squeez in between

The Man Who Was Screaming

I was laying in bed one night, about to fall asleep, when somewhere far below me I heard a screaming. It was faint, and might not have been a screaming at all, actually. Might have been just wind howling between some rocks, or water running through a pipe below. I thought nothing of it, and went to sleep.

The following night, however, it persisted. A horrible, distant, eldritch wail. I got up, put on some some sweatpants and a coat, and made my way outside to investigate. The sound seemed to come from the direction of the woods. Following it, I found myself in an isolate grove. An almost abnormally large, wiry tree stood in its center, and what was now certainly a human scream emanated from below it.

I approached cautiously. Just below the tree, underneath one of the roots, was a small hollow. Still curious about the noise, I stuck my hand in, illuminating the opening with my phone’s flashlight. It was more than large enough for a human. I squeezed through between the roots.

A spiraling dirt staircase led downwards into the earth. Gradually, it became a stone staircase. And gradually, it became more refined. Indiscernible symbols of some ancient language at first spattered, and then totally covered the walls. The feverish scribbling was punctuated with crude drawings of an enormous creature made seemingly only of darkness and limbs. As I descended, torches began to appear, glowing with a reddish flame, bouncing shadows in mad patterns among the cavern.

The spiral staircase came to an opening – an enormous atrium of black stone, which I entered through the middle of the ceiling. Below me, a sea of dark liquid. The screaming was almost deafening now, as I stepped onto the floor of the atrium.

The distinct smell of iron and rot. It was blood. This unthinkably enormous opening, where I could barely see the walls in the distance, was entirely submerged in about 3 inches of blood. It reflected the light of the chandeliers dangling above wildly. I turned around, and saw the man.

On the far side of the cavern from the staircase, there stood a humanoid figure, covered entirely in the thick red liquid. It looked as if the blood was flowing both from him, and into him, at every pore. His whole body was a turbulent red. And he was screaming a scream that spoke of years, perhaps centuries of screaming. Grotesque, and unending.

“STOP,” I said to him.

“Sorry,” he replied.


“Yeah, sorry, my bad,” he said.

And so he stopped, and I went back to my house, and went to sleep.

But the next night the motherfucker was at it again, so I guess that’s life for you.

Once upon a time there was a beast and a curse and an enchantress, which I’m sure surprises nobody. Better put it this way: once upon a time a girl was locked in a castle, and she begged so hard not to be the sleeping princess that she became the beast. That’s more like it, anyway — fairytale logic. You get what you wish for, but it isn’t what you want.

“Don’t let it be a prince,” she begged, “don’t let it be a kiss I can’t see coming and can’t refuse.”

Enchantresses, wicked fairies, call them what you will — they’re all the same story in the end. No one will remember if this enchantress began the story by giving the princess a naming day gift of a hundred year sleep once the tale switches to another track. The point is that she didn’t mind granting this one favor. Maybe it was an issue of statistics. Maybe she thought finding a girl who would fall in love with a princess-beast would be harder than finding a prince to kiss her, make her curse harder to lift (considering the probabilities of who might wander onto the cursed castle grounds). As if girls who love girls don’t know they have to fight harder to begin with, as if they won’t cross miles for each other.

So maybe there was a spindle once, but now there is a rose, and a girl who wanders through a thorn maze unable to find her way. This is the wrong story, she thinks to herself, clutching her leather satchel tighter, but she doesn’t know what the right story is.

“Let me through?” She suggests to the roses that grow squeezed between their own thorns along the twisting hedges. “I’m looking for the love of my life. I’m in a hurry.”

She’s met only with the rustling of leaves and haughty scoffs. “No prince ever found his true love by being in a hurry.”

“I’m not a prince. I’m a shoemaker, and I’m lost. Can you let me through to the castle?” It rises dark and spindly overhead, but though it seems so close she can see no way out of the maze.

Laughter, echoing through the hedge corridors, and then something dark prowls around the corner and half-crouches there, hidden as much as possible under a hooded cloak. Shining talons dig into the earth under their feet.

The beast says, “A shoemaker? You really are in the wrong story.” Her voice is gravely and doesn’t match the laughter. That must have been the roses as well.

