’ll stop by.”

It started again, after that.

Sometimes it was coffee. Sometimes her office. Once, you went for a walk around campus, both of you needing fresh air.

She never made a move. Never even hinted.

But her eyes lingered longer now. Her compliments were quieter. When she laughed, she didn’t look away.

And one day, after a long conversation about the ethics of local politics, she said, “You know, you really got a mind for this. Sharp as hell.”

“Thanks,” you said, flushed.

She looked down at your hands. “You ever think about going into public policy?”

You laughed softly. “I think about a lot of things.”

“Yeah?” she asked, voice low. “What else you thinkin about?”

Your breath caught.

“Melissa,” you said carefully, “is this… something?”

She was quiet for a second. “Would it scare you if it was?”

You shook your head.

“Would it screw up your future if it was?”

You hesitated—only briefly—then shook your head again. “I’m not your student anymore. You said so yourself.”

Melissa exhaled, like she’d been holding her breath for weeks. “Then yeah. I guess it is something.”

And then, finally, she kissed you.

It wasn’t frantic. It wasn’t rushed. Just warm, steady, and careful, like she’d wanted to take her time getting there. Her hands were soft on your waist, her mouth sure and gentle and entirely unfair.

When she pulled back, you felt drunk on something that wasn’t caffeine or nerves.

“I’m still a hardass,” she said quietly. “I still don’t take any bullshit. That’s not gonna change.”

You grinned. “Good. I’d be disappointed if it did.”

She chuckled. “You’re a smartass.”

“Also not gonna change.”

“Guess we’ll figure it out.”

Her office is technically closed. The door says as much, in the little laminated sign she flips to OFFICE HOURS OVER — GO AWAY UNLESS YOU’RE BLEEDING.

But she’s still here. And so are you.

The lights are dim — just the desk lamp and the dusky glow of early evening through the blinds. You can hear the hum of the heating unit and the way the campus outside is finally starting to quiet. No more students passing by. No more eyes.

Just her. And you.

Melissa’s leaned back against her desk, arms crossed, watching you like she’s waiting for you to make the next move.

You don’t. You’re too focused on the fact that her blouse is undone at the top, just enough to see the curve of her collarbone, and her heels are off — a subtle but potent reminder that she’s comfortable around you now. That maybe she’s not your professor anymore, but you still get that same thrill in your chest whenever she looks at you like that.

“You’re staring,” she says, low.

You smile. “Can you blame me?”

She pushes off the desk and walks toward you with slow, deliberate steps, like a cat that already knows it’s won.

“Could say the same about you, sweetheart,” she murmurs. “You’ve been looking at me like I’m a final exam you wanna ace.”

“Maybe I do.”

She stops right in front of you, just close enough that you feel the warmth of her body. She smells like expensive perfume and coffee and something faintly spicy, like cinnamon and sin.

“You really wanna start something in my office?” she asks, raising a brow. “Because if you do… you better be ready to finish it.”

Your heart kicks up in your chest. “I’m ready.”

That’s all it takes.

She kisses you again like she’s been waiting for it — like she’s earned it. Her hand comes up to your jaw, tilting your face just right as her lips slot against yours, slow and deep. There’s no rush, no frantic movement, just heat.

Her other hand finds your waist, tugging you closer until your hips press into hers. You can feel the strength in her body, like she’s still in charge even though you’re the one who walked in.

You don’t mind. In fact, you kind of like it.

Melissa pulls back just enough to whisper against your mouth, “Been thinkin’ about this since midterms. You, sitting across from me with those wide eyes… acting all innocent.”

Your cheeks burn. “I was innocent.”

“Oh, hon,” she says, low and dark, “you still are. But you’re in good hands.”

She kisses you again — harder this time. And then she walks you backward, slow and steady, until the backs of your thighs hit her desk. She lifts you onto it like it’s nothing, like she’s done it before. Maybe she has — but you’re willing to bet not like this.

Her hands slide under your shirt, palms warm on your skin. She lifts the fabric slowly, like unwrapping a present, watching your face the whole time.

“You can tell me to stop,” she says, even as her fingers drift higher. “I’ll stop. Say the word.”

You shake your head. “Don’t stop.”

