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thepencilnerd · 5 years

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Melophile | Part I

melo·phile- noun; a person with great love and affluent passion for music

➵ A piano major and a composition major collaborating for a final semester project. It seemed straightforward, right? But what if you were forced to pair up with the school’s most problematic genius, Min Yoongi? Add to that the fact that he absolutely hated your guts and you had the perfect recipe for disaster. How can someone you’ve never even met before despise you like a sworn enemy? Getting to know each other was hard enough, but what happens when the most beautiful, painful, and darkest secrets force the two of you to expose the thing you each guarded the most—your own emotions?

➵ pairing: min yoongi x reader

➵ genre: AU! enemies to lovers, fluff, angst, smut, slow-ish burn

➵ word count: 16k (sorry mobile readers)

➵ warnings: swearing, heavy angst, discussions of depression, rough sex, biting, marking, hair pulling, cumplay/eating, impreg kink, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), i’m screaming while writing these warnings

a/n: this was originally supposed to be a single post, but i’ve split it up into two. the second part can be found on my masterlist or under the #melophile ^^

Second, third, second, first, second, fourth—

“Again,” the voice snapped sternly.

Breathing deeply, you closed your eyes shut and clenched down on your teeth before playing again.

Second, third, second, first, second, third, fifth, fourth—

“Stop.” Letting out another sigh for what felt like the hundredth time in the last hour, your professor took off his glasses before pinching the bridge of his nose. “Why don’t we call it a day?”

Biting down on your tongue, you gave a curt nod and agreed reluctantly. Glancing at the clock, you saw that it was already fifteen minutes before nine.

“An hour and fifteen minutes of dealing with my bullshit. A new record,” you scoffed silently to yourself.

You hesitantly thanked your professor before holding the door for him and seeing him out. Today was a rough day. The whoosh of the door escorted you back into the cold room as your legs carried you back to the grand piano. Your relationship with Professor Powell was—complicated—to say the least. Although he was like a father figure to you and was the one who gave you the opportunity to attend university in the first place, it was always difficult to maintain a healthy student-teacher relationship, especially in the field of the arts. Hungry and impatient to improve, it was the teacher’s responsibility to make sure that they pressured their students but also know their limits. Push too much and they’d suffer the possibility of a mental breakdown, but not enough and the years of time, work and patience would all be for nothing

Taking a few minutes to massage your cramping fingers and tender wrists, you couldn’t help but burn holes and glare at your own hands.

“Is it really that fucking hard to follow the stupid numbers written on the damn sheet music? Useless. Absolutely useless,” you swore.

After another minute of self-deprecating criticism and voiceless outrage, you felt your throat constrict as frustration welled up inside your chest as questions of your own purpose began to arise. What were you doing with your life? Was this stupid degree really worth it? How were you even going to get a job with a degree in music?

“Idiot...” You muttered to yourself but stared coldly at the wooden creature directly in front of you. Cracking your knuckles, you took in a deep breath, held it for two seconds, and exhaled as calmly as you could. Concentrating on the finger numbers scribbled down above the notes, you gulped in anticipation, determined to get the last line of the piece down by tonight. One more time.

You’d been here since lunch and even opted to skip dinner just to save an hour to practice. Your professor sometimes came in at random to help supplement your practice hours, but it almost always ended up with him leaving an hour later, equally frustrated at the level of progress you hadn’t accomplished. It wasn’t your fault you didn’t do well under pressure, but you understood where he was coming from. Playing was hard, but playing with an audience was even harder.

Playing the first few minutes of Chopin’s Fantaisie Impromptu had now become a breeze, but the last section was always the part where you couldn’t take it anymore. Your fingertips became sweatier than a marathon runner’s forehead, your hands cramped like divers who had the bends, and your wrists felt like they had brick blocks tied to them at the joint.

14 sheets, seven pages, 138 measures, sixteenths on the right hand, and triplets on the left. The pain, tireless hours of practice, and feeling of desperation in the pursuit of the perfect chance to play— all that for six minutes of pure, unadulterated beauty. The puzzle pieces that clicked together in perfect harmony. In that precise moment, it was pure bliss.

In that exact moment, it was just you and the music.

You couldn’t describe how free you felt when you played. Each time your fingertips pressed down on the weighted keys, the melodic sound that reverberated deeply and throughout the room was what you lived for. It was a last-minute whim decision when you chose piano as your major. Sure, you’d been playing it since you were a child and loved it more than anything else, but you secretly worried that they’d fear for your future. Understandable, considering their generalized opinions on art majors, but thankfully, they were nothing short of supportive.

Originally, you planned to get into the business trend like everyone else. Truth be told, you didn’t know what you wanted to be, and that scared you, so it seemed like a safe, cookie-cutter option. While your classmates stressed out about finals, entrance exams, extracurriculars, job hours, and college applications, you went through a phase of feeling adrift. Lost, confused, conflicted, and utterly desperate in search of what you wanted to pursue in life, your overwhelmed mind remembered that you actually played an instrument.

You would be lying if you said the idea initially didn’t terrify you. What would you do with a degree in the music field? Playing was always a self-satisfying activity rather than something you did for attention, so you had no desire to play for an audience, therefore, playing as an accompanist was out of the question. To add to it, you couldn’t compose new pieces to save your life, so being a producer was also checked off early. Then you came across the idea of being a music teacher, which for some blindly stupid reason, you didn’t think first. Money was never the ultimate goal for you, and the opportunity to share your passion and knowledge with others clicked with you instantly.

Getting admitted into one of the country’s best art universities was something that you never envisioned happening in your wildest dreams. The audition was the first time you had ever played for an actual audience, and to say it went perfectly would be a painfully embarrassing lie. It was also your first time playing a high-quality grand piano, which added to the already intense pressure. You remember all-too-clearly how your fingers fumbled over the glossy, attributed to how you weren’t used to the feel of the new model of instrument, and you even messed up on the middle section of the piece. However, somehow, through the unexplainable, miraculous, and impossible powers of the universe, the panel of professors saw something in you and admitted you on a partial scholarship.

That short-lived period was already four years ago, and you were now in your second year of your master’s degree in the school’s associated graduate school. One more year and you were ready to venture off into the world as an adult.

Shaking off the storm of flashbacks and anxiety of foreshadowing you didn’t have the capacity to deal with right now, you turned back to the crumpled pages in front of you. Starting from the very beginning, your fingers began carrying themselves across the keyboard, allowing your muscle memory to come in swifter than a lightning strike. Scanning over the tornado of notes with quick eyes, your heart began beating faster as a familiar ache began to spread throughout your fingers. Pushing through the middle measure before the end, you willed yourself to get it right this time.

Once the ending excerpt began, you begged your hands to hold on for another minute. That was all you needed. Just one more minute…

Before you knew it, you had already sped through the remaining bars of music and finally made it to the last line, slowing down the tempo and letting the last few notes reverberate as they faded to quiet nothingness.

You did it.

Shooting up from the crinkly leather seat, you hopped around like a sugar-high energizer bunny. You finally did it. Nine treacherous hours of fruitlessly pounding at the keys and nearly tearing your hair out, and you finally did it. Maybe it was the delirium from yesterday’s all-nighter or the hunger starting to kick in, but you suddenly felt a rush of blood make its way to your head, causing you to clutch your temple and hunch over the piano for support. Taking it as a signal from your body that it was on the brink of breaking down, you decided to call it a night.

Packing up your things, you bid one last farewell to the creaking percussion instrument before clicking off the lights and leaving the room.

It was always a breathtaking experience walking through campus. The rustic buildings, blooming plant life, bustling students, and even the poorly paved concrete sidewalk made it all the more like home. As a student in the art department of the school, the secondary campus was smaller but more well-spaced than the main campus. Rather than have a bundle of tightly-knit classrooms arranged directly next to each other, the arts campus consisted of three main buildings that were spaced far apart and divided by green lawns and tree-lined pathways.

You were so distracted by your dream-like trance, you didn’t realize that you were already five minutes late for your lecture. Murmuring a string of curse words at yourself, you nearly ran into a lamppost before dashing across the lawn to class.

In a record time of two minutes, you managed to make it to the front door of the lecture hall. Willing yourself to breathe rhythmically to slow down your racing heart and strained panting, you slowly opened the door to see that an exponentially large number of students were still shuffling into their seats. Thankfully, Professor Powell was also in the midst of organizing the scattered papers on his desk but noticed you poking your head through the cracked open door. Ushering you in with a collected welcome, you bowed your head in a silent nod of appreciation and scurried to the few remaining seats available.

Looking around the strangely crowded room, you saw that the usual number of 20 to 30 people was now a lump sum of about 40 people. You recognized about half of the ones as those who shared your major, but the remaining were complete strangers. A loud cough and clapping of hands silenced the chattering students, making everyone turned their attention to the front of the class.

“Thank you all for making it today,” he announced. “You may have noticed that—”

The sound of the door swinging open halted the professor’s words as a student waltzed in. Sporting a black hoodie with torn jeans to match, you could barely make out the few stray hairs of beige blonde hair that poked out from underneath. His piercing stare could practically be felt from a mile away, and he made no comment or apology for his late entrance. Not even giving a second look to Professor Powell, the blonde boy found himself an empty seat in the back of the class, causing everyone around him to shift uncomfortably. Tossing his backpack carelessly to the floor, his presence alone was threatening enough to send chills down your spine.

Clearing his throat, the professor composed his thoughts before resuming speaking. “As I was saying,” he hummed. “You may have noticed that today’s class is particularly ample and that there are a few faces that aren’t in this major.”

The students all looked around in unison, picking out the faces they could clearly recognize and ever-so-slightly frowning in confusion at the ones they didn’t. A wave of quiet murmurs spread across the entire room, causing Professor Powell’s hands to clap aloud once more in an attempt to gather everyone’s attention.

“If you’ll all direct to the syllabus being handed out to you, you will find the rubric of your semester final project,” he enunciated. As if by cue, the person directly in front of you passed you a thick stack of papers. Peeling a page from the mountain of sheets, your eyebrows cinched together at the bold text.

MUS302 Semester Final Project

GROUP ASSIGNMENT IN COLLABORATION WITH THE SCHOOL’S THEORY-COMPOSITION MAJORS.

PAIRS WILL BE ASSIGNED.

“Now,” his voice boomed. “I’m aware that we still have four months before final exams are administered, but since this is a special occasion, you may find the extra time useful.”

You couldn’t hold back the nasal ‘hmph’ that escaped your throat. This had to be a practical joke. Your professor was never one to assign group projects, and this was certainly something that had never been done once in the history of the entire school. What was different? Apparently, you weren’t the only one who was dumbfounded at the news. A hum of voices began to arise as all the kids in the classroom began whispering to each other, the pre-meditated gossip already spreading like wildfire.

“I know that group projects aren’t exactly a common occurrence in this class and a collaboration with a group of students in a different major has never been done before, but music does not discriminate.” His firm words seemed to silence the loudmouths, replacing their incessant chatter with a few awkward coughs.

“This project will be worth 65% of your final grade and will replace your usual paper-formatted exam. It is mandatory, there will be no excuses, makeups, grade curves or supplementary extra credit, and it will go on your permanent transcript.” Taking the silent air in the classroom as an indication of their understanding, he managed to force out a tight smile through his enunciated words.

“Alright then. I will be choosing your partners for you and there will be no switching. Complain and email me about it and it will result in an automatic fail.” Sensing his stern tone, no one dared utter as much as a single moan of disapproval.

Professor Powell had a reputation for being one of the strictest teachers in the entire school, and it didn’t come without a reason. Within the first week of the semester, nearly half of the students always dropped his class. Although the reasons ran few and far between the inflexible grade curve and his borderline terrifying aura, not a single person doubted his raw ability and talent in the field of music. He was a legend and to learn under him was an honor in and of itself.

You were eternally grateful that you were able to get on his good side from the first time you encountered him at your audition, but that didn’t stop him from pushing equally, if not, even harder, than the rest of his students. His ardent passion for music and methods of teaching were of a caliber you’d never witnessed before and from the moment you stepped inside his classroom, you knew he would ignite and fuel your love for music more than flaming embers themselves.

“I will call your names in pairs and you will come up, sign your names on this sheet, and collect your partner record sheets. On this sheet, you will write down the dates and hours in which you have spent working on the assignment together—” he emphasized, “—and the progress you have made if any. Details of the project will be explained once everyone is all paired up.”

