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izvmimi · 5 months

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cw: fluff. reader and izuku are both high schoolers. reader has a vaguely described quirk. part 2.

The last thing you expected to do in the middle of the night on a Thursday was fall cleanly out of the sky.

There were a few things that set you up for this event: one, overwhelming excitement about the new boot attachments that your friend Mei had designed for you; two, zoning out when she’d given you her long winded explanation; three, the audacity to sneak out of your dorm room in the middle of the night to use them; and four, an overwhelming fear of failure making you desperate for any advantage.

The attachments had been secure on your costume and had been working out fine for the first few minutes of flight, and thus, you’d been confident enough to hover higher and higher, until you were far above the tops of the many trees that surrounded UA, and practicing your aim and range with your gauntlets for nearly an hour.

What you had forgotten was that your new upgraded boots siphoned energy from your gauntlets the same way your beams did, and while they were reasonably efficient, they were not infallible.

And thus they short-circuited - there was a split second between the realization that you could no longer shoot nor float before you found yourself hurtling toward the ground.

Harden, harden, harden was all you could think of for the few split seconds, and perhaps enough of your fall would be mitigated that you wouldn’t break all your bones at once. The trees were not kind enough to break your fall, and your hands grabbed frantically but caught purchase on nothing. All that was left was the loud thump, thump, thump of your blood rushing into your ears and somewhere in your panic you forgot to scream till you were just a meter above the ground.

Your eyes closed-

And your body didn’t shatter.

Your body hit something, and your breath held as you waited for pain and possibly death, which never came. Letting out a breath sharply, it occurred to you that there were arms.

Something, someone, had caught you.

Stunned, your eyes met with Izuku’s. Rather than say thank you, the word ‘How’ sprang forth.

“Are you okay?” he asked, instead.

“Y-yeah.”

There remained something shaky about your voice as he helped you onto your feet. Your head spun a tiny bit in confusion and you could feel it in your legs, or maybe it was dizziness from having the energy drained out of you, and the last few desperate attempts to fortify your bones.

“What were you doing?” he asked, steadying you with an arm. His voice clearly betrayed concern but there was a more stern quality to it, like he was annoyed at you. Which you understood - another second and you would have been a spot on the ground and that would serve no one to find first thing in the morning.

You tried to disrupt the miasma of near death experience with a laugh once the vertigo lessened.

“I, uh… just found out I wasn’t as good at flying as I thought I was.”

Izuku did not laugh. On the contrary, he frowned deeply, rubbing his chin with his hand. He didn’t look at you now, but seemed to be suddenly in his thoughts, and the more stubborn and prideful part of you began to rise, wondering why he was making a big deal out of the awkward but evidently benign circumstance.

“What are you doing out here at this time of night?” you pivoted.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he replied.

You raised an eyebrow. “So you wandered around in the woods?”

He matched your expression. “It seems popular, doesn’t it?”

Touché.

You weren’t exactly sure what to do now. Izuku had clearly saved your life and almost seemed angry about it. Rightfully so, because it was stupid and you had been lucky.

Perhaps you should thank him. You could start there.

“... Thanks for… catching me.”

Izuku didn’t reply immediately, again frowning, his bottom lip very slightly pulled between his teeth as he decided what to do next.

“If you come out here again, text me.”

You furrowed your eyebrow.

“Why would I do that?”

Izuku looked even more upset now and you quickly reconsidered your words.

“Okay, I realize how that sounds,” you laughed again, nervously. “But I won’t do it again so don’t worry.”

“You won’t fall out of the sky in the middle of the night?” he repeated.

You grimaced. “N-no?”

Again, you were not exactly sure where this conversation was taking you. He blew air from his nose as if he were sighing deeply and giving up on something, you weren’t sure what.

“You won’t because I’m staying out with you.”

Your face warmed, and for whatever reason you felt compelled to raise your gauntlets.

“I’m out of juice, so I’m probably out of commission for tonight.”

He tilted his head to the side ever so slightly.

“Did you still want to train?” he asked. You considered, then decided to tell the truth.

“Maybe.”

He placed his hand on one of the gauntlets, voice softening. “I’ll charge them if you let me stay out with you.”

You paused for a moment. It’s not as though you could stop him from staying out with you. But why? Perhaps because you were very stupid. Perhaps because he needed something to keep his mind from racing, and keeping an idiot from dying is preoccupying enough.