Her mouth finds your neck, kissing a line up to your ear as her fingers unbutton your top. “Good girl.”

You gasp at the praise. She smiles against your skin.

She takes her time. Touches you like she’s memorizing something, like she doesn’t want to miss a single inch. You moan when she presses kisses to your chest, and again when her hands slide between your thighs, coaxing you open without ever pushing too fast.

Melissa looks up at you, her voice a rasp, “You wanna be loud, baby, or quiet?”

“I—quiet,” you breathe. “Just in case.”

“Shame,” she says with a smirk, fingers brushing where you’re warmest, “I bet I’d like it when you’re loud.”

And then she proves it — slowly, thoroughly, until you’re shaking and clinging to her, your body arching off her desk, muffled whimpers falling against her shoulder.

When it’s over, she presses a kiss to your temple, smoothing your hair back like she’s not the one who just ruined you in the span of ten minutes.

You don’t speak for a while.

Then finally, you say, dazed, “You do this with all your former students?”

She smirks. “Just the ones who show up to office hours lookin’ like trouble.”

[lonely-ey3s]

The Chemistry Between Us | part 1

reedrichards!professor x f!reader (teachers aid)

chapter summary: you are taking Reed Richards physics class this semester after taking two prior classes the last two semesters. you have developed somewhat of a crush on your handsome professor. when he asked you to be his student aid, you can't refuse. after some time together alone after class, you two start to realize that perhaps the feelings for each other are mutual.

chapter warnings: fluff, talks of smut, reed is not married to sue, small age gap, (student is finishing degree, maybe 8-10 year gap), mutual pining.

word count: 3k

a/n: after the trailer release my mind went buzzing and i was clawing at the bars of my enclosure - i cannot emphasize how this man will ruin my life when we see this come out in july. ruin my life.

Dividers by: @saradika-graphics 

Masterlist

Professor Reed Richards has been your teacher for 3 classes now, chemistry, biochemistry, and now for this semester, physics. 

Now one could say you were super smart and taking all his classes was just your way of staying on track for your degree- which you were. But a part of you also was in it for reasons that wouldn’t be deemed appropriate according to the school’s code of conduct. 

On the first day of class, he went over the syllabus, explained what was expected of everyone, and showed a few examples of what you’d be learning, which was something he did for the other few classes you had attended. He was a very visual and hands-on teacher, always showing what could come out of something if the right rules, concepts, and procedures were applied.  

You noticed as he was introducing himself in the beginning, he looked around the group of students, and his eyes fell on you. He smiled and nodded your way as he continued to speak as if he was nonverbally saying, ‘I remember you’, which earned a blush and a small smile from you before you stuck your head down shyly to note what he was saying. 

You barely looked up after that reaction, too embarrassed to blush if he were to look your way again so you wrote notes on everything he mentioned as well as doodled when he began to go over the normal rules and expectations of his lecture, things you had already heard in the last two classes. 

Right on time, he dismissed the class after instructing that chapters one through four would need to be read before the next class but before you could make it out of the auditorium he cleared his throat and called your first name from his desk. 

You had gathered your books in your arms and were three steps away from the door when you stopped and looked back, “Yes, Professor?” you said softly. 

He used his hand that was holding a stick of chalk to beckon you to him, “Could I have a word with you?” 

You all of a sudden felt a little nervous and shy by this sudden request. 

You’d had this man’s classes for a little over a year now and not once had you two exchanged conversation privately. The only ‘interaction’ apart from today’s- if you can call it that was glances here and there while in lecture or the lab, and of course when you’d raise your hand to ask a question, but nothing more than that. However, not once did he call you by your name, always ‘Miss’ or your last name as he did with everyone else. 

You felt a warmth as your name rolled off his tongue, going down, betraying you between your thighs. 

You cleared your throat and made your way down the stairs towards him and the blackboard he had been scribbling on during class to show some examples of what you’d be learning. 

“Yes, Mr. Richards?” you said softly. 

He ran his hand through his hair, making a few curls fall forward, furthering the dampness in your panties by the downright sin that he was committing right now with how good he looked.

He looked down as he shuffled through some papers, “It seems that the university is advising for this semester I take on a teacher's aid...” he said as he focused on reading some papers in front of him, “It seems they think my work and study aren’t mixing well as I’ve been known to be a few moments late to a few lectures the last couple weeks…” he softly cleared his throat. 