“I have glass shoes,” the girl says, staring at those claws. “Or I can make something sturdier, if you give me time.”

“I don’t have enough time of my own to be giving it away,” the beast says, bored, and gestures around them. Even now the hedges seem to be encroaching further into the maze’s corridors, the roses growing and multiplying. One day soon, the girl realizes, the maze will entirely fill in, and the castle will be blocked off.

She’s clever, and she’s brave, and those are the two most important things for a fairytale heroine to be — besides pretty, but that’s easy enough to fake with the right kind of smile. “Then don’t give it to me,” she says, “we can share.”

So the beast reaches out one arm, fingers tapering into knives that she curls so gently they don’t more than scratch the girl’s skin — and the shoemaker takes it with an earnest gravity, looking right under her cloak’s shadow and into her eyes.

The beast’s eyes are unnaturally big and inhumanly shaped, but they’re not cruel, and in fairytales the evil beasts always have cruel eyes. The girl bobs a polite curtsey, using the beast’s arm for balance, and sees those eyes narrow slightly with amusement.

They walk through the twists and turns of the maze to the castle, the beast bent slightly so as not to tower over her guest. “About those shoes,” she says, when they reach the front doors, golden light spilling from the entrance hall and shining through the delicately carved details in the ancient wood.

“In the morning,” the girl says, and because she clearly has not even entertained the thought that she might be argued with, the beast cannot summon an objection. She watches the girl follow an unfurling carpet along the floor to a dusty guest room with no hesitation, as if every dwelling should be as accommodating.

And in the way of fairytales, that’s enough to make the beast fall in love — a disregard for every unspoken rule, a smile that glimmers in the darkness. Should I tell you that the moment the girl arrives at breakfast the next morning the beast can barely look away from her for a moment, that she stays by the girl’s side as she produces leather and tools from nowhere and searches floor by floor for the perfect room to work in — or should I let you imagine for yourself?

Gradually the hood is pulled back, eventually the cloak discarded altogether; they sit in patches of sunlight together to eat lunch, staring down at the maze below. Roses and leaves devouring each other and everything in slow motion.

“If you stay too long you’ll be trapped here,” the beast warns, anxious when the girls shows no concern in her usual solemn air as she watches the maze devolve.

“I haven’t finished your shoes,” is all she says. Each new morning she promises that in return for this latest night of hospitality she is making the shoes more beautiful, and each evening that she has not finished she stays another night.

Sometimes when the girl has gone to bed the beast sneaks back into the workroom, in agony over whether to rip out the stitches or finish the work for her.

Leave before you are trapped here forever.

Stay here forever because I love you.

Each night she does not touch the shoes and returns to sleep herself, and in the morning the girl thanks her for letting her stay, as if the beast could ever turn her out, and promises to repay the night with even more beautiful shoes.

And each morning the beast says, “That’s fair,” and wishes she could find different words, the words she means to say.

The maze grows. The roses are larger than hands with fully spread fingers. The corridors are barely large enough for a small girl to squeeze through. In the dawn light it is lit gently and slightly pink, but the sight of it is painful. The wide window of the workroom shows the progress the maze had made alarmingly clearly, and it’s only then that the beast wonders if that was the appeal of this room over all the others.

The girl appears silently in the doorway as she has for the past week. “Thank you for letting me stay last night. I’ll repay you—”

“No,” the beast says, her voice alarmed and rough. “No. You are leaving now.”


“Before you can’t leave. You must go now.” Her throat is closing up and her voice growing thicker with each word. They’re not the words she wants to say.

The girl cocks her head, a curiously nonjudgmental silence. Finally she crosses the room to her worktable and picks up the shoes, turning them around and around again. They’re boots, really, and almost comically big in her hands. The beast cannot tell if they are as beautiful as she was promised, because the girl is smiling now and that eclipses all else.

“Are they finished?” She asks.

“Yes,” the beast says, unable to choke out anything more.

The girl leaves the boots on the table and swings her satchel, out of nowhere, across her shoulders. “Thank you for sharing your time,” she says. For a moment she holds the beast’s hand in both of hers, and then she’s gone. From the window the beast can watch her leave; for all her trouble getting there, she finds her way out with ease.