There’s a new light dusting of pink on his cheeks that underlie his freckles, you noticed.

Perhaps it’s something else.

#izuku x reader #izuku midoriya x reader #daydreams: bnha #mimi's notes #not sure if i'll post the second part to this #but discharging stuff from my hs sweetheart to adult lovers au selfship docs LOL

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hollow-object · 5 months

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gently washing each other's bodies in the hot shower when the world is cold and cruel is therapy. I'm never letting go, please stay here forever

#and other delusions and daydreams a single and useless lover could conjure #i had a shower it was nice now i miss the heat

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treyisms · 11 months

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beauty sleep

trey parker x gn!reader

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

cw: really sappy, lack of sleep

- you’re falling asleep in your shared bed, or trying to, at least

- it’s 2:30 am and there’s still no sign of trey & you’ve been tossing and turning from having to sleep without his warmth and open mouth snores (as far as he knows, it’s annoying. but to you… nothing could be more endearing)

- that’s not out of the ordinary though, trey has a horrible habit of falling asleep at the office after a grueling 18 hour process to create the newest south park episode

- usually on nights like these, you stay up staring at the ceiling and thinking about him. hoping he’s resting his head in his hand at least, but a part of your belly gnaws at you because you know your boyfriend would never grant himself the gift of rest until the show was perfected

- the house phone starts ringing, and you immediately sit up in bed with a smile, already knowing it was him

- “hey baby! how are you?” and there’s a long, exhausted sigh before he answers :(

- “i’m okay, can you… can you do me a favor honey? i know it’s late..” and you can almost hear the way he drags his hand across his face and rubs at his eyes to wake himself up

- “anything sweetheart, what is it? you okay?” and there’s a slight little hitch in his breath on the other end of the phone and you can tell he’s getting teary :(

- “can you just… can you come sit with me? i’m so tired and everyone went home, i just.. i don’t want to be alone”

- and that is VERY open and vulnerable for trey, and if this wasn’t such a tender moment you would’ve commended him

- you agree and tell him you’re going to drive over now, still in your sweet lil pajamas he bought for you this christmas season, basically flying down the backroads to get to the studio

- once you get inside, you see that all the rooms are darkened, except for one… his big corner office that seems even lonelier than usual

- cracking the door open, you are greeted with the sight of your boyfriend hunched over in his wooden chair, fingers woven through his shaggy hair and his flannel pajama pant clad legs bouncing in nervousness as he looks up at you with wide eyes

- the tenderness and comfort that settles in his eyes when he sees you <333

- “oh, you’re here” “you needed me” “i always do” :’)

- so you spend the next hour cleaning around his office, readying him to go home but respecting his creative process… even if it is detrimental to his beauty sleep

- you sit to his right on the floor, piecing together some of the paper cutouts of the characters and formatting them for the opening scene trey has listed in the script— anything to ease his mind

- he sits, still typing, but turns to look down at you with a soft smile & red eyes. he brings his strong hand down to your hair, pushing it away from your eyes, and getting lost in you for the moment.

- as his hand rests on the side of your head he pulls you in to kiss your forehead, before letting you rest your head on his thigh and stroking your hair

- “only three more pages beautiful, i promise. you can sleep if you want, okay?”

- your eyes start to flutter as you succumb to sleep, yet you feel him staring down at you & you open your eyes to peer up at him

- even exhausted, and even with the food&drink stains on his sweatshirt, his face is the kindest and warmest you’ve ever seen

- “trey?” “hm?” “what’re you thinkin’ about?” “just thinking about you, that’s all”

- he’s still lightly scratching at your hair, lulling you to sleep as you lay your head back on his thigh, falling asleep to the light tapping of his fingers against the keyboard

- it’s safe to say the next morning that matt walks in to find you two curled up & sleeping on the floor of trey’s office (where trey definitely put his sweatshirt over you to keep you warm)

- sidenote trey definitely pulls your back to his chest when he sleeps, his hand balled into a fist as he holds you tightly but gently… always tightly but gently <3

#just a quick little something while i listen to sinatra and daydream <3 #oh to be beckoned by trey parker to come sit with him <3 #this man turns me into such a lover girl #s writes <3 #trey parker #trey parker x reader #it’s a little sloppy but nonetheless #i hope you like it :)

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manufactured-pleasantry · 7 months

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Bruce and Clark are stargazing atop Wayne Manor despite Alfred's orders for Bruce to remain in bed. They're silent as they climb onto the roof and exchange smiles like schoolboys breaking curfew.