He began calling out random names in couples of two. The process of walking down the tiered seating, awkwardly greeting each other, signing names, and trudging back to their seats became so repetitive, you didn’t even notice that your name wasn’t called.

The professor's voice boomed once more, snapping you out of your daze. “If you were not called, please come see me after class.” Instantly, the people who shared your classes all turned to face you like a stack of falling dominos. Was it really that obvious? You weren’t aware that anyone knew your name, let alone the fact that you even existed.

Shifting uncomfortably in your seat, you tried to ignore the feeling of burning stares as you listened intently to what Professor Powell had to say next. You even went as far as taking notes to try and distract yourself from the eyes that lingered.

“This project is all about vulnerability.” His choice of words was surprising. Rather than go with the trust and teamwork trope, he decided to play the liability card. “You and your partner will be responsible for constructing an entirely new piece that embodies your two souls as musicians.” The sudden and clearly obvious attempt at being dramatic caused a couple chuckles to erupt from the room, making the professor laugh lightly as well.

“The piece should be a mixture of classical piano and may or may not involve the use of the composition majors’ programs or software. The time limit is a maximum of six minutes and the bare minimum is two. The piece needs to be one that constitutes who you are as artists,” he articulated. “The audience needs to see—feel—who you are through the music. Your happiest and most beautiful memories, your deepest secrets, and even your most painful experiences. Therefore, this requires you to get to know each other not just as musicians and creators but as human beings. Everything needs to be laid out on the table.”

Holding his hands behind his back, he started pacing slowly across the classroom, intent on making sure that the class understood the magnitude of importance this project encompassed. “You will argue, laugh, smile, cry, and you may even want to tear each other’s throats out with your teeth like feral packs of starving wolves—but know this; no matter the journey or path you choose to venture on, I guarantee that you will all come out of this as stronger musicians and even better artists.”

Everyone was nose-deep in their notebooks, jotting down each and every single word that came out of the professor’s mouth in an effort that it would secure them a better grade. Of course, you knew better than anyone that success in this class was never shown—it was earned.

“The deadline is the same week as finals and each piece will be performed in the school’s concert hall.” Looking around at the already-tired and worn out students, he opted to be the bearer of good news for the day. “I’ll be nice and let you all out early today,” he chuckled. “Go on and—”

Even before he finished his sentence, everyone was scurrying out of the class like a pack of rabid wolves eager for a new hunt. Sighing in exhaustion from the night before, your eyes wandered around the vacant classroom and settled on the black hooded figure sat across the room. Startled to see that he was glaring at you, you started hiccuping. Picking up your bag, you panicked and hurried to the front of the classroom, remembering what your professor had said about not having your name called.

“Professor?” you peeped quietly, already anxious at what he was going to say.

Pausing the shuffling of his papers, he turned to face you. “Ah, _____,” he noted. Beckoning to someone behind you, you could only assume the worst as the sound of scuffling feet made its way to you. “You will be working with Yoongi for this project.”

An audible gulp escaped when you tried to swallow down your apprehension. Facing the figure that was now standing beside you, he had taken off his hood, leaving his messy beige blonde hair exposed in all its glory. Now that you were standing close to him, you even saw the glint of a small hoop earring when the sunlight bounced off of his ear. You forced out an apprehensive smile and held out your hand as a greeting. The passing silence gave you an opportunity to study his facial features as well. With smooth pale skin, angular cat-eyes, and a soft but chiseled face to tie it all together, it would be a sin to deny that he was indeed good looking.

‘Heartbreaker,’ you immediately thought.

“I’m _____,” you greeted as warmly as you could, given the tension in the air. Why was he acting like you’d just kidnapped and hopped past three state borders with his pet hamster? Exactly four seconds had passed, (yes, you counted) and he simply raised an eyebrow at your feeble attempt at a civilized handshake. His hands were tucked in the pockets of his hoodie, making you wonder if he was too lazy to pull them out or if he acted like this with the general population. To save your already-bruised ego, you opted to go for option C. Maybe his hands were cold.

Still quirking an eyebrow at your hand, you quickly lowered it, looping your finger under the strap of your backpack to hide your embarrassment. “I’m aware,” he commented dryly. Furrowing your brows slightly, you tried not to show your evident confusion. Had you two met before?

“Ahem. _____, I’d like to politely introduce you to Mr. Min Yoongi; your equal in my composition class,” the professor filled in, trying to ease the tension. “He is another one of the school’s prodigies and my star students, so I thought it’d be best if the two of you partnered together for this project. Seeing as you two excel greatly in your respective fields and are of the highest ranking in your major, it should be a breeze.” Professor Powell drawled out the last word, making you quirk your head. His tone was too sarcastic for your liking.

“Pleasure,” Yoongi said with a hoarse purr in his voice, lifting his chin as a makeshift nod of acknowledgment, you pressed your lips together tightly in response. He still had his hands tucked in his pockets. When you turned back to Professor Powell, he had already gathered his things and was waving goodbye, the closing whoosh of the door leaving you alone with the cold embodied demon of a boy. Great.

“Do you want to—” You tried to initiate a conversation but were cut off by his immediate words.

“Here’s my number. Text me when you want to work on the project. Don’t bother if it’s about anything else.” With a sullen and near spiteful tone, he handed you a torn piece of paper with a scribble of numbers on it. Just as you were about to ask him if he had time today, he was already out the door.

You scoffed. “What the hell is his problem?” you seethed. It wasn’t like you had crossed paths with him, nor were you aware of any instances in which you’d even met him. Hell, you didn’t even have any friends.

Examining the bundle of scribbles on the torn piece of paper, you begrudgingly added the number into your phone.

“Min...” You began typing but smirked when another nickname came into mind. “Min Salty.” Not the best nickname you could’ve come up with, but wasn’t any worse than his shitshow of an attitude. Raking your hands through your hair in sheer frustration, you told yourself to calm down and compose yourself. You had to push through for the project. This grade meant everything and you’d be damned if you let some jerkwad of a pre-pubescent boy mess it up for you.

Two weeks passed and you had yet to speak to Yoongi about the project. You could have messaged to him as soon as he gave you his number, but each time you typed up a text to send, it ended up being saved as a draft. Your pride mocked you, asking questions like, “Why hasn’t he texted you?” or “Why should you be the one to text first?” In reality, it didn’t matter who texted who and it was past the line of being childish. If that was the case, then why couldn’t you just press the stupid fucking send button?

In actuality, you were the least bit ashamed to admit that you were intimidated by him. Whenever you tried to approach him in the hallways during passing periods, you were met with a menacing glare that made you curl back into your shell like a hermit crab. On top of that, whenever you did manage to single him out in the crowded parts of the campus, he’d oh-so-conveniently start walking in the exact opposite direction, almost as if he was purposely avoiding you.

Then the fateful day came when you gathered all the courage you could muster and caught him strolling into the on-campus café. You had him cornered. Entering the comfy bistro, the familiar chime of bells and the warm scent of ground coffee welcomed you with open arms.

Searching through the crowded tables, your eyes landed on a single person sitting alone by the window booth. He stuck out like a sore thumb. Perching his hand under his chin while looking through the clear glass, his eyes bore the same expression as they did when you first met them; rigid and burning with intensity, yet lost and precarious. When he turned his head around, his stare widened for a moment when he noticed you. Quickly ducking down, you shifted your jaw and huffed. Did he think you were blind or something?

Puckering your lips, you marched over to the booth while feigning conviction in your walk. Fake it until you make it, right? At least, that’s what all the cool kids used to say...

“Hi,” you greeted as you sat down. Yoongi’s eyes refused to me yours and kept writing down notes, choosing to maintain his focus on his laptop screen. “Hey,” he replied curtly. Biting down on your lower lip, you pulled out your laptop and began talking about the project. It wasn’t worth it to pick a fight today. You had a project to start.

“So I was thinking—”

“I have to get to my next lecture,” he droned, voice completely null and void of any detectable honest emotion. “Text me later.” Jotting down something quickly in his notebook, he folded up his stuff and practically shoveled it into his bag before getting up and running off.

“But—” you sputtered. But of course, he was already out the door. Judging by his short paces and urgency to get as far away from you as possible, he was probably skittering halfway across the campus by now.

Clenching your jaw, you bit down as hard as you could on your teeth as if you were getting stitches without anesthesia. What the actual hell was his problem? Did you say something that offended him? Were you secretly the reincarnation of someone who murdered him in his past life? Then you found yourself asking the same question once again: Had you even met him before this semester?

Hunching over the table, your fist slammed down on the wooden surface, earning a few judgmental stares here and there from bystanders. Complain to the professor and get a fail. Partner with Min Yoongi and get a fail. “Work” with Min Yoongi and get a fail because the word itself would entail absolutely nothing, therefore, nothing would actually ever get done.

It was at that moment you realized that you were absolutely and royally fucked.

Another week passed and you were already past the point of giving up. You managed to catch Yoongi a few more times and have a 15-second conversation with him before he bullshitted that he had a lecture to go to.

Yoongi was intentionally avoiding you. The best part?

You hadn’t a single clue why. Even though it was pointless to mope around and sulk like a wilting houseplant, you still made it to your daily self-practice sessions. Strangely enough, your professor never made any well-timed entrances during the midst of your playing, making you wonder whether it was because of the project or if he was simply busy with other things.

After three weeks of stressing out over the project that you hadn’t even started yet, a night well-spent in the practice room seemed like the perfect way to blow off some steam. Sure, playing while you were at your happiest and most joyful was the most enjoyable experience, but grazing and striking down on the keys while you were holding something deep inside of you was something entirely different. It was almost an out-of-body release; physically, emotionally, and mentally.

Once you were trapped in the practice room for a couple of hours and finished pounding out your frustrations, (and hearing the growl of your stomach) your mind was exhausted and spent. You could’ve sworn that you heard a distant humming of music coming from the room next door, but maybe it was just your ears playing tricks on you. No one else was ever here at this hour...

When it didn’t fade after a couple seconds, you started to get creeped out. Poking your head through the crack of the door and into the dimly lit hallways, you looked left and right as you tried to find the source of the humming. Were the ceiling pipes leaking? A minute of trying to think of what the sound could be when a loud thump reverberated four doors down from yours.

Tip-toeing carefully to the slightly ajar door, you crinkled your face each time your shoes squeaked on the floor. Now that you were in front of the door, the humming and thumping wasn’t actually just white noise, but rather the sound of a melodic chorus playing from inside.

The euphonious sound of the piano and an added bass made your eyes drift shut, the harmony of the notes slowly lulling you into a trance of serene relaxation. You couldn’t hold back your curiosity any longer. Telling yourself you’d regret it later, you stood up from your hunched position and glanced through the clear pane of the door. Moonlight streaked into the enclosed space and onto the glossy shell of the piano, bouncing off and reflecting onto the face of a person.

Min Yoongi.

Your mouth parted in surprise. Why was he here this late? Did he compose this himself? Was this for the project? A plethora of questions suddenly plagued your mind—but the most prominent of all presented itself on a silver platter.

Why wasn’t he playing?

You narrowed your eyes and blinked forcefully, trying to see if your eyes were deceiving you. There was music playing and it was, in fact, coming from this exact room. However, his hands were resting comfortably on his lap and his eyes seemed to be staring with disdain at the instrument.

“It must be coming from the speakers...” you thought. “Of course, it’s coming from the speakers, you idiot...”

The music suddenly shifted in tone; the bass became heavier, the tempo quickened, and a synth pad followed an orchestra of strings. As the piano keys slowly thinned out into a hushed melody, it went from being the main instrument at the start of the piece to nothing more than background static.

With each passing section, the piece became darker as the once soothing melody became distressed and tortured. Yoongi was sitting as calmly as ever in the leather chair of the piano. Resting with a slight hunch in his back, his head was leaning to one side as he continued to stare ominously at the uncovered black and white keys.

When the piece reached the end of its crescendo, the tune ended abruptly without a brighter finishing section or lively coda. It was over. At the same moment, Yoongi’s blank gaze found its way to yours. He blinked out of his sullen daze and when your eyes met each other’s you could’ve sworn his eyes were watering. Remembering that your mouth was still parted, you clamped your jaw shut and widened your eyes. Then, without giving it a second thought, you sprinted down the hall and ran across the campus back to the dorms.