“Well… if you were to ask me, everyone here knows how important and impactful your work is, Professor. To my knowledge, no one complains when those late moments do arise…” you softly said, “I think they may be a little dramatic to make you take on a student aide, sir.” you shrugged nonchalantly. 

He looked up and chuckled softly, finding your eyes, “So does that mean you wouldn’t want the job?” a small smile that could be mistaken for a smirk etched across his lips. 

Your cheeks betrayed you and turned pink, “I… I’m sorry you’d want me to be your aid?” 

He nodded and leaned his hands against the desk, making the veins in his hands and forearms pop as his sleeves were rolled up halfway up his forearm, “Should something disqualify you from being my choice?” he looked at you from your head slowly down to your feet then back up, checking you out from the way that small smile grew just a little wider before he continued. 

“You would sit in on my chemistry class which you’ve already done and passed with flying colors - but mainly it would be after lecture, helping grade papers, keeping things organized in the gradebook… no more than a couple hours every few days…” he trailed off as he looked at your book you were holding against your chest, and for a split second found his eyes wondering to your cleavage accentuated by the book being pressed against you. 

He quickly snapped out of it cleared his throat, getting too cocky with his gaze, and looked back down at the papers before he turned towards the chalkboard to continue scribbling calculations. Attempting to ignore the sudden and strong blood flow traveling down to his cock, “What do you say?” he asked softly. 

You thought for a moment then nodded, clearing your throat, “When do we start?” 

A couple of weeks had gone by since Reed had asked you to be his TA, and after that, he insisted you call him by his first name as now you were technically partners in the classroom. He insisted giving you some weight and respect when introducing you to his classes, especially when students that would come in and sometimes ignore you, not thinking of you as “good enough”-which bothered him.

You were smarter than most of the people that come through this school and to see you blown off mostly because you were a woman rubbed him the wrong way. 

One student called you a no more than just a secretary under his breath to his friends as you were grading papers as Reed lectured. Unfortunately, it loud enough that Reed heard.

Reed cleared his throat and turned around mid sentence, “Do we have a volunteer to finish this” within a second, not giving anyone the chance to raise a hand he called on the student to the front, humiliating and embarrassing him as he fumbled to guess a correct result, being caught off guard as he was one to rarely pay attention in class.

You had to put your hand over your mouth to hide the smile splayed across your face at the obvious act of protection for your respect Reed was currently displaying.

Once he looked at Reed to signal he was finished, Reed looked over the work and tsked, shook his head, then hummed disappointedly before he cleared his throat and called your name softly and holding out the chalk for you to take, “Could you please show us the correct way of solving this?”

You stood and brushed your fingers against his as you took the chalk from him then erased the young man’s work before writing and explaining the correct way to the class. When finished you placed the chalk down and turning around and walking past the student dusting off your hands, whispering as you passed him, “Not bad for ‘just the secretary’, right?” then winked and sat back down, catching Reeds eyes for a moment to give him a small smile.

After that, when you’d meet up after hours, he’d bring coffee and you’d pack the two of you something to eat as you both discovered that empty bellies and coffee don’t mix well. 

There were stolen glances here and there, especially when you’d sit in on his chemistry class. Small moments where he’d wink at you after saying a specific term as the two of you had come up with small inside jokes about specific topics when the hours got late and you both were running on fumes. 

Not only that- but there was a fog that settled over the two of you after the first two meetings called sexual tension. A fog that was heavy and in some ways smothering, as both of you clearly knew the other one felt the same way. However, something in you both held each other back from making any rushed decisions, both were too stubborn to act. 

You came into the auditorium where he was working through the same calculation for days now, damp from the rain that caught you on your way in on the one day you didn’t carry an umbrella. 

“Sorry I’m late, got stuck in the rain for a moment.” you chuckled lightly and said as you sat down into one of the front row seats, pulling out papers from your bag to start grading. 

Reed turned slightly to acknowledge your presence but eyes fixed on the chalkboard, “You know being late is ok, it’s not like I’m taking attendance with these meetings we have...” he chuckled under his breath. 