It's quiet up there. The city lights in the distance sparkle like the stars above them. Beauty surrounds them and Bruce finds some semblance of peace in this bubble they've made for themselves. He could feel the warmth of Clark's shoulder touching his and hear his slow breathing. It feels like it's just the two of them in the world. Bruce wonders if it's like that for Clark too or if the world was just constantly screaming at him, begging for his help. He wonders if Clark could only dream of peace in death.

"Do you think you could ever find peace in death?" Bruce asks instead. It sounds kinder.

Clark looks away from the starry sky and stares at Bruce instead. There's a soft smile on his face. Bruce thinks he'll rather gaze at that than the stars in the sky but Clark turns back to the stars and Bruce does too. They are stargazing after all.

"Sometimes I think about how I would like to die and it brings me peace. Is that weird?"

"No." Bruce does the same. He adds, "How would you like to die?"

In a blaze of glory, perhaps, saving the world from certain doom. It was a likely scenario and there was a level of satisfaction from saving people even with one's last breath. But the Clark he knows is always fighting for life, he would always try to survive. So... quietly, in old age, surrounded by all his loved ones. It is a very Clark-like scene to envision.

"I would like to perish amongst the stars. To freeze in the cold expanse of space or burn in the face of the sun. To return from whence I come from..." Clark laughs and rubs the back of his head. He's looking at Bruce again and there's a soft glow about him more radiant than the stars. "It's silly, isn't it? I've been to outer space many times without freezing or burning to death but, well, it's just something I've thought about."

"Don't be silly, Clark."

"What?" Clark almost looks hurt.

"You're a child of Earth. We've claimed you. What do you mean return from whence you come from?" Bruce grumbles. He tries to hide his face from Clark and looks to Gotham instead.

Clark laughs and it tickles something within Bruce. "Haven't you heard, Bruce? We're all made of space dust."

Bruce gains the courage to face Clark again and stops fighting against the twitching curve of his mouth. "I'll be sure to tell Dick to shatter our ashes in space after we die."

Clark's laughter grows in loudness. "What? You're not going to do it yourself? And our ashes would be shattered together?"

Bruce snorts. "Given how often we almost die together, I'd say it would be nigh impossible to cremate us separately."

"Yeah?" Clark's laugh softens into chuckles until they're so quiet Bruce has to lean in to hear them. He isn't the one to lean in. Clark is. "I wouldn't be opposed to being buried together either."

"That-" Bruce's breath hitches. He wonders if Clark could feel it. They were practically sharing it after all- "would be nice."

Clark closes the distance and Bruce thinks that this is peace too.

#superbat #clark kent #bruce wayne #stargazing #soft clark kent #soft bruce wayne #first kiss #friends to lovers #minific #drabble #one shot #fun fact: my ao3 name 'SolaceInSpace' came from me daydreaming about how peaceful it would be to quietly die in space #realistically it would be painful but the idea of it is oddly calming #kind of like sinking to the bottom of the ocean

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kara-zor-els · 22 days

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People using Lex Luthor as an antagonist against the Waynes in batfam(TM) gala fics are so bizarre to me. I can bet that this man doesn't even know who most of those kids are, nor does he care.

#I know in my heart that the only wayne lex luthor knows is bruce #also “lex luthor is homophobic”all lex does all day is daydream about his enemies-to-lovers-to-enemies clex fic WHAT are you talking about?

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daydreams-ethrialthings · 9 months

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IF YOU DON'T LIKE BATS WE CAN'T BE FRIENDS

🦇🖤🦇

[Not My Art]

#bat #bats #bat lover #bat lady #batty for bats #🦇#bats are beautiful #important to me #ecology #local ecologically #not my art #art #fairycore #fantasy #daydream #fae

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possamble · 12 days

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whats your take on marcille and pattadols post canon friendship? they seem to hang out occasionally in a couple of post canon shorts and i was wondering if your beautiful mind has anything more to add? youre amazing 💖

☺️ aha thank you so much!!! Pattadol and Marcille are sooo interesting to me because like. I think Pattadol is who Marcille would have become if her parents had both been long-lived, and she never had a reason to question elven authority. The hardworking attitude, insistence on sticking to a very rigid set of principles, a little bit of vanity in wanting to be recognized for her efforts... the slightly ridiculous uptightness and neurotic attitude at times, though at heart they're both kind people who want the best for everyone in their own ways.