For the rest of the night, you couldn’t find it in yourself to fall asleep. Every fiber of your being tossed and turned throughout the night as your mind desperately tried to repress the question. Hours of sweating, shuffling around in the blankets, and a couple bathroom trips later, you kicked off the covers and placed your hand on your burning forehead. It was no use—the question burned a hole inside your heart like a raging fire that showed no signs of extinguishing.

What was Min Yoongi hiding?

Throughout your life, you hadn’t had the honor of meeting many people who had infuriated you half as much as Min Yoongi did. The end of another unproductive week was nearing and you had yet to start on the project. Enough was enough.

Throwing your things into your backpack, you thanked your teacher for the class and then proceeded to dash across the lawn to the Bungalow Building. Weeks of constantly trying to find Yoongi and catch him by the collar after class had left you with detailed knowledge of his schedule and classes. Others may call it stalking, but you preferred to call it chance determination.

Standing outside door 240, you stood anxiously on your heels while you waited for the students to pour out. When they did, you peeked in to see Yoongi slouched on his desk, clearly in no hurry judging by how sluggishly he was collecting his things. It was now or never.

Waving a small greeting and excusing yourself for entering the classroom, you gestured to Yoongi in the hopes that the professor would understand. Thankfully, she simply smiled in return and carried on with her business of gathering papers.

You practically skipped like a child to where he was sat, satisfied at the revelation that he had nowhere to run. Standing over his desk, you slammed your palms onto his table and made him jump at the sudden impact. His eyebrows turned into a questioning frown and he stared at you with a vacant expression.

“We’re working on the project today.” Stating your main point firmly, his mouth opened to say something, but you weren’t letting him win today.

“Don’t say that you have to get to a lecture because I know damn well that this was your last class for today. Professor Powell told me that you don’t work so you don’t exactly have a job that you need to go to, so you can cross that off of your excuse list, too,” you rambled.

His mouth was still parted open, but his face suddenly morphed into an awestruck smirk. Your heart was pouring out the never ending buckets of frustration and humiliation, and at this point, it was evident to you that your emotions had full control over your head.

“To add to that, our project is due in three months and we have spent the past month doing absolutely nothing, and I’m not sure about you, but I don’t exactly plan on failing this class because my asshole of a partner hates my guts for some godforsaken unknown reason.”

Taking a moment to take in a much-needed breath of air, Yoongi shut his mouth and nibbled on the inside of his cheek in order to hold back a cocky grin. Darting his tongue out to wet his lips, he slung his backpack over his shoulder and stood up, height now towering over you.

“I was going to say that I got started on the first subject,” he grinned with pure insolence saturating his voice. Studying your reaction with heavy eyes, he raised his eyebrow for a split second as arrogance practically seeped from every speck of his face.

His unintentional actions and fully intentional methods of provoking you all these weeks had indeed tested your patience, but also helped you grow a thick skin to rebuke his antics. All you could do was clench down on your jaw and compel yourself to grin.

“Off to the café then?” you offered, voice sounding a little too sweet for your own good. Shrugging nonchalantly, he trailed behind you as the two of you began en route to the place where you would hopefully manage to get something done. Strong emphasis on hopefully.

As you eyes grazed over the waves of notes, you could only bear an expression of awe and amazement; the chorus was breathtaking.

“You wrote this?” you coughed, nearly sputtering out your coffee.

Swishing his drink around his mouth carelessly, he gave you a curt nod.

“Why didn’t you–you should’ve called or—” Your brain was short circuiting like a cheap computer monitor as you tried to find the right words to say. “This is supposed to be a group project, we have—”

“I work better alone.” He stated it as if it were a fact that everyone with common sense knew by heart.

Gulping down another mouthful of your scorching hot drink, you told yourself that the burning sensation was just the liquid courage doing its work, gathering the confidence to carry on the conversation. “Is this what you were playing in the studio the other day?”

In the process of bringing the porcelain cup to his lips, he froze halfway. His Adam's apple bobbed and he licked his lips before setting the cup back down. “I wasn’t playing...” he replied quietly, staring at his hands that were now fumbling in his lap.

Tension immediately filled the air as you ran out of things to say. “Do you hate me?” you asked bluntly. Judging by the way his eyes shot up immediately and widened, you took it as a sign that he was taken aback by your straightforward and bold query.

“I—” he stuttered. “I don’t—”

Seeing the way his tongue tangled on his words made you let out an amused chuckle. It was the first time you’d witnessed his cool guy image crack. Gaining newfound confidence at the way he crumbled, you leaned forward and leaned your cheek against your hand, propping up your elbow.

“Why?” you asked simply. There had to be some kind of reason, right?

“I don’t hate you,” he answered firmly, his cold personality resurfacing once again. “Can we get back to the project now?”

Narrowing your eyes at his defensive attitude, you opted to go for your second icebreaker. “What were you doing alone in the studio that late?”

Yoongi’s eyes remained stone cold when he spoke. “What were you doing in the studio that late?” he retorted. His smart mouth made you want to wipe the table with his smirking face.

Deciding to drop the topic, you bit your tongue to told back the flurry of curse words that would definitely explode if you opened your mouth. “What do you want the theme for the piece to be?” Thinking quick on your feet, you remembered that you had an assignment to work on.

“Do you usually write—” you paused to try and think of a way to say it that wouldn’t offend him. “—mellow tempo songs?”

“If you’re asking if I only write depressing shit, the answer should be obvious,” he spat out harshly. You swore his mood changed quicker than the water pressure in your dorm shower.

“I just wanted to get to know you as a person. What kind of music you like to listen to, the genres you prefer to write—” you rambled nervously, trying to back up your earlier question.

Slamming down his cup onto the table, you were couldn’t tell what surprised you more—the fact that the cup didn’t shatter or that he was already ticked off. “How about you stop acting like you’re genuinely interested in getting to know me for the sake of a fucking project and focus on getting this shit done as soon as possible?” he hissed through a locked jaw.

You couldn’t hold back the nasal huff that came out. “I’m not—”

But before you could defend yourself, Yoongi had already collected all of his things and stood up. Gritting his teeth, you could practically smell the smoke coming off of his head.

“Practice room 2B at 3:00 tomorrow. Don’t be late.” With the meetup sounding more like a threat than anything, he turned away and strolled out without as much as a second glance.

For as long as you could remember, you’d always been a fighter. Hardheaded would be another word for it, but you were too stubborn to even admit that. When the teacher finished up summarizing the lecture and thanked the class for their attendance, your heart instantly felt heavier. Each step you took closer to the designated practice room felt like trekking in quicksand. Why did you always seem to suffocate at the thought of Yoongi?

Occupied by your racing thoughts, you were already at the front of the practice room. Cracking open the door, your eyes instantly landed on Yoongi. He was sitting in front of the piano with an unreadable expression. Sorrow? Pain? Anger? Today, he was wearing a graffiti patterned black hoodie—with the hood slung over his head, of course—and his signature distressed jeans.

Coughing lightly, your presence broke him out of his trance. Raising his head to you in the same half-ass nod he gave you at your first meeting, you brushed it off, grateful that he even acknowledged you at all.

Yoongi stood up and pulled out a separate chair, placing it beside the piano so that it was a healthy distance from you and the instrument. Thanking him silently for giving you the leather seat, he took out a few pages of blank sheet paper and placed it on top of his notebook.

“Do you want to play what you came up with?” he asked dryly, clearly already bored out of his mind. Clearing your throat out of habit, your hands started to fumble with each other as your nerves washed over you yet again.

“Here’s the thing...” you started, chuckling awkwardly. “I’m really bad at composing structured pieces?” The confession came out in the form of a question rather than a fact due to your high-pitched voice. It took you by surprise when he didn’t interrupt you this time around.

Assuming you weren’t finished with your statement, Yoongi kept his eyes glued on you with an eyebrow raised. God, you could practically drown yourself in the amount of hypercriticism he emitted.

“But I’m pretty sub-par at improvising,” you quickly said, hoping you would be able to make it at least two minutes without getting on his bad side today.

Leaning back into his chair, he set his notebook down and crossed his arms. “Go for it,” he exhaled, gesturing to the piano with a jut of his chin.

With cold hands, scratchy throat, a racing heart, and nerves that almost made you hiccup, your fingers touched the keys and instantly made you feel at ease. Closing your eyes, you stroked over the smoothly glazed plaques of wood and breathed in deeply, tuning out your surroundings like the flick of a light switch.

You started off with a soft waltz; simple, light, and sweet. The tune took you back to the days of your first piano lessons with your mother, the gentle melody making the memories of your carefree childhood resurface like swirls of smoke.

Improvising the second subject, you found yourself playing a much darker and somber chorus than you usually did. As you began pressing into the keys with an urgency you didn’t know you had, your memories became melancholy, bringing you to the times in high school; the long nights when you would walk through the empty field and think about what you wanted in life; the endless days when you felt lost; the feeling of emptiness that still lingered within you to this day.

“Everything needs to be laid out on the table,” you professor’s words echoed in your head like a broken record.

Coming to the end of the phrase, your mind wandered to the future, envisioning a life where you would not only be successful and make lots of money, but have a career in your field of passion; one where you could spread your love of music with others and maybe help them find themselves as well.

Transitioning smoothly into the familiar style you usually stuck with, the lighthearted song filled the room like morning fog. Soon enough, the piece came to an end, and you were left in the quiet space that was the studio. Your fingers still lingered on the keys, the tingling sensation of satisfaction and self-accomplishment lasting for only as short as the piece had gone by.

Finally pulling away from the keyboard, you turned your head to see Yoongi studying the piano with a half-lidded gaze. Snapping his head out of his trance-like state, he swallowed tentatively and nodded his head.

“You were right,” he started. “You are pretty sub-par at improv.”

You took slight offense to his harsh and judgmental tone, but when you the smirk creep up on the corner of his lip, you punched his shoulder jokingly.

“Ass...” you mumbled, making him let out a ghost of a chuckle as well in response. Raising his hands up in defense, he shrugged his shoulders and made a playful expression. Was it you or did his mood just do a full 180?

Looking down into your lap, you massaged your hands habitually, the remnants of tingling nerves and rushing adrenaline still coursing through your fingertips. Whenever you were around Yoongi, moments between speaking always felt like ominous intervals before the next argument or uneasy pauses filled with dread, but the previous five seconds was a scene you’d pay a million dollars to relive over and over again.

“So, what does the genius Min Yoongi have in mind for the finalized piece?” you wondered out loud, taking his momentary decent mood as an opportunity to spark up a civil conversation for once. Rubbing the back of his neck, he hung his head and stared at the ground awkwardly as his tongue prodded the inside of his cheek.

“That’s his thinking face…” you noted. For some reason, you had a gut feeling that you’d become well-acquainted with it by the end of the semester.

“Let’s just start from the beginning,” he replied, speaking more to himself than to you. Reorganizing the sheets of paper on his lap, he twirled his pencil in his hand and began scribbling down a series of notes. After a couple minutes of craning your neck at an uncomfortable angle to see what he was writing down, he placed the page onto the music rest in front of you.

Your jaw nearly unhinged from its socket.

Pointing at the fully marked sheet of paper, you were able to make out the sections of music you heard that night when he was alone in the practice room as well as parts of the improvised piece you had just played a mere few minutes ago.

“How the hell did you do that…” you spoke softly, staring in complete awe. Raising an eyebrow as if you had just asked what color grass was, it took him a few seconds before he comprehended your question.

“Oh. I’m pretty good at memorizing music,” he stated matter-of-factly. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

Tucking your chin down and staring at him with an ‘are you being serious right now’ expression, your jaw was still agape. “Yoongi, you memorized and transcribed a piece that I practically pulled out of my ass and combined it with yours perfectly.”

When you tried to emphasize each word so that he would be able to understand your shell-shocked state, he just shrugged. You even counted the four words you dragged out on your fingers, but he could have cared less.

“Like I said,” he spoke with a pout. “It’s not a big deal.”

“But—" you stuttered.

Cracking his neck to stop you from blubbering any more nonsense, he pointed to the page in front of you. “Do you want to get this project started or what?” Nodding a little too enthusiastically for your own good, the two of you went to work on the piece.