You smiled and looked up, “I know, but still, I’d like you to know that I do respect your time after all, Reed.” you said before pulling a hair clip out of your bag to tie your hair from being now damp and ruined from the rain. 

He didn’t hear his name come off your tongue very often as you still mostly referred to him as Mr. Richards or sir due to habit— but when his name does leave your lips, it commands his full attention. 

He turned his head around and saw you were damp, registering what you had said earlier, “Oh, you’re soaked! You must be freezing…” he grabbed his suit jacket from off the back of his chair and rushed over before putting it around your shoulders, attempting to warm you up. 

He could smell the shampoo from your hair when he put the jacket over your shoulders causing his feet to cement to the ground momentarily. 

You looked up at him, blushing at the immediate action to care for you was with him, “Reed…” you softly chuckled, “I’m damp, not soaked, but thank you, that’s very kind…” you smiled softly.

He lingered close to you for a moment, softly smiling and nodding as he never allowed himself to get too physically close, in fear he wouldn’t be able to hold himself back. 

You looked down and bit your bottom lip feeling the tension at an all-time high, your heart racing as you could smell the faint smell of his cologne from his jacket around your shoulders and then his aftershave due to the proximity.  

You slowly rose from the seat and brushed past him, walking towards the chalkboard, causing his knees to buckle as he got a small whiff of your perfume. 

“What’s this?” you tilted your head, attempting to decipher the calculations as you leaned up against the long desk that went from one end of the board to the other, crossing one leg over the other as you put most of your weight on that one foot and your hands planted to the desk. 

Reed had his hand against the desk you came from as he caught himself when his knees gave. He swallowed and cleared his throat, looking down at the ground trying to compose himself, “I’m attempting to prove the existence that there are multiple branches of the universe.” 

You pursed your lips and bit the inside of your cheek, “You mean like a… multiverse?” you questioned. 

He cleared his throat and tucked his hands in his pockets to keep himself at bay, “Exactly.” he began to walk towards where you were standing and stood next to you, “This has only been theorized but there’s math to support it… and to support a kind of… time travel which is what I’m trying to prove alongside its existence.” 

He turned around and saw the way you were standing against the desk and if it wasn’t for his stubbornness not to make the first move with a student, he would have taken you from behind right then and there. 

You turned and sat on the desk, slowly sliding yourself back as you looked up at him through your big eyelashes, humming somewhat sadly, “Trying to go elsewhere… different timeline, sir?” you lightly ran your tongue between your lips, feeling them a bit chapped. 

He let out a shaky breath, watching your tongue dart between your lips, and then swallowed, looking down for a moment as he thought, ‘I am a man after all… and men can be weak, right? They can fall to their knees… fall to their knees and in between her thighs and be weak, yes?’ 

But then he snapped out of that thought when you called his name softly, he looked up and a small genuine chuckle came from him and made him smile to where his dimples showed and the small crow's feet near his eyes softly appeared. 

He shyly pushed some of his curls that had fallen on his forehead back, “No.. no, I wouldn’t dream of it…” and then turned his head back towards you and watched as your lips curled into a satisfied smile. 

“Good.” you softly nudge his arm with yours, “Can’t have you leavin’ me all alone to teach your classes, can we?” you joked. 

You chuckled with him and blushed when his hand accidentally brushed against yours after taking his other hand out of his pocket to lean against the desk as he chuckled. 

You both slowly stopped the chuckling and somewhat froze from the jolt of electricity that went up your hands throughout your body by the contact. 

Reed took one glance at your lips and you did the same to his before you breathlessly whispered, “Reed…I…”

Without a second thought, he was a moth to a flame, nodding, “I know…” before stepping closer to you, cupping your cheek with one hand, and pulling you towards him by grabbing your waist with the other, then connecting his lips with yours. 

He kissed you deeply and slowly, drinking you in like you were the last drop of water in a baron desert. 

Your hands came out from his suit jacket that you had over your shoulder to reach for him. One went for his chest while the other grabbed onto his tie and gently tugged him towards you as you continued to kiss him for what seemed like hours as it felt like time stopped the moment your lips connected. 