In the post-canon, I'm assuming that Pattadol has her own ambassador's quarters in either the castle or the inner city, and the two of them grab tea at the castle drawing room/garden/whatever. I think they talk shop, soundboard ideas off each other, and gossip/complain a little about incompetent colleagues/problems... I think they're each others' dream work friends, honestly. Polite, competent, friendly but never getting overly personal, fun and pleasant to talk to. The fact that Pattadol's 82 and a fairly young woman by elven standards also plays into it, I think -- Marcille hasn't had another elf friend along the same maturity range and professional level of experience, so this is probably nice for her!

What I would like to see is them eventually developing a closer relationship. I think a lot about the way Pattadol reassured Marcille that, because of her accomplishments, she'd have a pretty comfortable sentence as a Canary. About the way, while there was tension because of what was happening at the time, they were both immediately very polite to each other upon meeting and kind of?? got along/clicked immediately in some ways?? It feels like they have the same kind of standards for themselves and others (as well as general inexperience and slight insecurity about their own competency, which probably makes them feel at more or less an equal level with each other).

And I think that'd be good for both of them -- having someone else that they admire, who also admires them in return and recognizes their talents and hard work. There's a very unique kind of rapport you build with someone that you hold as an intellectual peer and can trust to give you feedback that's actually reliable and up to par. While they might both be too professional to really become super close friends who can always be open with each other, there's a very real and deep kind of companionship that forms from this kind of trust, and I hope that's the direction they're heading in.

It's also extra delicious if you add in the tension of Pattadol inherently being a foreign agent from a country that isn't necessarily friendly, but they end up with that strange trust anyway... not to mention the thought that she might find herself actually admiring how Melini is growing and trying to defend it when reporting back to the queen.

#happy for them!!#dungeon meshi manga spoilers #dungeon meshi spoilers #dungeon meshi #marcille donato #pattadol #uptight blonde women lovers unite #phd buddies who go for coffee sometimes #it's so funny that the first time i saw pattadol in daydream hour i was like?? that's not marcille is it?? face is different???#it's so underrated how they're each others' foils and mirrors in a ton of admittedly low-stakes but interesting ways...#these keep getting so long im so sorry #asks #i don't write about pattadol much in a little creature because i think they'd both rather die than have pattadol get roped into the drama #imagine her nervously watching marcille turn more and more into a wreck and just going...erm...im very sorry this is happening to you...#and she's genuine about it but it's so fucking awkward bc. both equally mortified by the extent of the farcille dyke drama #forgot to post this last night whoops #marcilleposting

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r3viv3d-revived · 1 year

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shout-out to everyone who has a thing for "weird", non-human fictional characters, like aliens, robots, demons, eldritch monstrosities and so on. it's good to know that i'm not the only one.

#self ship #comfort character #fictional other #daydreaming #maladaptive daydreaming #coping mechanism #mecore #monster lover #i guess?

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howifeltabouthim · 1 month

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She was always thinking of a time, five to ten years in the future.

Lisa Taddeo, from Ghost Lover

#the future #looking ahead #daydream #if only #someday #quotes #lit #words #excerpts #quote #literature #lisa taddeo #ghost lover

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jamneuromain · 1 year

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Creative Writing

Andy Barber x Reader (You)

Warning: Professor-Student relationship (possibly?), College AU, a lot of curses. A bit enemy to friends(?)lovers(?) vibe

W/C: ~4k

Summary: based on this prompt

A/N: dividers are from @firefly-graphics, and I spend another couple of hours on fanfic instead of my deadlines, yay!

Dancing in the Daydream M. List

Week 1

Three minutes into the class, you feel like not only you are listening to complete nonsense, but also you disagree with each and every word that comes out of your professor, who is currently standing on the podium, criticizing the shit out of your favorite author.

You regret selecting Creative Writing just because it sounds fun. Although you have been fairly warned by seniors, who took this class last year, Professor Andy Barber who taught Creative Writing runs his class with a tight fist, and of course, not kind with his comments and his marking. Not only does he want the “best” answer from students in class, but also ask everyone in the class to address him as “sir” or “Professor”.