Days blurred into weeks as you and Yoongi started to warm up to each other. Some days, you’d find yourselves getting overwhelmed by the blurred papers of notes and out-of-tune chords, and the only way you refrained from murdering each other was to take long breaks. Sometimes you’d talk and other times it’d just be five minutes of painful silence.

“It’s not right,” Yoongi huffed to himself. Running his hands through his hair, he slanted his head and scowled at the piano.

Freezing your hands and hovering over the keys you’d just played, you felt your mouth go chalky. “Are you– do you mean the chord or– the way I played it?” you squeaked, not entirely used to his unpredictable temper tantrums.

Waving his hands assuringly, he shook his head. “No, no, no, it’s not you,” he grumbled. “You didn’t do anything wrong, don’t worry.”

Blinking at his suddenly gentle temperament and caring response, you sat still for a few more seconds while he paced around the room with his copy of notes in hand. Gnawing the inside of your cheek, you played from the beginning section of the excerpt, but rather than play the entire measure with the assigned minor chord, you switched a couple bars to their equivalent major key. This, in turn, caused the formerly sullen and melancholic tune to shift into a brighter and happier theme.

The slight change in scale made Yoongi’s ears perk up like a cat. Walking back over to where you were sat, he gestured with his hands in a circled scooping motion, urging you to repeat whatever you just did. Holding back a snort at his childish reaction, you shook your head and grinned as you replayed the excerpt.

Furrowing his brows in confusion, he looked at his sheets and at the keys you’d changed, moving back and forth between the keyboard and his notes. “Hmph...” he hummed against his throat. “Nice job.” Erasing a few of the notes and copying them down onto his paper, he tapped the sheet with the end of his pencil and waited for you to continue playing.

Nostrils flaring at the plain and seemingly backhanded compliment, you squinted your eyes and pushed out a forced toothless smile and accepted the recognition nonetheless.

“Yoongi?” Your voice came out hesitant.

Not looking up from the paper he was doodling on, he let out a faint 'hmph.’

“Why don’t you play?” The question came out in a whisper quiet enough not to disturb a sleeping baby.

Yoongi’s breath hitched in his throat immediately as he clenched his pen. Balling his other hand into a fist, his knuckles turned white at the sheer force, and his jaw muscles tensed with a ripple. Slamming his pen down, the crack of plastic could be heard throughout the room.

“I don’t play.” Although his answer was short and simple, his unnerving tone said otherwise.

“Bullshit,” you called out instantly. “Everyone in comp plays and you know the theory for it better than anyone.”

“Anymore,” he added, teeth gritting as his fist crumpled the piece of paper he was writing on.

“Why?” you asked mindlessly. He wasn’t getting away from you this easily. There had to be a reason.

“I just don’t, okay?!” he shouted all of a sudden. Shooting up from his seat, he lashed out at you with malice, hostility dripping like a deadly venom that had no antidote.

Collecting his things, he stomped out of the room and made sure to slam the door on his way out, leaving you alone in the room you had gotten too used to being by yourself in. Tears began to prickle your eyes but you swallowed them down along with the growing lump in your throat. You didn’t have a single reason to cry, let alone for him, so why did it seem like your emotions were betraying you?

Hiding in the alley next to the music building, Yoongi leaned against the cold brick wall for support. Breathing heavily, his throat was as dry as sandpaper and his tongue felt like it was superglued to the roof of his mouth, while his shaky hand was pressing on his chest, willing himself to calm down.

His pulse was racing faster than the engine of a sports car and it felt like his heart was pounding so hard against his ribcage that it was about to shatter. Each time he inhaled deeply, it was as if he didn’t have room to exhale and his lungs felt like they were balloons one single puff from bursting.

Shutting his eyes tightly, he counted backward from ten. The aching lump in his throat made its way up to his eyes as the budding tears made his eyes glassy.

“It’s not working,” he pointed out to himself. “Why isn’t it fucking working?”

The hands that were always buried inside his hoodie, still and unmoving were now shaking violently like drops of water on a burning hot and oiled pan. A gut-churning feeling began bubbling in his stomach as the visceral reaction at your statement triggered him into a full-blown panic attack.

“Just fucking breathe,” he panted, struggling to not choke between gulps of air.

Everything around him started to feel heavy as his limbs nearly collapsed under him like a row of dominoes. Bending down into a crouching position, he supported himself against the wall and tucked his head into his knees.

“It’s okay,” he told himself. “You’re okay.”

Squeezing his hands with a painful and near numbing amount of pressure, Yoongi took a few more deep breaths until his tears dried into stains on his cheeks.

Never again...

Slamming your fingers onto the chord, annoyance began to take over like a plague. This was the 44th time Yoongi had made you play the last segment of the piece. Forty. Fourth. He hadn’t asked you to, no, no no—he quote on quote “agitatedly requested” it.

“Yoongi,” you sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of your nose as your elbows slammed onto the keys, producing a sickeningly unpleasant and revolting sound. For some reason, it actually made you feel relieved to hear a different sound that wasn’t the same set of chords that you’d been repeating or Yoongi’s incessant badgering.

“We’ve been trying to fix this for two hours straight and I’m sure nothing’s in need of fixing,” you reasoned. “Can we please just take a two-minute break?” Wincing unconsciously, your face contorted into a pained expression as you massaged your burning fingers and aching forearms.

There were three sections of the piece. Yoongi decided to construct the format based off of what a sonata would be; the exposition, development, and recapitulation. It was also fancy talk for a lively beginning, depressing middle, and a combined ending of the two.

If playing the 6-minute piece wasn’t torture enough, it was your genius idea to incorporate a thrilling finishing coda, which was basically a shitstorm of flying hands with steroid-filled trills, arpeggios, and staccatos. Therefore, it was safe to say that the last section of the entire piece was the most intense.

Although the test of stamina and muscle memory was also at play, Yoongi’s tastes in voicing certain keys and your style of playing couldn’t have been more different. You soon learned that his pieces required varieties of slow, soft and drawled out notes as well as hard and borderline violent slams of keys without any pedals. You also discovered that depending on the day, he was open to letting you have more creative freedom in playing with the tones and tempos, but today was not one of those days.

“Fine,” he grumbled, his voice making it evident that he hated nothing more than being hindered in his work process because of someone else’s problems.

Sighing in thanks, you spread your fingers apart into an outstretched position and accidentally cracked a few joints, hissing unexpectedly at the shooting pain that resulted from the action. Knitting his eyebrows into a quizzical frown, Yoongi sat down next to you without warning, startling you to scoot aside.

“Give me your hands,” he said. Guarding your hands close to your chest, you shot him a questioning stare before he rolled his eyes and grasped your wrist gently.

Letting out a pained yelp, you thought you saw his jaw clench in anger, but the facial tick disappeared as soon as it had appeared. Without saying anything, he began massaging your hands, relaxing your tense muscles.

Contorting your face at the soothing yet painful acupressure, you struggled to speak through the pain. “You don’t have to—”

“Shut up.” His eyes remained on your hands, examining them while kneading them as if they were finely carved marble sculptures. Whenever you tried to pull your hands away, he tsked at you and kneaded extra firmly into a particularly sore spot.

After a couple moments of silence, Yoongi was the first to speak. “Does Powell know?” You tilted your head, confused at his question.

Sighing, he paused his calming rubbing and lifted your hand up and held it still. Your eyes widened. It was impossible.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you laughed dryly, playing it off as a misunderstanding.

There was no way he knew.

“_____—” he spoke softly but you were the one to cut him off this time. Snatching your hand away from him a little too harshly, you turned back to the pages laid in front of you.

“Let’s get back to the piece,” you warned. Your sudden frigid tone made Yoongi swallow uneasily. It was the first time you had spoken to him in that kind of manner and even he was taken aback. He didn’t want to make you feel any more exhausted than you already were so he dropped it.

There was absolutely no way that he knew anything.

The red lights of your alarm clock flashed 10:57 p.m. Safe in the comfort of your cruddy single-student dorm room, you were in the process of brushing your teeth and getting ready for bed.

Dancing and hopping around like a maniac to a random indie playlist, your hall mates were away for the week-long school break. You felt it’d be best if you stayed and indulged in the empty campus. It was only a week anyway and the next long break wasn’t until after finals. As a result, the entire block of your dorm was empty and unoccupied, and you were a very happy camper.

With hair was still damp from your shower and wrapped up into a bun, you knew without a shadow of a doubt that it would be a dented mess by tomorrow. You almost swallowed the bubbles of toothpaste when you jumped along with the chorus of the song and the simultaneous buzz and ping of a notification sounded from your bed.

Tilting your head to one side, you contemplated who in the world would be texting you this late at night. Skipping in-beat with the music to your phone, your energetically bouncing shoulders slumped instantly when you read the text.

Min Salty: practice room 1A. i’m dying. [11:01]

You have got to be kidding. It was 11 o’clock on a Friday night and this lunatic was texting you to come and work on the piece? Wasn’t he away for break like everyone else? In the midst of typing out an excuse that you were sick, his name popped up on the screen in the form of a phone call.

Swiping the accept icon reluctantly, you managed to breathe into the microphone before his voice boomed through the speaker.

“Don’t try and bullshit anything, it’ll be quick,” he said bluntly. Did he plant a camera in your room or was he a psychic? “And bring an umbrella.”

With those two bored and uninterested sentences out of his mouth, he hung up on you with the bleep of the dial tone.

“Dick,” you swore. “Fucking dick.” If there was one thing that was certain, it was that your vocabulary had taken on an entirely new spectrum of colors since meeting Yoongi. Contemplating between nestling into the comfort of your warm bed and leaving him hanging, your inner empath wailed at the mere thought of it. It was raining cats and dogs and Yoongi was at the studio? Alone? Did he really not have anything else to do? Was he actually dying?

You groaned internally gave into the guilt that threatened to eat you alive. Throwing on a jacket over your jumper, you reconsidered whether you should put on a bra beforehand, but opted not to. Not only were you freshly showered and too lazy to take off and put on your clothes again, but Yoongi mentioned that it would be quick. Then again, he also said he’d work on the piece with you but we all know how long that ball took to get rolling. It’s not like he took an interest in you bare-faced or well-dressed anyway.

Forgetting that you broke the only umbrella you had last semester, you slung your hood over your face and crossed your arms around your body tightly. It had to be the one damned day it rained in February.

It took you two minutes to sprint from the dorms to the music building and you slipped twice on the wet concrete. You would’ve doubled over, too it if hadn’t been for the rusty lampposts, but regardless, you managed to make it to the building in one piece.

A dull, aching pain spread across the joints of your hands from being exposed to the howling wind and freezing cold drops of rain. Clenching your teeth in a pained grimace, you tucked your hands underneath your armpits in the hopes of keeping them covered until you went inside the studio. You really should’ve asked for mittens for Christmas.

Regret hit you when you realized that not wearing a thick coat might have been a mistake. Peeling the sopping wet jacket from your body, you wrung it out and shook it off, relieved that your sweater underneath was dry for the most part. It probably helped that you had a shirt on underneath, but it didn’t stop you from shivering when you walked into the practice room.

Yoongi was splayed across the couch inside. A couple of the practice rooms were large enough to hold a full-size piano as well as a couch for guests, and you wondered if they were that necessary or the school president was just that spendthrift.

Despite the freezing cold weather, he was still as fashionable as ever. Donning a thin white sweater and frayed black jeans, you scanned around the room to check if he had brought a jacket or coat or some sort. Your suspicions were confirmed when you spotted a bundle of black fabric too large to be a blanket but too small to be a single hoodie. Maybe it was oversized?

“You’re getting the carpet wet,” he mumbled, the throw of the couch wrapped around his body like a swaddle for a baby. His expression was colder than the air that nipped at your bare skin, but there was warmth there. Something you couldn’t grasp. Something flickering.

“I didn’t have an umbrella,” you quipped dryly. Tossing you a towel from thin air, you caught it before it managed to smack your face. Of course he’d aim it perfectly. Maybe he should’ve been a baseball pitcher. You gave him an odd look before trying to pat yourself dry, a fruitless endeavor really seeing as how drenched you were. “What do you want?”

Sitting up straight, he gestured to the unopened piano. “I wanted to hear you play.”

Slumping your neck forward and raising your brows, a scoff of amazement left your mouth. “Are you joking?”