She leaves the workroom and doesn’t return all day.

Do beasts grieve? She hadn’t thought they could. She hadn’t grieved when the curse was settled on her; she hadn’t grieved at the idea that it might never lift once the maze finally knit itself together during the coming night. But the loneliness she feels now was different. The absence of the shoemaker is something worse. She’d had no choice in her fate, but she had told the girl to leave. This misery she’d brought on herself.

At night she wanders back into the workroom out of habit, sleepless and hopeless and refusing to glance out the window. Has it happened yet? Is she truly trapped now, or will it happen in five minutes, an hour, at dawn? She stares at the boots for an indeterminable amount of time before she thinks of putting them on.

She does so only because she thinks the girl wanted her to wear them; left to her own devices she might have destroyed them with as little thought as she now gives to slipping them on. They are big enough, and the fasteners are easy to close even with her unwieldy claws. Designs etched into the leather yet invisible in the darkness spiral and branch out beneath the thumb-pad she runs over them. Vines, she thinks. Roses.

A tear slips out, or three, as she stands in her beautiful new boots and smells leather and rotting roses. I want her back, she thinks, even as a wave of thankfulness rises up from the deepness in her, thankfulness that the shoemaker will never feel this trapped. I want to go to her, she revises. Since she doesn’t know how, she goes to leave the workroom instead.

One step and darkness is rushing past her. The rough scrap of stone walls, the rustle of leaves and the tearing of thorns, night air soft all around her. She has stepped not into the hallway but out of the castle, beyond the maze, into the star-dappled night.

“What did you do?” She asks, alarmed, almost before she sees the shoemaker sitting cross-legged on the grassy hill, as still as if she has been waiting all day and night. “What happened?”

“I found what I came for,” the girl says calmly. “And I made her shoes.”

Beard Burn

Characters: Steve Rogers x Reader

Summary: Steve likes to grow his beard out between missions, and you think its sexy.  He wants to know why you think so, then he gets turned on. (it’s just smut)

A/N: inspired by the goddamn soft!bearded!steve board.  y’all….just let me live. also i need to learn how to title things.  i called it fucking “beard burn.” @ myself come on…

Warnings: oral sex (fr), language

Words: 2148

Tags: @daybreak96 @feelmyroarrrr @jimtkirkisabitch 

Part Two

(this gif made me wet tbh)

Steve glances up over his book at the sound of you entering the room.  He smiles.  “Hey, doll.”

You stop dead.  “You have got to be kidding me,” you mutter, taking him in.  He’s lounging back on the bed in nothing but a pair of low riding sweats. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, he was still growing out his beard.  And—God help you—he was wearing glasses.

“Goddamn it, Steve.”

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country singer bitty accidentally writes a hit about nhl player jack

Based on this post about the inspiration for Dolly Parton’s Jolene, which is somehow even gayer than the song itself. Bless you, Dolly.

It had started out so innocently.

Bitty had been tired after hours of this meet n’ greet, and when that tall drink of water walked up to get his autograph, Bitty couldn’t help the words that tumbled out of his mouth.

“Gosh, well aren’t you the most handsome fella I’ve ever seen,” he said, reached for the outstretched CD–CD! Who even bought CDs anymore?–and readied his Sharpie. “What’s your name, hun?”

“Uh, Jack,” the man said, pretty eyes going wide. If he’d been more awake, Bitty might’ve felt bad for making a fan uncomfortable. But if this Jack really were a fan, then he certainly wouldn’t have a problem with another man complimenting him. And besides, he was handsome, with his wide shoulders and high cheekbones and eyes as blue as the summer sky.

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satellite jeon this comeback

Walking all the way across the stage to stand right behind Jimin

Looking around for Jimin, wondering why he isn’t standing next to him

Could stand anywhere but squeezes his way between Jin and Jimin

Forgetting they had assigned seats and instinctively taking the seat next to Jimin

First  to say goodbye at the fansign, but awkwardly stands around so he could leave with Jimin

Sees Jimin leaving, he leaves too. Nevermind that no one else has left yet

Bruise [ IV ]

Genre [Rating] : Angst [M]

Length: 9.8k

Pairing: Chanyeol x Reader

Summary: He wasn’t yours, and you weren’t his, but that couldn’t stop your heart from believing otherwise.