Though he is fairly hot, as the seniors have warned you, with the trimmed beard and occasionally slipped-out Bostonian accent, with the suit and shirt and tie.

To be honest with yourself, you have been writing fanfic and whatnot for over five years, and you hoped that you could learn something from this class to improve your writing. And you love writing. If anything, this awful Professor Barber just gave you more reason to stay, because you want his approval, even if it would only be demonstrated via your grades.

You are not a quitter.

“Now speaking of a writing example that I highly recommend; this is a work I recently come across. Twenty thousand e-copies have been sold so far, now that’s a pretty good number for an author. I don’t expect you to read it thoroughly after class, but the writing style and the balance between story-telling and own reflections of the main characters are something that you should learn from.” Professor Barber takes off his glasses, twirling the frame between his fingers, hitting the button that would let the computer display the next slide.

You huff. You seriously doubt he would present anything barely readable to actual humans. Considering his comments on your favorite book, you take a rough guess that the only thing he will recommend is ancient European Lit.

Except ancient European Lit wouldn’t be in creative writing class.

You lift your head from your iPad, and you widen your eyes, unable to contain the astonishment on your face. Your jaw slams on the table – if it could, while in reality, you press your palm to your mouth, crushing your cheekbones so hard, that you feel your jaw will disconnect the next second.

Your mind blank, unable to come up with any thoughts. Apart from “THIS IS NOT HAPPENING”. In all caps.

On the slide, there is one picture, cropped out from a chapter online. Two paragraphs on the picture, the first describes the action and the verbal communication of two characters; the second describes the mental activity of one character. Below the picture, there is a bracket that contains the source of this snapshot.

The bracket and what’s in it catch your eyes, before the picture.

Well, if it isn’t your damn penname from 9th grade staring right at you in the face.

(A. Vulpecula, 2020)

Your dumb idiot self wanted something unique and stand out among all the writers in the world. You were, unfortunately, in your Harry Potter phase, and wouldn’t it be a brilliant idea to pick your penname out of constellations, just like a lot of Slytherins?

You ponder what on earth have you written in 2020, raising your head to read your own writing.

Shit, at least it wasn’t your College AU.

This piece is a long story about a witch and a demon. The paragraphs he cropped out happened to be where the witch and the demon didn’t know each other’s true identity.

Your face is burning. You don’t know if you are humiliated by reading your own fanfic in your fucking college class, or if you are gloating because the man who criticized your favorite author thinks your writing is exceptional.

Yes, that “thing” on the screen started out as fanfic.

You also don’t know whether you want to quit this class right this second or stay to hear his opinion on your work.

Or if there’s any value in his comments at all.

Your humiliation doesn’t stop there.

Oh no, it gets way worse.

At least ten slides are focused on your witch/demon au. Barber actually likes your concept of a magical world. He goes on to explain the importance of details, which runs along your story, complimenting how your designs fit perfectly into your story and your characters.

You are flattered, you guess?

But also extremely awkward when he pulls more examples from your fanfic to illustrate his idea.

“Alright, for the upcoming three weeks, we are going to look into more stories. Here is the reference reading, remember to take notes. If you want to, send me a short story or a few paragraphs you have written via email before Wednesday, no more than 500 words, and I’ll see you here next week.”

Before you even notice, the class is over. You, however, are still shocked over the fact that your mean professor likes your work.

You grab your iPad and your bag slowly, scoffing as a bunch of girls swarm up to the podium and giggling, asking Professor Barber for his contact information.

“My email address is in the course handbook, so are the office hours. If you have questions, send an email or make an appointment prior.” He nods them off coldly, though this does not discourage the girls from swooning over his broad shoulders and back under his navy-blue suit.

Your barely-friend sighs, jumping off the podium, obviously displeased by Barber’s cold demeanor. She counts as a “barely friend” because she’s just as active in class as you. Though you sometimes don’t like the way she disregards the lecturer and whisper-yell in your ear when she doesn’t understand.

She pouts: “Can’t get a hold of him.”

“You can always book an appointment for his office hour.” You swing your bag over your shoulder, shrugging, “seniors said he was harsh. I wouldn’t recommend you ‘contact’ him too much.”

“Can’t hurt to try.”

“True.” You wave your hand as a goodbye, leaving the lecture room and a bunch of disappointed girls.

Week 2

On second thought, you should have quitted this class.