He shook his head. “I was in my dorms alone and I was bored, so I figured why not pull your strings a little and have some fun while we’re at it.”

Your face froze in an expression of utter astonishment and disbelief. “That’s why you called me out in the middle of the night in the pouring rain? To play for you?” A puff of air made its way past your lips.

“And to work on a few details,” he tried to justify.

“This couldn’t have waited until, I don’t know—tomorrow?!” you shouted.

Raising the corner of his lip, he smirked. “I just wanted to talk,” he shrugged, feigning innocence. You wrapped the now-damp towel over your shoulders like a shawl. Seething with agitation, you sat down in front of the piano and took a long, deep breath.

“What would you like to talk about, Yoongi?” Speaking like an adult trying to control their temper while scolding to a child, the only reason you were sitting here was due to the fact that you refused to be near proximity of him. Also your dripping clothes were getting heavier by the minute. The cold wasn’t doing anything for your shivering stature, either.

“About you,” he answered, leaning back into the sofa.

Rolling your eyes, you sat with your hands tucked in between your thighs. They felt like blocks of ice. “If that’s all you called me out here for then I’d be happy to get back to you tomorrow over lunch.”

“Why haven’t you told Powell yet?” he asked frankly with an inquisitive stare.

Your teeth ground like gears in your mouth. “What’s there to tell him about?” you countered, trying to maintain collected.

Yoongi’s gaze darkened as he leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, lacing his fingers together in an intimidating manner. “You know what I’m talking about.”

“I don’t, frankly, and neither do you,” you corrected him with a stern voice.

“You really don’t think I know?” he scoffed, narrowing his eyes like freshly sharpened daggers. Standing up, he took slow and deliberate steps to where you were sat and cocked his head sideways as he scoffed. Was he being serious right now?

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” you repeated robotically, growing increasingly irked at him boring into you like this. Shaking your head in the realization that you didn’t have to deal with this bullshit, you picked up your jacket and stood up to leave. Maybe you’d be in the mood to deal with his antics tomorrow, but today, you were a ticking timebomb.

Spotting the fire he had set ablaze from a mile away, he spun you around by your shoulder and lifted your hand up so that it was the only wall separating both of your faces.

“You really don’t think I know?” he whispered through a clenched jaw.

Tensing your eyes into a glare, your nostrils practically blew off jets of steam as you yanked it down to your side. “Fuck off,” you mumbled. Stomping back to the door, the click of the knob was the thing that completely set Yoongi off.

“What’s going to happen to prodigy _____ when her professor finds out that she has RA?” he sighed, clicking his tongue pitifully between his teeth.

He knows.

With fists balled painfully tight, you felt your body temperature rising by the second. “Shut up,” you muttered under your breath, restraining yourself through tightly clenched teeth. If you bit down any harder, you were sure to hear the crunch of your enamel as if they were a mouthful of potato chips.

“Rheumatoid arthritis at 22,” he enunciated, articulating the medical term around his tongue as to poke fun at a sleeping bear. “What a shame...”

“Oh yeah?” you scoffed, reclaiming your position directly in front of him as you were now drunk with rage, delirium taking over all the common sense you had left. “What about you? Composition major Min Yoongi who doesn’t even play the fucking piano anymore and stays locked up in his studio like the banished Hunchback of Notre Dame? God knows why, huh?”

Running his tongue over his teeth, his smirk now resembled a snarl of frenzy and hysteria. “You want to talk about me?” Pulling down his sleeves angrily and lifting up his arms, you could barely make out the scattered patches of raised skin on the tops of his hands. The lines you assumed to be veins were too light in color and instead textured in the form of scratches, trailing all the way down to his forearms, finishing at his elbows. Looking closely, you could see clearly that they weren’t veins or patches of tanned skin at all—they were scars.

“Picture this: college Yoongi walking to the bus stop after finishing his 8-hour shift. Little did the gullible bastard know that some sugar daddy decided to take a little joyride in the dead of night with two bottles of whiskey in his system.” His deadly bitter tone made goosebumps prickle across your skin.

“Flash forward to half-an-hour later when his professor, of all people, found him knocked out cold in the middle of the street. When Yoongi got admitted into the ER, you know what the doctors said?” he chuckled drunkenly, hands that were balled in fists a mere three seconds ago now hung loosely by his sides.

Huffing briefly, his voice choked as it shifted to one filled with anguish. “We’re terribly sorry, but when he landed after being struck by the collision, his arms absorbed the initial impact and his radial nerve suffered extensive damage. Post-recovery, he may no longer be able to coordinate certain muscles in his hands and fingers.”

It was as if he’d memorized and repeated the post-op summary to himself far long after the accident occurred and it was engraved into his mind like a curse; one he would have to live with for the rest of his life.

You could only stare at his face with a parted mouth, unable to move a single inch.

“It’s actually hilarious if you think about it,” he snorted. “Two of the school’s prodigies dealing with secrets that are big enough to eat away at you like a disease. But it’s not like my life was as nice as yours before I got here, isn’t that right, princess?”

Furrowing your brows as your face morphed into one of pure confusion, you were taken aback at the sudden assumption. “What?”

“Come on,” he grinned malignantly. “Full scholarship, easy money, probably equally supportive and gushy parents, Goody Two Shoes in all of her classes—sounds like a textbook prude in my book.”

“My life—” you choked through a bitter laugh. “I don’t– I am not—” Bile rose in your throat as Yoongi began barking insults at you like an assailant. Sympathy quickly evolved into apathy at the change in direction of the conversation. What point was he trying to make?

Throwing his head back, he burst into a forced fit of wry laughter. “Everything in your life must be fucking perfect, princess.”

“Don’t call me that...” you said through clenched teeth, closing your eyes so you wouldn’t have to see the malicious grin that was coating his face. You were trying so hard to feel bad for him after what he’d just told you, but his abusive indignities made it all the more difficult.

Craning his head to one side, Yoongi stared at you with a raised brow, his pearly white teeth peeking through the cocky grin you wanted to slap off more than anything. “My bad, did I press a button?”

“Shut up.” You repeated the response like a mantra in your head, praying that if you said it enough times, it’d come true.

“It’s all beaming white diamonds and unicorns hopping over rainbows for Princess _____, isn’t it?” he seethed, laughter painfully sarcastic.

What the hell was he on?

“I have worked my ass off for everything in my life up until this point you unbelievably cocky, arrogant, narcissistic prick!” you exploded, words unfurling angrily like the tail of a seething dragon. “If you think I was handed the opportunities that I’ve been given on a silver platter, then you could not be more wrong.”

“And now it’s just a couple doctors appointments and a written diagnosis away from being taken away from you, isn’t that right, princess?” he butted in with a satisfied grin.

“Shut the fuck up,” you said louder this time. Blood rushed to your cheeks as you started to feel your nails dig into your palms, almost drawing blood. With white knuckles and a frantically pounding heartbeat, you were two breaths away from throwing a right hook at Yoongi’s pretentious face.

“What the hell is your problem, Yoongi? Is that why you called me here? To chew me out? Annoy me? Berate me? Or does your inner sadist just want to watch me burn because of how bitter you are from the past?” Your voice was an octave away from shouting but his stone-cold expression gave no leeway as to what his intentions were. “Fine. Fine. Just ignore me like you always do because hell if I know what I did wrong!”

The muscles of his jaw tensed again as he parted his lips to speak. “You must be so happy with what you have, princess...” His voice grew timid and hushed at these words but his message was as evident as ever.

“Stop calling me that.” Each word came out through pursed lips and clamped teeth. Leaning into you so that he was directly in your line of vision, his lip curled into a smirk and his eyes flaunted a veil of malicious intent.

“Make me,” he snarled. Never in your life had two words made you more furious than at that exact moment.

“Fuck you, Yoongi,” you spat out, face just centimeters away from his. “I’m sorry for what happened to you, I really am, okay? But you don’t know a single goddamn thing about me, so stop acting like you’re the only one who’s been hurt in the past.”

Moving closer to you in response, you felt his hot breath fan over your lips, making you lean back instinctively.

“I’m not hurt,” he pointed out with venom dripping from his voice. Leaning towards the shell of your ear, his exhaling breath tickled your neck.

“I’m broken, _____...” Yoongi growled your name like a wild animal; vehement, primal, starved and circling his prey. Licking his lips, he edged closer to you with each breath until your back was pressed into the wall. Shoving his chest harshly, his hands came up to slam against the wall behind you, caging you in; you were right where he wanted you.

“Move,” you demanded. Pushing him away again, you were stopped when he grabbed you by the wrist and brought you closer to him, your bodies now pressed dangerously close to each other.

Not having the time to curse at him, your thoughts were halted halfway when he wrapped his free arm around your waist and held you even tighter than before. You didn’t think there was any space left to move any closer to each other, but you couldn’t have been more wrong.

Glaring at him with nothing but hatred and blind rage, you noticed that his pupils were completely blown with lust. The once brown eyes were now obsidian black as you felt them stare through you like a crystal clear lens.

Whether it was a whirlwind of poor judgment, lack of rational decision-making skills, loss of sanity or a deadly concoction of all three, it didn’t matter because in the blink of an eye, Yoongi’s mouth collided against yours in a frenzied kiss.

Locking his lips onto yours, you couldn’t hold back the audible gasp that escaped. He gripped both of your wrists and pinned them back against the wall and used your moment of surprise to begin exploring your mouth with his tongue.

Caught in the heat of the moment and enraged with sexual tension, you found yourself doing the one thing you swore you’d never do in a million years—you were kissing him back. In a battle of colliding teeth and tangled tongues, your body suddenly rushed with lustful desire you had never felt before.

He gripped your wrists tighter when you tried pulling them down, seeing it as an attempt at asserting control; the thing both of you craved above everything else. He could tell that you were holding back and took it in his best interest to coax you by tugging on your lower lip with his teeth, knowing damn well that they were raw from your habit of biting on them.

Whimpering unconsciously, you felt him smirk against your lips. Another breathless gasp escaped when you hoisted you up by your thighs and carried you to the couch. Your hands were finally free from his grasp, allowing you to tangle your fists into his hair while you locked lips again and tug—hard.

Determined to put up a fight, he let out a gravelly groan against your lips, refusing to submit to your attacks. This time, it was you that grinned. When he pulled away from you for a second to take off his shirt, you found yourself gawking at his body. Yoongi wasn’t on the bodybuilder side of the muscular spectrum, but he was built; the perfect combination of his lean figure and perfectly proportioned muscles almost made you drool.

Swallowing your bubbling excitement, you reached down to the hem of your shirt to mirror his actions but he stopped you. Tearing them away from your shirt, he resumed kissed you hungrily, taking the time to pay attention to your now-red and throbbing lips.

You leaned back and went back to raking your hands through his hair as he started placing wet open-mouthed kisses on your neck, sucking bright burgundy bruises into your skin before trailing down to your throat. With his elbows bracing his body weight, Yoongi rubbed his growing arousal over your center, rolling his tongue across his lip when he felt your heat even through the thick fabric of his jeans.

Nibbling on the junction between your collarbone and pulse point, you inhaled sharply when his teeth grated cruelly against the delicate surface. If anything, the pain made you shiver with pleasure and the sudden sensation caused the heat between your legs to throb with anticipation.

Soon enough, his hands had made their way down to your jeans and were swiftly undoing the buttons and zipper. He grumbled in dissatisfaction when he had to pull away from your lips to try and find the metal clasp, making you giggle in amusement at his concentrated pouty face. The abruptly forceful tug that came from him pulling your pants down your thighs made you scoot down the couch, causing another breathy chuckle to emit from your chest.

With two more pulls, your jeans were tossed haphazardly across the room and strewn lazily on the chair along with Yoongi’s shirt. Reaching for you again, he laced his fingers through yours and brought his face close, breath fanning against your lips teasingly.

“I need you to beg, _____.” You couldn’t filter out how he said your name with an alluringly throaty voice. For what, to take your shirt off? With the same piercing gaze, you couldn’t do anything except breathe heavily. Moving back down to your legs, he repeated the same process of biting and sucking deep purple marks into your thighs, leaving a pattern of blossoming bruises to admire later.

His painstakingly slow but calculated steps made your body writhe in frustration. Your temperature was beginning to rise, making the loose sweater you were wearing stick to your body. It felt like you were sweating bullets. Looking down at Yoongi, you almost jumped when you saw that his eyes were already locked on yours with a shit-eating grin. Studying your tense face with his dark eyes, he continued leaving marks along your thighs and hipbones.