Bruise Masterlist

Originally posted by porkdo-bi

The frigid air blowing against your back did little to alleviate the heat brewing just under your skin, lips parted as you gulped down oxygen. A daze was overtaking your brain as your eyes fell shut and your lungs heaved, a thin layer of sweat coating your skin. His lips pressed into your barely covered chest, followed by your collarbones, making a trail of wet open mouthed kisses up your neck. It made a lazy smile flutter up on your lips, fingers reaching out to push through his hair as his palms slid along your hips, grinding you down against his lap. He leaned forward and combined his lips with your parted ones, exhaling heavily against them as his body fidgeted with a faint moan. It vibrated through you as your palms massaged his broad chest, the car filled with enough heat to begin fogging the tinted windows while you straddled his lap.

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Xanlow Week Day 01 - Firsts

The first time he gives that look. 

It’s early and Laslow is there to help Xander start his day on point and on time. Laslow’s not sure if he’s imagining it, or if there’s still sleep in his eyes, but he knows. His lord’s leaning just a little bit closer, and there’s something… there. 

To Xander, its the first time he sees that flush and knows it’s for him. His favorite accessory. But he has to stop himself from closing that gap he so desperately wants to fill.

Cat Got Your Tongue Pt.2 (M)

Taco’s not so fluffy anymore, and you run into quite a few unexpected faces.

Word count: 7.4 k

Genre: Comedy, smut, fluff, a touch of angst, a lot of naked Tae

A/N: Hi! I’m so sorry this took forever to come out and I really hope I did it justice. Thank you everyone who was so patient with me, I really appreciate you all and your understanding means a lot to me. I hope you enjoy this chapter and let me know what you think! Special thanks to @jiminniemouse @seoulscapes & @kittae for proofreading this trash and motivating me to complete it!

Part 1 here

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She scooped up a handful of snow and squeezed it between her fingers. Heavy and wet, the snow packed easily. Sansa began to make snowballs, shaping and smoothing them until they were round and white and perfect. She remembered a summer’s snow in Winterfell when Arya and Bran had ambushed her as she emerged from the keep one morning. They’d each had a dozen snowballs to hand, and she’d had none. Bran had been perched on the roof of the covered bridge, out of reach, but Sansa had chased Arya through the stables and around the kitchen until both of them were breathless. She might even have caught her, but she’d slipped on some ice. Her sister came back to see if she was hurt. When she said she wasn’t, Arya hit her in the face with another snowball, but Sansa grabbed her leg and pulled her down and was rubbing snow in her hair when Jory came along and pulled them apart, laughing.

                                    What do I want with snowballs?

James Sirius Potter

*James Sirius is born, Harry names the kid. So far so good.*

Sirius: Poor Minnie is going to faint when she hears that name.

Lily: I have no idea what he was thinking naming him after the two of you.

Remus: He doesn’t think generally, goes with his instincts.

Lily: Oh, let’s think where he got that from.

Sirius: *smirking* Could be anyone of us really.

Lily: James is uncharacteristically quiet.

*they all turn around James is watching his grandson very intently*

Remus: *puts a hand on James’ shoulder* Prongs? You alright mate?

James: *his voice breaks a little* I’m alright.

Lily: Oh baby *gives James a kiss*

Sirius: Oh, is ickle Jamie emotional?

James: Fuck off Padfoot, you’re just mad because he will use James.

Sirius: What? Of course he will use Sirius. Mummy dearest didn’t name me after the brightest star so it can be used as a fucking middle name.

Remus: No, she named you Sirius because she somehow knew you would be an attention seeking little prat.

Lily: Merlin’s beard! LANGUAGE!

James: Like you never curse Evans. 

Lily: Do you mean when you annoy the shit out of me, Potter? *Remus and Sirius are both stifling their laughters* Now if you’ll excuse me I’ll be watching my son and my grandson.

*Lily walks away from them*

Remus: It’s been almost 50 years, how can you still get on her nerves?