Because then you wouldn’t be listening to this ridiculous remark about description over characters.

“I’m just going to let you sit on it for a minute.” Professor Barber pauses his lecture, “think about why Vulpecula describes the man’s blue eyes and red flannel.”

Then there’s silence in the room.

Knowing how easily he gets disappointed, you are not surprised.

Barber wants the “answer”, the best one, the correct one. Well, shocker that students don’t know what he has in mind.

However, in your opinion, which is: For Christ’s sake, the celebrity, Chris Evans, on whom you are basing this fanfic, has a red flannel.

What else are you going to write? Him wearing a suit being a lumberjack? In the middle of nowhere? In a fucking forest?

“What do you think?” Your barely-friend whisper-yells to your ear. Sitting in the front row, she probably makes herself heard for Professor Barber.

You lean away from her, toying with the hem of your sweatshirt, whispering back: “No idea. I’d probably say brings out the characteristics and stuff like tha-”

“Is there something interesting you’d like to share with the class, Miss …?”

Professor Barber lands his piercing sharp gaze on the two of you. Your friend ducks her head to read on her laptop. While you spare a glance at her, you silently spew a curse in your mind.

“Well, Miss…? What do you want to share with the class?”

Great. Now his gaze lands solemnly on you.

You state your name, most unwillingly, and usher out the only reasonable response you can think of: “… because the character the author is basing on has blue eyes and red flannel?”

He repeats your name, “I’d like you to address me as Professor, or Sir. Anybody else?”

He didn’t even say if your theory was interesting, needs work, or some other commentary, which he normally does, trying to inspire thinking and criticality. Like that’s going to work with his tight fist.

You roll your eyes out loud.

“I think red flannel brings out the main character’s – Christopher’s -warm and welcoming character. Red symbols the feeling of fire and warmth, and it’s only plausible that he’s wearing that color, Professor.” Your barely-friend fake coughs, then chirps “her” answer with great confidence.

Professor Barber nods, humming with approval, “very well, you are on the right track. Anybody else?”

Yeah, like anybody is going to know better than you, the author, about how and why you choose to describe his red flannel.

You begin to ponder the question, how is it possible that people interpret too much into the text they are reading? How much people are reading these days are actually the thoughts of critics instead of the authors?

But you are not standing up and revealing that you are A. Vulpecula.

Maybe in your next life but not now.

However, seeing the shocked expression on Barber’s face would be worthwhile.

You can almost imagine how his red lips form an “O” and he stutters due to the bomb you deliberately drop in front of him.

You bite your lips from smiling, too indulged in your imagination to notice Barber glaring at you a couple of times.

“Just a quick reminder that I wouldn’t be looking into more works that are submitted after today. If you want a little feedback on what you have written, send me an email before 12 o’clock midnight. Again, this is not compulsory, it wouldn’t affect your marking, think of it as a fun exercise.” Professor Barber announces once more, shutting off the projector, “we will discuss the coursework for this week next time. Class dismissed.”

Students take their belonging and move slowly toward the exit. You are sitting in the middle of the front row, which means, you are going to be stuck here for a while. A few girls go to the podium to ask questions, which you tune out completely when their questions become giggles.

You are scrolling through your phone when someone calls you by your last name.

Surprise, surprise, it’s Andy Fucking Barber.

“Yes?” You put your phone away, confused as to why he is talking to you.

“Yes, Professor. And I would expect you to pay more attention in class,” his blue eyes feel like ice, numbing your body inch by inch, “that’s all.”

Mother – Fucking - Idiot dickhead - Thickest skull in the fucking galaxy - Every curse word inside your head is cut off by one another, tangling together because none of them is able to describe your fury.

How dares he?

You were paying attention to class compared to at least two-thirds of the students present here. Focus on the word “present”, because you are fairly certain some of them skip this class because Andy Shithead Barber is too harsh.

So what you didn’t provide the answer he had in mind? And the answer he liked was not even close to your thoughts when you wrote that chapter.

You are fuming. You grab your bag and go to the library, sit there for the next two hours, and post a chapter on your Tumblr account about a love story between two vampires.

Your anger blend into your motivation to write. You wrote four thousand words in two hours, which is a record.

Yeah, you will show Mr. Professor Sir your “attention to the class”, see if he likes it next week.

Week 3

You are sure this would be the death of you.