The cheeky fucker was teasing you.

“Fuck, Yoongi,” you swore, pressing your hand against your forehead and shutting your eyes in annoyance. “You win, just fucking do something—anything, God.”

Not wasting another second, he ripped your underwear off and balled it in his fist before tossing it into the pile across the room. Before the cold air got a chance to hit your skin, he delved facefirst into your dripping core, lapping at your pussy as if it was his last meal. You try to contain your moans by cupping one hand over your mouth and using the other to grip the cushion for support, but he guides the one holding back your pleasurable sounds to his hair, clenching it tightly in a silent plea for you to grip harder.

Switching between delicate, broad licks across your entire slit and teasing strokes with the flat-edge of his tongue, you almost screamed when he sucked harshly on your clit, causing you to jolt.

“Fuck—my shirt, Yoongi,” you beg, desperate to pry the clinging fabric off of your sweaty body. It felt like you were being suffocated and you couldn’t tell whether you were lightheaded from the stuffiness of the room or Yoongi’s unforgiving tongue.

“Busy,” he replied, voice coming out muffled because he refused to pull away from your cunt. Hurrying to strip down, you were grateful you decided to forgo a bra earlier.

Your topless state forced Yoongi to direct his attention back up to your body. Licking his lips ardently, you felt yourself gush at the view; your wetness coated his lips and cheeks and glistened down his chin in a sight that was so wrong but felt so right. Diving back into your throbbing core, you felt your body hum with pleasure, the buzz of your orgasm nearing at just an arm’s length away.

Yoongi sensed this by the way you were grinding into his face to gain more friction. Locking his hands around your thighs, he lapped mercilessly at your swollen lips. All rational thoughts flew out the window when he finally slid two of his long fingers into your tight heat and accompanied the deep pumps with torturous sucks. Within moments, your body exploded into a euphoric release of moans and pants as you rolled yourself against his mouth.

When he pulled away on the verge of overstimulation, your hands were still tangled in his blonde tresses. Rather than continue pulling at his roots, however, your fingertips stroked the length of his hair softly, rewarding him for bringing you to your release. Wiping his face with his fingers, your eyes widened when he popped them into his mouth and sucked off what remained—all while keeping his eyes glued on you.

Moving back up to kiss you, you moaned into him when you tasted yourself all over his mouth. Swirling his tongue around yours, Yoongi was deliberate in making sure that you’d taste your release off of him, determined to let you know that he was the only one who would ever be able to make you feel this good.

“I need you, _____,” he murmured into your ear. “Please...” Yoongi spoke breathlessly, the lines of control and carnal need smudging together in a blur of lust and yearning as he tried to control himself.

Still breathing heavily under his caged hold, your heart was still hammering against your chest at a million miles a minute. “Pill,” you replied in a rushed tone, an urgency of longing and eagerness engulf you.

Fumbling with his jeans, Yoongi swore at the metal-ringed belt he decided to wear today. Your shoulders shook slightly as you tried to hold back a giggle. Who knew that the big bad wolf was also the biggest dork in the bedroom? He finally freed himself from his jeans, pulling them along with his boxers down his thighs and causing his muscles to flex with the slightest movement he made.

You found yourself licking your lips at his fully exposed state; the dim lights made his svelte body all the more defined, accentuating the V-line of his abdomen that led to his immaculate member. You weren’t one to go down on your partners for your own pleasure, but something about Yoongi made you want to consume him. Just as you were about to sit up, he read your mind like an open book.

Hovering over you, his lips connected with yours again and pressed you back into the sofa. “Next time,” he assured. “I need you now.” The utter desperation laced in his voice made you whimper against his mouth.

Reaching down stealthily, you gripped him gently and began pumping his hard length with slow, teasing strokes, grinning in satisfaction when he fluttered his eyes shut and moaned at the contact. Spreading the dripping bead of precum over his sensitive slit with your thumb, it took everything you had not to take advantage of his submissive state and blow him. God, you wanted him in your mouth so badly...

Cupping your face with his hands with haste, he kissed you sloppily before guiding his cock into your entrance. Rubbing over your slit with the newly formed bead of arousal that coated his tip, Yoongi’s sense of need grew dangerously desperate; he hadn’t even started and already he didn’t want it to end. Unable to cage your own temptation any longer, you grabbed him by his hips and urged him forward, making him enter you in one swift thrust.

The sudden linking of your two bodies made both of you groan in unison. He was bigger than you thought. The delicious sensation of feeling full and one with Yoongi was already a lot for you to handle—how would you feel once he actually started moving? Reading your expression, he looked at you with an expression you couldn’t read before kissing you again. You needed him to move so fucking bad. Voicing your thoughts physically, you lifted your hips up in the hopes that he would get the message.

After a moment of resistance, he couldn’t contain himself. Pulling out all the way, he bottomed out completely, repeating the action as he began moving against your body with even-timed thrusts. You threw your head back in pleasure at the senses that were being stimulated; the feel of him inside you, the smell of his shampoo and light cologne, the plushness of his lips, the rough texture of his hair, the sounds of your combined moans, and the undeniable feeling of finally being connected.

Every few seconds, he gave you a particularly harsh thrust, making you cup a hand over your mouth to mute your sobs of intense pleasure, but of course, Yoongi absolutely despised it. How dare you silence your melodic moans that he was hellbent on making you produce? Tearing your hand away from your mouth, he laced his fingers through yours and held your throat securely with his other hand, not applying any pressure just yet.

“I need to hear your moans, _____,” he panted heavily, an idle grin grazing over his face as he began pounding into you harder, only choosing to tighten his grip around your throat when your mouth parted in a gasp.

There was your name again. And that word: need. Not want, but need.

Gasping at his stark change of pace, your head lifted off of the cushion, making his hands tense around your throat. “Fuck, Yoongi,” you sputtered out, determined to hold back your moans for as long as you could.

Seeing this, Yoongi’s jaw clenched. Pulling his fingers off of your throat and away from your hands, he cupped your breasts with his large hands and kept his grip firm, refusing to do anything more than that. Two could play at that game.

“Please, _____,” he pleaded, pausing his thrusts and changing to grind painfully slow into you while pinching your nipples between his fingers. Biting down on his lip hard enough to break the skin, it was evident that it was pure torture for him and that your pride would be the death of both of you.

Lacing your fingers through his disheveled hair gently, you kissed him deeply, wordlessly telling him that you needed him just as badly—if not, more—than he needed you.

It didn’t take Yoongi more than a second to pick up his relentless thrusts again, pounding into you like there was no tomorrow. You could already tell you weren’t going to be able to walk anytime soon. As you grew tighter around him with each thrust, the two of you became a panting mess of animalistic moans.

Your hands were either clawing red stripes down his bare back or tugging at his hair, while his hands switched off between massaging your breasts and playing with your nipples to holding you by your hips to drill into you harder. When you tugged him down by his hair to your lips, you left a trail of blooming marks along his throat, mirroring the exact same ones he made sure to leave on you. Finalizing your masterpiece by licking a stripe up the side of his pulse point, he grunted into the crook of your neck, snapping his hips instinctually at the fervent sensation.

Clamping his teeth down on your neck, your core clenched around him immediately, digging crescents into his biceps with your nails to grip onto whatever sanity you had left. Releasing your breast and replacing it with his warm mouth, his hand moved down to rub quick circles on your clit, making you scream with pleasure. Thank God for soundproof walls.

“Yoongi—” you sputtered, no longer able to form coherent words.

Switching to the other breast, he sucked at the neglected nipple and swirled his tongue around the bud tantalizingly, begging you to cum.

“Cum for me, _____,” he ordered. And with a single word, you gasped sharply as you erupted into a surge of pure bliss. Sheer ecstasy overtook your senses like a high you couldn’t get enough of. The satisfying heat of your release spread from your lower abdomen to your panting chest, rising up to form the post-orgasm glow on your face that had Yoongi under your spell.

“_____,” he moaned deeply. His eyes were screwed shut in utter bliss as his thrusts became uneven and urgent, signaling his release. The fact that you were still clenching around him made him let out muffled whimpers into your neck and the vibrations of his throaty gasps made you hum in delight.

“Cum for me, Yoongi,” you edged, repeating the words that he spoke mere moments ago while holding him close. On the brink of overstimulation, he bared his mouth in a silent hiss and snapped his hips into you roughly before letting out a guttural groan, burying himself hilt deep. His cock throbbed against your cunt as he came deep inside of you, releasing strings of warmth that coated your walls completely. While still buried inside your heat, he rolled his hips against yours, wanting nothing more than to push his release deep into you so that you knew you were his.

Your insides clenched tightly when his cum dripped out. Pressing a final kiss to your raw lips, his member twitched a few more times before he pulled out slowly, making sure that as much of his seed remained inside of you as possible. Feeling it flow down your ass, you weren’t able to hold back the moan that came when you felt Yoongi collect it with his fingers and push it back inside of you. Your sensitive state caused you to arch your back and prop yourself up on your elbows and watch as he started pumping his fingers.

“Yoongi—” you hummed, rolling your head back as he concentrated on cleaning up your dripping center. Scissoring your combined releases in between his two fingers, he pulled them out slowly, making a string of wetness trail from his fingertips to your cunt. Popping them into his mouth, your jaw dropped as he sucked off the mixture from his fingers deliciously, smirking at your reaction. Right when you were about to comment on his actions, he buried his fingers knuckle-deep back inside you and curled them sinfully, making your breath hitch in your throat.

This time when he pulled out, you grabbed his wrist and guided his sticky fingers into your mouth, swirling your tongue around the unholy essence and humming at the oddly satisfying taste. Yoongi’s eyes remained fixed on you as his tongue darted out to lick off the remaining wetness from his lower lip, desperately wanting to taste whatever remained of your combined highs as possible.

His lips pressed firmly onto yours the moment after your tongue traced a circle around your lips, the earlier battle of clashing teeth and tongues now soft and nurturing; a complete change of mood from earlier.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he chuckled with lips still connected to yours. Smiling against his mouth, you stroked his cheek softly, scooting over as he made room for himself beside you. Reaching over the edge of the couch, Yoongi grabbed the large throw blanket and draped it over your bodies and snuggled into you like a pillow. He wrapped his arms around your body and nuzzled his nose into you while he began placing soft kisses along the valley of your breasts.

Cradling his head tenderly, you ran your fingers through Yoongi’s tousled hair and felt his breaths become calm and even, the soothing action lulling him into a deep slumber. Slowly but surely, you too felt your eyelids droop as the weight of sleep consumed you.

The morning after trope was always a fun story to tell. A gigantic yawn spilled from your mouth as you stretched out your arms like old tree limbs. When your fingertips brushed the cold surface of a wooden headboard, your eyes flew wide open and you sat up like a shot fired from a cannon. Blood rushed to your head immediately as rays of sunlight blinded you, making you scrunch your entire face and smack your hand against your temple.

Your mouth felt dry as a chalky taste coated your tongue, becoming more apparent now that you were fully awake. What time was it? What happened last night? When did you buy black pajamas? Why was it so goddamn sunny?

Groaning, you cocked your head side to side to stretch your cramped neck, probably from sleeping in a position that had you ready to be shipped to Costa Rica. Feeling around the small twin-sized bed, a large puffy white linen blanket covered your body and you looked around to see that you were in one of the dorm rooms.

Minimally decorated and tidy, the only thing that seemed to distinguish the room from an IKEA display was the disarray of papers scattered across the desk and the uncovered digital piano that was set up next to it.

A rustling beside you made you jolt in surprise and clutch the blanket over your body tightly. With eyes the opened to the size of flying saucers, you stretched your neck over the bundled lump of the blanket and could only make out the fuzzy cap of blonde hair. As if your timing couldn’t get any better, a hand suddenly reached from under the crumpled fabric and grabbed you by the wrist, dragging you back down into the warm sheets. Landing on the mattress with a soft thump, your eyes came face-to-face with none other than the sleeping giant himself.

You got into an argument yesterday.

With Min Yoongi.

You had sex last night. In the practice room.

With Min Yoongi.

And you were now wide awake and sharing a bed.

With Min Yoongi.

As if life couldn’t get any better, the slight rustle of sheets beside you slapped you back into reality.