He pulled back from your lips and nudged your nose with his, softly panting, eyes closed, hoarsely whispering, "I... I wanna take you out for dinner before we..." he was stopped by your lips reconnecting with his, earning a soft groan from him and a soft moan from you. It also was followed by you spreading your legs for him to settle between which he quickly adjusted to. 

He could feel his heart beating quickly against his ribs, mind going a million miles a minute, and now that he was between your legs, blood was rushing to places he was trying to keep at bay. 

His hand moved down from your cheek to your thigh, which your skirt was now riding up due to your legs spreading, earning a groan from him against your lips. 

You pulled back and began kissing down his jaw and starting to lightly suck on his neck just above the collar of his button-down.  

He grunted and shut his eyes, whispering hoarsely, “F-fuck…” he swallowed as you moved your hand to tug at his trousers. 

However, before you could continue, you both pulled away in seconds as you heard footsteps and voices from outside of the auditorium signaling someone was coming in. You both were out of breath, lips were swollen, and obviously disheveled.  

You quickly got off his desk and went to sit in the seat you were at, keeping your head down as a small group of students walked down the steps toward Reed, who was now scribbling on the chalkboard, attempting to get rid of the obvious bulge in his pants before they made it to him, his chest heaving in panic. 

"Sorry to intrude on your evening, Professor, we just couldn't figure out this equation and needed some clarification." a young man said as he and a group of 3 other students came down to his desk, all from his chemistry class. 

You looked up to find him clearing his throat, “Yes, one moment…” he said softly, but his back still to the students. You could tell he wasn't able to turn around due to what had just transpired between you two, knowing what you briefly felt against your hand before you had to pull away. 

You stood and cleared your throat, tucking your hair behind your ears, "I think Professor Richards may have hit a groove in his calculations, why don't I take a look?" you smiled softly at the group. 

He breathed a quiet sigh of relief hearing you save his ass. He continued to softly scribble while listening to what you were telling them, enjoying whenever he could hear your voice, now dizzy on it.

They smiled knowing you were the teacher's aide and came over, showing you the paper which had an equation written out that Reed had assigned out yesterday at the end of the lecture. Below are their notes on how they calculated the result so far. 

They explained where they were having trouble, and you kindly had them all stand around you as you sat back in your seat and wrote out some examples of how to solve the problem without giving them the answer to Reed's assigned question. 

They all nodded, understanding where they were going wrong and how to proceed from there, and thanked you before taking their papers and walking back up the stairs, shutting the door behind them. 

You kept your eyes down but as soon as you heard the door latch closed you looked up to find Reed leaning against the desk, arms spread wide, eyes locked on you, grinning like a schoolboy, a curl falling onto his forehead, "Thank you for that..." he nodded his head up the stairs. 

You blushed and nodded, "Of course..." You cleared your throat softly and looked down at the paper you were grading shyly, "After all, it is my job to help out when those things happen, right?" you began marking up the paper with notes. 

He nodded, “Right.” 

He took a moment then looked down shyly, before he bit his bottom lip, stood up straight, and walked over to you, "I uh..." he cleared his throat and bit the inside of his cheek, "Dinner, you and me, tomorrow, I'll pick you up at 6." he stated, hands in his pockets. 

You continued writing on the paper, purposely avoiding eye contact, smirking to yourself, "Are you asking me to dinner or telling me, Professor?" 

He clenched his jaw and brushed his hand through his hair, smirking before crowding your space and putting his index finger and thumb on your chin to pull your gaze up to meet his. He cocked his eyebrow and licked his bottom lip, "If I'm going to continue what almost happened on that desk earlier… which I very much would enjoy doing to be very clear..." he leaned down slowly, lips inches away from yours, brushing his nose against yours softly, glancing down at your lips hungrily, then looked up into your eyes, "I'm going to take you out to a dinner on a proper date, first." 

You nodded, and your breathing became quick but quiet, that warmth between your thighs coming back again, your core clenching around nothing by the confidence he was exuding right now. 

You pursed your lips together for a moment and then repeated, "Dinner. Tomorrow. You and I. You'll pick me up at 6 pm..." you blushed and said barely above a whisper under his gaze.

“Good girl…” he gently kissed your nose then walked away, back to the chalkboard- leaving you speechless and blushing the deepest shade of red.

Next Chapter

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