He sent you an email two days prior, asking you whether you have time to discuss your piece of writing in his office, right after his class.

Of course, you RSVP-ed yes, but you have completely no idea why he wanted to talk to you, while other students have already received their feedback.

“OOOOOhhhhhhh, he said I am creative, but my descriptions are a little too detailed.” Your barely-friend squeaks dramatically, earning herself a silent eye-roll from you.

You can’t think of any reason that could explain his email. You wrote as yourself, you have given him a piece of your ongoing work, which was about two vampires. You are satisfied with your work. He could have just written feedback and sent it to you, even if he didn’t like your writing. What could possibly be the problem here?

Professor Barber takes off his suit jacket, rolling his shirt sleeves to his elbow, his calm voice circles the classroom, “coursework from last week, anyone has any idea about why the author wrote ‘There are two trees in the yard. One is a jujube tree. The other is also a jujube tree’?”

You turn to the page of your notes, not looking up at him, “because that’s exactly what the author sees when he looks out of his house?”

As if it couldn’t have been worse, with an extra reminder for you to call him “Professor”, his cold blue eyes glide over you, commenting on your answers to his questions that your ways of thinking and dissecting texts are “far from those of an author”.

His words, not yours.

At this point, you don’t even bother listening to his comments, instead, you start writing on your iPad.

Might as well use the time to do something at least meaningful.

“Did you make an appointment with him before, like during office hours?” When the class is over, you ask your barely-friend in a low voice.

“No.” She shakes her head, a smirk on her face, “I’m trying my best not to get on his bad side. Why? Why’d you ask?”

Like you were trying to. You get on his bad side so very easily. You grunt a “nothing”, waiting for Barber to finish packing his things.

“Okay, see ya!”

Your barely-friend slips out of the room.

You highly doubt if Barber wants you in his office because he would like to give you a compliment.

Andy Barber calls your name to snap you out of your mind. He has shrugged on his suit jacket, his lecture notes in hand, “shall we?”

At least his office is in this building so you don’t have to endure the long and awkward silence when you are walking.

You follow him into his office.

His office is a small room. Three desks are put together, taking up most of the space. His desk is by the window, equipped with computers and office supplies, while he points at the empty desk near the door, “please, have a seat.”

He drags his chair over to sit on the same side of the same desk as you. He sighs, taking off his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose. Finally, he puts on his glasses again, rubbing his bearded chin, “do you know why you are here?”

“The homework of 500 words …?” You chew on your lower lip, hesitant to give him the answer.

“It’s Professor or Sir. And yes.” He sits straight on his chair, his blue eyes staring into you, his voice sterner than ever, “and?”

You let out a long breath, gathering enough courage to say what you have always wanted to say in the last three weeks, “to be honest, I have completely not the slightest clue what you want me to say.” You pause, then add a word for good measure, “Sir.”

He sighs again, taking a moment to organize his words, “the reason you are here today is that I want to talk to you about academic malpractice. Now it might not be stressed enough in your past studies, but the university takes academic malpractice very seriously.” He slows down as if trying to imprint you with each and every word he says.

Your brows furrow: “And how does that have to do with…”

He is NOT implying what you think he means, right?

He is NOT implying that you copied someone’s work, right?

Or you let someone copy your work?

“I don’t understand what you mean.” You cross your arms, almost defensive, looking back at him in disbelief, “I can guarantee there’s no academic malpractice.”

Pause.

Oh right, you nearly forget, “Sir.”

“I’m gonna cut to the chase here.” Sir Professor Andy Barber pulls over his own laptop, turning it toward you so that you can clearly see the content on his screen, “the document on the left is your work, the one on the right is a chapter of A. Vulpecula’s stories.” He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms too, allowing what he said to sink in, “can you see the similarity?”

Um.

Okay.

You did not expect this. Not one bit.

Of course, what he shows you are two identical snippets.

But since when is “presenting something that you have personally written” a crime?

You cannot hide the amusement on your face. No matter how hard you try to suppress your grin, it just keeps getting wider and wider.

“I know that it’s only homework, a practice at writing, if you will,” he gestures at the screen, unaware of your grin at first, “it won’t be reported to the university, but I strongly suggest you, not to copy other’s work just because you would like to impress your lecturer.”

He stops talking when he sees your expression, which must be a mix of half-laugh and holding back, though none of the above successful.