This time, you had nowhere to escape.

you know where to find part 2 ;)

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gothvince · 5 years

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i finally figured out the premise i want 4 my Fake Cartoon Reboot and im gonna ramble about it under the cut bc its my fav project to work on,

ok so basically.

one of my favourite things about the story as a whole is lydia’s parental bond with the maitlands, and i want to focus on that in this Hypothetical Reboot. so i’m thinkin, the show is set about a year after the events of the movie (putting lydia at age 16) and it’s at this point that delia and charles have gone off on vacation/back to nyc to work/Generic Excuse To Get Rid Of Them. they’ve become a relatively happy family w the maitlands so now that lydia’s 16, they’re comfortable leaving her alone - with the maitlands there to take care of her!!

so lyds lives in the creepy haunted house on top of a hill, alone, with 2 ghosts. she’s friends with beej at this point too, they’re at the point where theyre best friends like in the cartoon. beej has a very uhhh... strained relationship with the maitlands because they dont trust him for good reason, so he avoids the attic 100% of the time. the maitlands have a door drawn on their wall in chalk that features as an entrance to the netherworld but they only use it when absolutely necessary.

so. it’s summer. lyds hasnt started at the new school yet - she doesnt rlly have any friends in the town nd was homeschooled for a while but decided she wanted to start school for real. so she’s the new kid and she’s nervous but excited!! anyway like.

prudence and bertha are best friends and dared each other to go investigate the Creepy Haunted House so they go up and hover outside for a while, scared to go in. working up the courage. beej sees them, makes the door creak open on its own, just because he thinks it’d be funny to freak them out. they go inside, they’re looking around, they’re absolutely terrified by delias sculptures. its like 10pm, lyds comes downstairs for a snack and right as BJ is about to scare the living daylights out of these 2 kids she enters the living room and runs in2 them. and thus begins their friendship!!! she’s v good natured about them sneaking in, shares their hesitant enthusiasm for all things spooky and haunted, and invites them upstairs for a movie marathon. they end up spending a lot of the summer together. lyds convinces them she lives alone, which bertha and prudence thing is way cool

but YEAH a lot of it wld focus on lydia making friends, and the maitlands + beej having to deal with her like... growing up, and spending more time away from the house. i dont want to write out charles and delia entirely, so they skype her pretty much all the time to check in and they maintain a really healthy relationship!!! theres one episode i have an idea for where lydia travels to new york to visit, and the ep focuses on the maitlands and beej dealing with the empty house and coming to terms w the fact theyre not gonna have lyds around forever.

all this punctuated by wacky adventures to the neitherworld and beej causing trouble! i really love jacques, ginger, the monster across the street and doomie -- i wanna keep them in this reboot. so that part of the cartoon i’d like to keep: the idea that the neitherworld is really just ... very similar to the real world w like houses nd jobs nd shit (we’re KEEPING the civil servant plot point its A GOOD CONCEPT i dont CARE if its too dark for a kids show its just gonna be implied and miss argentinas gonna be a recurring character)

i’ve also written about bertha + prudence + claire over here if anyones interested!!!

#IM PASSIONATE ABOUT THIS!!!#fake reboot tag

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11shimizuhirono · 5 years

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Personality Type

Personality type

Quiz: Here Tagged by: @izumi-kanai

Your Results

Role: Explorer Strategy: People mastery Personality type: “The entrepreneur” (ESTP-A) Individual traits: Extraverted - 71 %. Observant - 79%. Thinking - 90%. Prospecting - 82 %. Assertive - 82%.

Entrepreneurs always have an impact on their immediate surroundings – the best way to spot them at a party is to look for the whirling eddy of people flitting about them as they move from group to group. Laughing and entertaining with a blunt and earthy humor, Entrepreneur personalities love to be the center of attention. If an audience member is asked to come on stage, Entrepreneurs volunteer – or volunteer a shy friend.

Theory, abstract concepts and plodding discussions about global issues and their implications don’t keep Entrepreneurs interested for long. Entrepreneurs keep their conversation energetic, with a good dose of intelligence, but they like to talk about what is – or better yet, to just go out and do it. Entrepreneurs leap before they look, fixing their mistakes as they go, rather than sitting idle, preparing contingencies and escape clauses.

Never Confuse Movement With Action

Entrepreneurs are the likeliest personality type to make a lifestyle of risky behavior. They live in the moment and dive into the action – they are the eye of the storm. People with the Entrepreneur personality type enjoy drama, passion, and pleasure, not for emotional thrills, but because it’s so stimulating to their logical minds. They are forced to make critical decisions based on factual, immediate reality in a process of rapid-fire rational stimulus response.

This makes school and other highly organized environments a challenge for Entrepreneurs. It certainly isn’t because they aren’t smart, and they can do well, but the regimented, lecturing approach of formal education is just so far from the hands-on learning that Entrepreneurs enjoy. It takes a great deal of maturity to see this process as a necessary means to an end, something that creates more exciting opportunities.

Also challenging is that to Entrepreneurs, it makes more sense to use their own moral compass than someone else’s. Rules were made to be broken. This is a sentiment few high school instructors or corporate supervisors are likely to share, and can earn Entrepreneur personalities a certain reputation. But if they minimize the trouble-making, harness their energy, and focus through the boring stuff, Entrepreneurs are a force to be reckoned with.

Most People Don’t Listen Well Enough

With perhaps the most perceptive, unfiltered view of any type, Entrepreneurs have a unique skill in noticing small changes. Whether a shift in facial expression, a new clothing style, or a broken habit, people with this personality type pick up on hidden thoughts and motives where most types would be lucky to pick up anything specific at all. Entrepreneurs use these observations immediately, calling out the change and asking questions, often with little regard for sensitivity. Entrepreneurs should remember that not everyone wants their secrets and decisions broadcast.

Sometimes Entrepreneurs’ instantaneous observation and action is just what’s required, as in some corporate environments, and especially in emergencies.

If Entrepreneurs aren’t careful though, they may get too caught in the moment, take things too far, and run roughshod over more sensitive people, or forget to take care of their own health and safety. Making up only four percent of the population, there are just enough Entrepreneurs out there to keep things spicy and competitive, and not so many as to cause a systemic risk.

Entrepreneurs are full of passion and energy, complemented by a rational, if sometimes distracted, mind. Inspiring, convincing and colorful, they are natural group leaders, pulling everyone along the path less traveled, bringing life and excitement everywhere they go. Putting these qualities to a constructive and rewarding end is Entrepreneurs’ true challenge.

Entrepreneur Strengths

Bold – People with the Entrepreneur personality type are full of life and energy. There is no greater joy for Entrepreneurs than pushing boundaries and discovering and using new things and ideas.

Rational and Practical – Entrepreneurs love knowledge and philosophy, but not for their own sake. What’s fun for Entrepreneur personalities is finding ideas that are actionable and drilling into the details so they can put them to use. If a discussion is completely arbitrary, there are better uses for Entrepreneurs’ time.

Original – Combining their boldness and practicality, Entrepreneurs love to experiment with new ideas and solutions. They put things together in ways no one else would think to.

Perceptive – This originality is helped by Entrepreneurs’ ability to notice when things change – and when they need to change! Small shifts in habits and appearances stick out to Entrepreneurs, and they use these observations to help create connections with others.

Direct – This perceptive skill isn’t used for mind games – Entrepreneurs prefer to communicate clearly, with direct and factual questions and answers. Things are what they are.

Sociable – All these qualities pull together to make a natural group leader in Entrepreneurs. This isn’t something that they actively seek – people with this personality type just have a knack for making excellent use of social interactions and networking opportunities.

Entrepreneur Weaknesses

Insensitive – Feelings and emotions come second to facts and “reality” for Entrepreneurs. Emotionally charged situations are awkward, uncomfortable affairs, and Entrepreneurs’ blunt honesty doesn’t help here. These personalities often have a lot of trouble acknowledging and expressing their own feelings as well.

Impatient – Entrepreneurs move at their own pace to keep themselves excited. Slowing down because someone else “doesn’t get it” or having to stay focused on a single detail for too long is extremely challenging for Entrepreneurs.

Risk-prone – This impatience can lead Entrepreneurs to push into uncharted territory without thinking of the long-term consequences. Entrepreneur personalities sometimes intentionally combat boredom with extra risk.

Unstructured – Entrepreneurs see an opportunity – to fix a problem, to advance, to have fun – and seize the moment, often ignoring rules and social expectations in the process. This may get things done, but it can create unexpected social fallout.

May Miss the Bigger Picture – Living in the moment can cause Entrepreneurs to miss the forest for the trees. People with this personality type love to solve problems here and now, perhaps too much. All parts of a project can be perfect, but the project will still fail if those parts do not fit together.

Defiant – Entrepreneurs won’t be boxed in. Repetition, hardline rules, sitting quietly while they are lectured at – this isn’t how Entrepreneurs live their lives. They are action-oriented and hands-on. Environments like school and much entry-level work can be so tedious that they’re intolerable, requiring extraordinary effort from Entrepreneurs to stay focused long enough to get to freer positions.

ENTREPRENEUR RELATIONSHIPS

When it comes to romantic relationships, people with the Entrepreneur personality type can hardly be said to be pining away for their wedding day. Life is fun and full of surprises (something Entrepreneurs have particular skill in delivering), and they enjoy it all in the here and now. Entrepreneurs may not spend a lot of time planning for “someday”, but their enthusiasm and unpredictability make them thrilling dating partners.

Entrepreneurs’ relationships are far from boring. Their improvisational style creates a seemingly never-ending list of activities and hobbies to be involved in, and Entrepreneurs fully encourage their partners to partake.

Entrepreneurs love new ideas and the occasional philosophical discussion – but they need to be topics that can explored through action together, not just idle talk. There’s musing about the causes and effects of epidemic obesity, and there’s training for a marathon together to promote healthy living.

As Good as Spring Itself

Sexually, Entrepreneurs have no real reservations. It’s fun, it’s physically enjoyable, new ideas are always welcome, and Entrepreneur personalities’ strong perception keeps them well-tuned to their partners’ needs. However, Entrepreneurs’ separation of the physical act from the more emotional and spiritual connections that many other types look for in intimacy can be a serious source of tension if everybody isn’t on the same page. Some types need sex to be a genuine expression of love – Entrepreneurs just aren’t one of them.

As time passes, it can be challenging for Entrepreneurs to move their relationships to deeper, more emotionally intimate levels. Easily bored, people with the Entrepreneur personality type seek constant excitement – sometimes even intentionally exposing themselves to risk if they feel stuck. If their partners aren’t able to keep up, Entrepreneurs may just end up looking for someone new. It’s not that Entrepreneur personalities are unfaithful. Rather, they may think to themselves “This isn’t working, so why should I pretend it is?” Entrepreneurs are rational, and can exercise self-control if they choose, but being as charming and popular as they are, it can sometimes be a little too easy to move on.

Travel Only With Those You Love

As with any relationship, it takes work and patience. Not every day can be a thrill a minute. But Entrepreneurs are adaptable, curious individuals, which certainly helps to keep the flame burning. Maintaining healthy relationships is the ultimate chance for Entrepreneurs to exercise their talents in perceiving every change in their partners’ mood and behavior, while also using their problem-solving abilities to address their needs. Entrepreneurs can also strengthen more neglected traits, like emotional sensitivity and long-term planning.

ENTREPRENEUR FRIENDS

People with the Entrepreneur personality type are definitely the life of the party. With an enviable imagination and invigorating sense of spontaneity, Entrepreneurs are never boring. They love exploring interesting ideas, both in discussion and by going out and seeing for themselves, which means that Entrepreneurs always seem to have some fun activity hidden up their sleeves. At the same time, Entrepreneur personalities are easy-going, tolerant, and charming, making them naturally quite popular.

When I Have an Idea, I Turn Down the Flame...

Hands-on, physical activities like team sports are Entrepreneurs’ idea of fun, and these environments give them plenty of chances to make new friends. There is little difficulty for Entrepreneurs here – they seem to get along with just about everyone, and make new friends wherever they go. Entrepreneurs live in the moment, and as a naturally confident personality type (especially if they are Assertive as well), they don’t worry much about what others think of them. This attracts friends who share their attitude and zest for life.