James: It’s a talent, Moony.

Remus: I know, I thought only Sirius possessed this particular talent.

Sirius: Do I get on your nerves Moony? *raising an eyebrow* Would you like me to get on something else?

Remus: *face palm* He’s bloody relentless.

James: I did not have to hear that, I think I will go get Tonks. 

Sirius: *grinning* She enjoys it when I do jokes like that, what she doesn’t get is that I’m serious.

James: I’m pretty sure she gets that you’re Sirius.

*Sirius rolls his eyes*

Remus: When will you stop doing that?

James: When hell freezes over. 

You can read Albus Severus Potter here.


Imagine: Being in a Love/Hate Relationship with Roman

Roman x Reader

Warning!: period sex, smut, fingering

“So yeah, I plan on having a friend spend the weekend. Is that okay with you?” You quietly asked to your roommate through the phone, glancing around the quiet library you were in. Even though you’d never want to admit it, a large smile took over your features when your roommate said it was cool.

After thanking your roommate, you hung up with her, putting your phone into your pocket as you wondered why Roman was so desperate to come all the way to your university to see you. Before you could think of it further, a shooting pain in your stomach made you slightly hunch over, groaning. After taking a brief minute to compose yourself, you reached into your bag and pulled out some pain medicine, and a bottle of water.

“Stupid uterus, I don’t want a fucking baby, so stop trying!” You cursed to your stomach as the cramps subsided. Standing up from the comfortable chair in your campus’ library, you gathered your notebooks and shoved them into your bag. After checking to make sure you didn’t leave anything behind, you began making your journey across campus, heading towards your dorm.


“(Y/n)!” Roman called out in your dorm hallway, making you fool your eyes as you got up from bed. Opening your door, you stuck your head out, silently watching as Roman turned in circles frustrated, glaring at every door, trying to remember which one you said was yours. Letting out a loud laugh, you alerted Roman if your presence. He turned to face you with a smirk, casually strolling to where you held the door open. Upon entering, Roman glanced around your room, nodding his head in approval. Your dorm wasn’t super small, but not super big either. Although you did have to admit it was way bigger than some dorms you’d seen your friends have in other colleges.

“Not bad (Y/n),” Roman muttered, flinging himself onto your extra long twin size bed. You stood next to him, giving him a blank stare.

“What?” He asked with a raised eyebrow, spreading out further on your bed as if it wasn’t clear you were just laying down.

“You’re an ass Godfrey,” you growled, trying to push him over, but failing miserably. He scooted towards the wall slightly, gesturing to the inch of space he made, a smirk present on his face.

“There. That’s enough space for you to do something with,”

“I fucking hate you,” you grumbled, as you rolled your eyes, climbing over him, squeezing between him and the wall. Forcing Roman to change positions, you lean your head against his shoulder, closing your eyes. Roman shifted, turning on his side to make more space, letting you rest your head on his arm as he wrapped his other one around your waist.


You groaned slightly, moving your hips from their place flat against the bed. Your eyebrows scrunched in confusion as you felt cool air on your thighs, your back to the bed. You could have sworn that you worn pants when you took a nap… and why was there suddenly enough space to lay on your back? Wasn’t Roman supposed to be laying next to you? A hand grabbing your hips made you snap open your eyes, your eyes landing on Roman, who was in between your legs, looking up to you.

“Roman, what the fuck are you doing?” You grumbled, trying to glare at him, but feeling his breath on your inner thighs almost made your eyes roll back.

“Stop being bitchy,” Roman muttered, before kissing on your inner thigh. Your eyes rolled back, as your breathing hitched, reaching down to grab Roman’s hair as he inched closer to your core.

“Is this the reason you were so desperate to come here? To catch me on my period?” Roman sent you a quick smirk, before diving his face into your wet core, his tongue grazing your clit gently, causing your hips to jerk. A breathy sigh escaped your lips, your voice feeling lost. You gripped his hair, tugging harshly as he entered a finger, curling it upwards. A groan escaped his lips as he moved back, letting his fingers work for a few seconds, while he let our deep pants, shifting into a more comfortable position. He smirked when you gasped, another finger sliding into you with ease. He mouth was back on you before you knew it, his tongue swirling in elaborate circles.