“I’m sorry, is there something funny?”

His voice ice-cold, clearly not pleased with your reaction, your behavior, and you as a human being.

Yeah, you can tell he is pissed.

“No, nothing,” you nearly snort out because of suppressing your laugh, “please, continue.”

“No. Indulge me.” He purses his lips into a thin line, blue eyes so sharp that they could pierce your skin.

Silence.

You thought about letting the misunderstanding of “academic malpractice” grow, but if there’s one thing you simply could not abandon, it would be your academic integrity.

You cross your legs, loosening your arms, “I just … I find it funny because I submitted my own work.”

You wait for your words to sink in.

Barber shakes his head in disappointment, “academic malpractice is what -”

“I have submitted my own work.” You cut him off, “I am A. Vulpecula.”

You really don’t mind beating the information into his thick skull.

But, alas, battery & assault is a crime here.

You pull out your iPad, opening the folder of manuscripts. Clicking on the vampire AU, you show him your own manuscript and what you have written in the past hours.

“I can post this chapter early to prove my point, if you like.” You lay your iPad in front of him, leaning back in your chair, “anything else, Professor?”

More silence.

“No. Nothing.” His mouth slightly agape, not entirely what you had in mind, but close enough, “thank you for coming by.”

“No worries.” You pack your things, heading to the door. “For the record,” you turn on your heels before stepping out of his office, “week 2, the discussion about the red flannel?”

“Yes?” He raises his head.

“That was really because Chris Evans has a red flannel, Sir.” You look at him one more time, then lower your eyes, “goodbye, sir.”

Two months later, you are celebrating with your friends in a pub, that the finals are over.

Your real friends, not your barely-friends.

“Phew! Tell me about what you wrote for your Creative Writing!” Your friend fans her tongue for having swallowed a shot, nudging you to tell them more about your major and your classes.

You down your shot in one gulp, wincing due to the burn in your throat, “well, I did learn my lesson. I wrote a new piece, about a cheesy princess-bodyguard romance.”

Your friends don’t know about the full story. You altered the details a little, not telling them about you being a part-time some-what-famous writer, but enough for them to understand your situation.

“We also had this ridiculous lecturer, a skinny guy, who keeps asking you why about everything and every question-” Your friend rambles about her life story, with a round of “No way” “No shit” “What???”.

“I’m gonna need drinks, not shots.” Another one of your friends stands up, dragging you along with her to get drinks, only for her to dump you at the bar while she hurries to the bathroom.

You wait for the bartender, slightly bored.

“Hey,” your first name was called, a slight tap on your shoulder having you turn around. Andy Barber is standing in front of you. He is wearing a casual shirt without ties, and denim from the waist down. With a beer in hand, he smiles at you, “fancy meeting you here.”

“Likewise,” you nod curtly, “Sir.”

He waves his hand as if it was nothing, “please, no need for that, Sir or… just no.” He smiles nearly apologetically, “I never get the chance to say I enjoy your writing. I’m sorry for discouraging you in class. You are an exceptional writer.”

This takes you by surprise.

“Oh! Okay…? Thanks?” You twist your fingers together, unable to think of anything that could respond to him, “I’m … flattered?”

“Please, if anyone is flattered, it’s me. I am very glad to meet an author I appreciate.” He extends your hand for you to shake. You shake his hands lightly, engulfed in his large and warm hand for a second.

The friend who abandoned you for bathroom slings an arm around your shoulders, although she can barely walk straight, “oooohhhhhh, I think he’s cute!” She yells in your ear, giggling, “you should sleep with him!”

You are pretty sure Professor Barber heard that.

He looks flustered, his neck a shade redder than before, mumbling, “I suppose I’ll leave you with your friends.”

Speaking of your friend, she disappeared – more like dashed - to your table with your drinks, yelling to your other friends about how you are “getting laaaaaaaaid” tonight.

“There goes my ‘said’ friend.” You chuckle, “it’s nice seeing you, Professor.”

Barber lowers his eyes before looking into yours, his blue eyes sparkling with joy, “please, I’m not teaching you anymore. Call me Andy.”

#andy barber #defending jacob #andy barber x you #andy barber x reader #andy barber x female reader #andy barber fanfiction #college au #angst with a happy ending #sort of?#enemies to friends to lovers (?)#also sort of #professor andy barber #student reader #creative writing #dancing in the daydream

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