While not opposed to long philosophical discussions, and often enjoying the intellectual exercise, Entrepreneurs are unlikely to develop friendships based solely around one-on-one discussions about European economic challenges and the role of religion in politics. Straightforward to the point of being blunt, Entrepreneurs call it like they see it, and an honest opinion in debate is a sure thing. But at their hearts, Entrepreneurs are people of action, preferring to do what can be done than to talk about what might someday be.

...Eventually It Builds Up and Explodes – That’s My Idea

Sitting idle, especially in boredom, is the bane of Entrepreneurs’ existence.

Exploration, excitement, adrenaline and risk – Entrepreneurs’ friends should be prepared for all of these things. Often enough they’re happy to perform for the crowd, but they also tend to encourage their friends to join in. Most personality types might take “thanks but no thanks” personally, but Entrepreneurs are comfortable with who they are, and are more likely to just shrug their shoulders and move on with those friends who are game for adventure.

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marykatehood · 6 years

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“Life is either a daring adventure or nothing at all.”

- Helen Keller

ENTREPRENEUR PERSONALITY (ESTP, -A/-T)

Never Confuse Movement With Action

Most People Don’t Listen Well Enough

Sometimes Entrepreneurs’ instantaneous observation and action is just what’s required, as in some corporate environments, and especially in emergencies.

ENTREPRENEUR STRENGTHS AND WEAKNESSES

Entrepreneur Strengths

Bold – People with the Entrepreneur personality type are full of life and energy. There is no greater joy for Entrepreneurs than pushing boundaries and discovering and using new things and ideas.

Original – Combining their boldness and practicality, Entrepreneurs love to experiment with new ideas and solutions. They put things together in ways no one else would think to.

Direct – This perceptive skill isn’t used for mind games – Entrepreneurs prefer to communicate clearly, with direct and factual questions and answers. Things are what they are.

Entrepreneur Weaknesses

ENTREPRENEUR RELATIONSHIPS

As Good as Spring Itself

Travel Only With Those You Love

ENTREPRENEUR FRIENDS

When I Have an Idea, I Turn Down the Flame...

...Eventually It Builds Up and Explodes – That’s My Idea

Sitting idle, especially in boredom, is the bane of Entrepreneurs’ existence.

ENTREPRENEUR PARENTS

In a lot of ways, Entrepreneurs are what many children would consider the perfect parent. Fun-loving and playful, flexible and understanding, people with the Entrepreneur personality type genuinely enjoy spending time with their children, and know how to make sure everyone is having a good time. Entrepreneurs have a natural curiosity and spontaneity that is perfectly matched to the wonder and insatiable desire to learn that young children have.

Looking at Everything as if for the First Time

Entrepreneurs love hands-on activities, and their children aren’t left wanting for someone to play catch with, or to help them build a model for school. Sports, hiking, and other practical, hands-on hobbies are all welcomed and encouraged. At the same time, given their aversion to rules and schedules themselves, Entrepreneurs aren’t likely to forcibly enter their children into all manner of clubs and teams. If their kids want to play softball, great – if not, well, they’ll just find something else to do.

Maybe the greatest thing about Entrepreneur parents is that they see their children as equal members of the family.

Entrepreneurs give their children freedom, encourage them to use their own judgment (especially with the minor stuff), and to follow their hearts – to heck with what other people think. Entrepreneur personalities keep a close enough eye on their kids, using that knack for picking up on even the slightest changes in others’ moods and habits, that they can step in with extra guidance when things start to go wrong.

Entrepreneurs do have one significant parental challenge though: emotional bonding. Feelings tend to be seen by Entrepreneurs as a bit of an irrational distraction, rather than a tool for expression and connection. If their children happen to be more sensitive, this can be a source of tension between Entrepreneurs and their children. Frank honesty isn’t always the best prescription.

We Are All Apprentices in a Craft Where No One Is Master

Still, Entrepreneurs can often rely on a more sensitive partner to help them out in this regard, and the healthy bonds they form through their shared activities can help to bridge the gap. Entrepreneurs have the added benefit of direct and understanding relationships – their children won’t feel so much like they have to hide their mistakes and challenges, the holy grail of parent-child communication.

ENTREPRENEUR CAREERS

When it comes to Entrepreneurs’ career options, “action” is the word of the day. People with the Entrepreneur personality type think on their feet and are great at making quick decisions in the heat of the moment. At the same time, they’re affable people who always seem to make friends and connections wherever they go. Popularity and solid networking can be huge assets in the working world, and Entrepreneurs nail it.

This social intelligence, combined with Entrepreneurs’ natural boldness and improvisational skill, makes sales, business negotiations, marketing, even acting – any tense, competitive environment – a great fit. Entrepreneur personalities trust themselves to make the right call. Risks, big and small, are a part of life, and Entrepreneurs don’t sit around waiting for some boss at the top to tell them what to do. This can get Entrepreneurs into trouble, but often enough it’s exactly what’s needed, and can boost them up the career ladder just as well.

It’s hard to imagine Entrepreneurs choosing secure but boring jobs over less stable but more exciting careers.

Restrictions, rules, highly structured environments – these are great ways to drive Entrepreneurs crazy. People with this personality type live life on their own terms, and this makes them brilliant business people and freelancers. These roles also allow them to delegate the more tedious aspects of work, the accounting, meticulous research and so forth, to those better suited.

Entrepreneurs are curious, energetic people with a taste for action. There are those who analyze and manage the logistics of public safety resource distribution, and there are those who drive the ambulances, patrol the streets, and save lives with their own two hands – Entrepreneur personalities are the latter. They are highly observant yet impatient, enabling them to take in the whole of a situation at a glance, and act. Any emergency response role is great for Entrepreneurs, whether it be as paramedics, police officers, or soldiers.

There’s Nothing to It – Just Sit Down and Bleed Your Passion

This quality of living in the moment and craving immediate results for their efforts translates well into another field: sports. The thrill of competition, of pushing themselves to the physical limit to rack up just one more point for the win can have no comparison for Entrepreneurs. Whether they are on the field as athletes themselves, coaching from the sidelines or commentating from high above, people with the Entrepreneur personality type revel in well-honed team effort and a well-executed plan, and any of these positions makes a fine line of work for them.

ENTREPRENEUR IN THE WORKPLACE

In just about any environment, the workplace included, it’s pretty easy to spot Entrepreneurs. Boisterous and spontaneous, fun-loving and maybe a little crass, people with the Entrepreneur personality type love tackling problems as they arise and telling great stories about their solutions afterwards. Naturally, some positions work better with these qualities than others, but Entrepreneurs are adaptable individuals, and can find a way to make just about any situation a little more interesting.

Entrepreneur Subordinates

Entrepreneurs’ most challenging position is the one that most people have to start out in: as subordinates. While perfectly capable of exercising restraint on their own terms, Entrepreneur personalities hate having others’ rules and regulations foisted upon them. Entrepreneurs are known for their experimentation, improvisation and quick thinking – if they’re not allowed to use these qualities and have to check in with a supervisor for every little thing, they’ll be bored and frustrated.

Entrepreneurs know well that risk equals reward, and they’ll gladly skirt more mundane tasks in favor of something a little more exciting, in the hope that it catches someone’s attention. A plaque and a bonus go a long way for people with this personality type. Getting ahead by the tenets of staid reliability, quiet helpfulness, or mere seniority isn’t Entrepreneurs’ way – they move forward by sheer force of personality in a well-handled crisis.

Entrepreneur Colleagues

As colleagues, Entrepreneurs have a work hard, play hard mentality – as long as everyone else is pulling their weight, they’ll gladly pull their own, and have a great time doing it. Charming and popular individuals that they are, networking comes naturally to Entrepreneurs. These qualities make it easy for Entrepreneur personalities to get along with just about anyone.

At the same time, if Entrepreneurs see a colleague as incompetent, or worse, lazy, they let them know in no uncertain terms. Emotional sensitivity is not their strong suit. Entrepreneurs are very observant and well-tuned to changes in their colleagues’ habits and moods – unless they themselves are the cause of distress.

Entrepreneur Managers

Management positions are where Entrepreneurs are usually most comfortable, as they often give the most flexibility. Rules and traditions are a bother for people with the Entrepreneur personality type – they’d rather try a bunch of new ideas with a chance of getting things done faster or better than to pay attention to “the way things have always been done” or subordinates’ comfort with experimentation. Entrepreneurs are practical, with a focus on what does, or could, work best.

This can make for a chaotic environment, but Entrepreneurs’ inspiring cult of personality makes them well-suited to handling such a thing. Entrepreneurs enjoy living in the moment. Rather than some broad, intangible future accomplishment like “making customers happy”, Entrepreneur personalities set small, clear, measurable, and attainable goals that keep things on track day-to-day, and hearty congratulations can always be relied on for a job well done. Entrepreneurs keep their eyes on the finish line, but they get there step by step.

ENTREPRENEUR PERSONALITY - CONCLUSION

Few personality types are as charming and attractive as Entrepreneurs. Known for their boldness and willingness to improvise, Entrepreneurs are great at finding exciting new things to explore and experience. Entrepreneurs’ creativity and down-to-earth attitude are invaluable in many areas, including their own personal growth.

Yet Entrepreneurs can be easily tripped up in areas where their direct and practical approach is more of a liability than an asset. Whether it is navigating interpersonal conflicts, confronting unpleasant facts, pursuing self-realization, or managing your workload, you need to put in a conscious effort to develop your weaker traits and additional skills.

#scrapbook #about mary kate #mbti #www.16personalities.com #why did i do this instead of replies???

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beingacabronisachoice · 3 years

Text

BOAZ JIMENEZ

I PUT BOAZ THROUGH A PERSONALITY TEST AND THIS IS SO IMPORTANT TO WHO HE IS AS A CHARACTER. I’M POSTING NOT ONLY THE RESULTS BUT WHAT THEY MEAN.

THESE ARE THE RESULTS BOAZ RECEIVED FROM THE 16PERSONALITIES TEST, WHICH CAN BE FOUND HERE AND I ENCOURAGE OTHERS WHO WANT FURTHER INSIGHT AND/OR A CONCISE PERSONALITY DESCRIPTION TO TAKE THIS. IT IS VERY WELL DONE.

RESULTS

ESTP-A: EXTRAVERTED OBSERVANT THINKING PROSPECTING–ASSERTIVE ( THE ENTREPRENEUR )

[ MORE DETAILS BELOW THE CUT. ]

Introduction

Life is either a daring adventure or nothing at all.

Never Confuse Movement With Action

Most People Don’t Listen Well Enough

Sometimes Entrepreneurs’ instantaneous observation and action is just what’s required, as in some corporate environments, and especially in emergencies.

Strengths & Weaknesses

Entrepreneur Strengths

Bold – People with the Entrepreneur personality type are full of life and energy. There is no greater joy for Entrepreneurs than pushing boundaries and discovering and using new things and ideas.

Original – Combining their boldness and practicality, Entrepreneurs love to experiment with new ideas and solutions. They put things together in ways no one else would think to.

Direct – This perceptive skill isn’t used for mind games – Entrepreneurs prefer to communicate clearly, with direct and factual questions and answers. Things are what they are.

Entrepreneur Weaknesses

Romantic Relationships

As Good as Spring Itself

Travel Only With Those You Love

Friendships

When I Have an Idea, I Turn Down the Flame...

...Eventually It Builds Up and Explodes – That’s My Idea

Sitting idle, especially in boredom, is the bane of Entrepreneurs’ existence.

Parenthood

Looking at Everything as if for the First Time

Maybe the greatest thing about Entrepreneur parents is that they see their children as equal members of the family.

We Are All Apprentices in a Craft Where No One Is Master

Career Paths

It’s hard to imagine Entrepreneurs choosing secure but boring jobs over less stable but more exciting careers.

There’s Nothing to It – Just Sit Down and Bleed Your Passion

Workplace Habits

Entrepreneur Subordinates

Entrepreneur Colleagues

Entrepreneur Managers

Conclusion

Few personality types are as charming and attractive as Entrepreneurs. Known for their ability to improvise and focus completely on the present, Entrepreneurs are great at finding exciting new things to explore and experience. Entrepreneurs’ creativity and down-to-earth attitude are invaluable in many areas, including their own personal growth.

#|| a little outside perspective || { headcanons }#|| que los puentes que quemo iluminen el camino || { about boaz }

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