“Are you about to cum?” Roman asked seductively , feeling you tighten around his fingers. You breathlessly nodded, squeezing your eyes shut as the tingling sensation started to build. A series of loud pants left your mouth as you felt your orgasm wash over your body, causing you to mouth a few select curse words. Roman continued with his finger and mouth work for a few more moments before pulling away. Wiping the blood off his lips with a smirk, you rolled your eyes in disgust. Sitting up, you noticed that Roman had somehow maneuvered your pants under your hips, preventing any blood from getting on your sheets. Sliding carefully off the bed, you went over to your dresser, pulling out a clean pair of undies, and pajamas bottoms, deciding to keep on the shirt you had, since you only just put it on before Roman came. Heading over to your personal bathroom, Roman called out to you.

“Where you going?”

“To take a shower,” you called over your shoulder, walking in the bathroom and closing the door most of the way. Turning your back to the door, you reached out, turning on the shower, before shedding your shirt. Looking over your shoulder to ensure that your towel was still on the rack, you let out a surprised squeak at the sight of a naked Roman standing directly behind you. The look of lust in his eyes made your knees weak, and your mind go blank. Without hesitating, Roman shoved you against the wall next to the shower, grabbing your thighs and lifting you up. His lips attacked yours as he rammed his long cock into you. Sliding you up and down his length, he let out a hearty groan, your name leaving his mouth in forms of gasps, and moans. You bit your lip, your voice not becoming present at the moment.

“Fuck (Y/n)….” Roman groaned, as his thrust became erratic. He pushed you further against the wall, allowing for one of his hands to come to his mouth. He stared you deep in the eyes as his bit into his thumb deep enough to draw a good amount of blood.

For reasons unknown to you, as he went to wipe the blood on your arm, in some form of marking you, you grabbed it. Staring into his eyes, you brought his thumb up to your lips, sticking your tongue out to catch the long drop of blood. As soon as your lips enclosed around his thumb, you felt a rush of heat as he released inside you. The feeling of his hot cum, mixed with his throbbing member, drew you to your second orgasm within the last 20 minutes. After a few minutes of catching your breath, he gently let your feet hit the floor, his head resting against your shoulder.

“That was the hottest thing you could have done…” Roman muttered against the nape of your neck. But you could barely focus on his words, because one thought had your mind completely held captive.

“Why did I do that?” You asked yourself, but no clear answer came to mind. The only thing that was clear, was the taste of Roman’s blood still present on your tongue.


She scooped up a handful of snow and squeezed it between her fingers. Heavy and wet, the snow packed easily. Sansa began to make snowballs, shaping and smoothing them until they were round and white and perfect. She remembered a summer’s snow in Winterfell when Arya and Bran had ambushed her as she emerged from the keep one morning. They’d each had a dozen snowballs to hand, and she’d had none. Bran had been perched on the roof of the covered bridge, out of reach, but Sansa had chased Arya through the stables and around the kitchen until both of them were breathless. She might even have caught her, but she’d slipped on some ice. Her sister came back to see if she was hurt. When she said she wasn’t, Arya hit her in the face with another snowball, but Sansa grabbed her leg and pulled her down and was rubbing snow in her hair when Jory came along and pulled them apart, laughing.

Meet me in Montauk.
Sometimes we try so hard to forget people that they unintentionally etch into our minds forever.
When you spend a lot of time scrubbing out a stain, you’re bound to remember it’s shape.
It’s where the sea meets the sand, even though the sand has been there the whole time and it always will be and it never goes away.
Nestled under the lapping waves for an eternity, not unlike that of the smiles shared on that beach in late July when you thought you’d feel this way forever.
But by August first it was over.
And you began scrubbing the stains.
And so it goes.
It’s far enough from the gentle anarchy of piss soaked streets squeezed between the ebb and flow of skyscrapers.
And the ant people they told you you’d never fit in with.
But colonize me and call it home.
‘I don’t want you to fall in love with me.’
Even these words were music to your fifteen year old ears because you hadn’t the faintest clue what love was but you knew you loved them.
The worst part of it all is that we try so hard to forget people who never cleared space on their memory cards because they weren’t ready for us.
Sometimes we are not ready for ourselves.
Meet me in Montauk.
—  a poem inspired in part by eternal sunshine of the spotless mind, ‘montauk’ by sarah kay, and my own never ending desire to understand
Space Between Us | JAEHYUN

summary: being just classmates is not enough for him, but you only get to understand that after his lips had reached yours. 

Genre: frat boy!au | smut  | a wave of fluffiness at the end

⨯ Pairing: Jaehyun / Reader

Word count: 9 575

a/n: lowkey inspired—and enlightened—by study sessions from @honeytaeyong though mine is not as good as hers (god bless you and your writing). Special thanks to my pumpkin @suhsexual for  endure endless requests for help. There may be some grammatical mistakes left so I apologise in advance. Oh, yes, there may be a part 2 ;)

warnings: mature content, language (not actually dirty talking)

You’d been first, it was a relief. The number one exposed in that piece of sheet made your heart flutter little by little, and then you smiled. How sincere and truthful was it, the small grin drawn on your face, transforming your previous anxious expression in something completely lighted and amused. After broken hearts and desperate tears, being ranked as first place was one of the few things that could possibly turn out to be great in your eyes. You blinked. It was there, the one.

The elder woman in front of you—an old professor in the university; someone with an enviable knowledge—rested her hand on your shoulder. She had an odd aura around her; something completely comforting, which was not expectable from someone extremely rigorous. The professor took a deep breath and twinkled.

“You did great, again.” She said. Her voice tone was apathetic, but she managed to show some kind of happiness after a smirk. “If you keep doing like this, you may get in the rank of all courses.” Then she clapped her hands. “It’s something to think about.” And touched her own head with an index finger.

That hadn’t been your main focus, however. The ranks were just something to fulfil the emptiness you felt inside your being, as something really important was missing. At first you concluded it could be all about the end of you three-year relationship; you really had loved him, and that was something you didn’t doubt about. It was crystal clear you’d felt the most intense of all feelings, because you’d wished him well, you’d wished him to be close to you, and you’d wished—and deeply wished—for him to like you back in the same level. Although in the end of all, he didn’t. And that’s when you’d felt on the surface of a limitless ocean, slowly drifting away from the only land that held you—and your emotions—still. He had left you in the farthest blind spot possible, without a plausible reason. Were you supposed to be fine? In the very beginning you had even thought it could work out: you could deal with the situation. Oh, but you had been wrong.

And then you had cried for hours. An intense pain burning inside you for days—afterward days became weeks, and weeks became months. In the end of the third month, after the breakup, you’d realised he wasn’t what filled your soul. The guy whom you dated, and eventually developed feelings for, was just a part of a puzzle you hadn’t had the chance to complete yet. Something bigger was missing; finally you’d gotten to the point when your vision had become clear again and the monochromatic colours of life had turned out to be, actually, the colours of the rainbow. You were free of angst. You were mature enough to understand that the only person you needed was you—but you also knew that it did not mean you forgot your past experiences, it meant you could love yourself entirely. From that moment, what could possibly make you feel satisfied was your own success, so you’d looked for it. And you’d achieved your goals.

You looked down to the paper again. The #1 on the top made you feel ease. You folded the note and gathered the rest of your things, packed them up inside you backpack and calmly walked out of the enormous auditorium. The semester ended in the best way possible, and you were happy with what you obtained. The professor politely asked you to close the door behind you, but before you could do so, someone held it. The blond haired boy gave you a small smile and waited for you to exit the ambient so he could shut the entryway. You nodded, as an acknowledgement, and turned on your heels so you could finally go home, yet a hand touched your free shoulder obligating you to shift back and face the person.

“Congratulations.” The boy said. “You got first place again.”

“Thank you,” you’d begun, searching in your memory for the name of the guy in front of you. The information you had was his physical appearance and his voice, which didn’t sound so familiar. So it took you more effort, causing you to look deep inside his eyes and drive you gaze to his smile. You suddenly knew who he was and the sort of fame he had. You smirked at the thought that he was talking to you. “Hum, Jaehyun.”

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