pink camellias
title: pink camellias
pairing: sofia/yoochun (yoofia?)
rating: pg(-13)
warnings: unbeta'd, kind of angsty??, student/teacher (college)
words: 895
a/n: for the birthday girl keyhun! happy birthday sweetie! way to go to being legal! B)
“ah, yes, more,” you moan along the curve of his neck, hands wandering down the lines of his back.
“how much more?” a deep, velvety voice asks, a leg being lifted from the slightly damp sheets, a whimper of pleasure coming from your mouth. you feel a smirk against your collar bones, teeth scraping down down and you’re almost there, chasing white light and--
“miss sofia? sofia?” you snap out of your daydream just to see your coworker still in front of you. he waves a hand over your face, his own contorted in irritated amusement. he drops a pile of papers on the desk and you’re quick to shuffle them into a neat stack.
“glad to see you awake, miss.” you can hear the laughter thinly shielded in the back of his throat. you blush red.
your mouth curls into a sigh. “you can just call me sofia, professor park.”
“and you can just call me yoochun, miss sofia,” he responds in the same tone, but with an amused rise of an eyebrow. you roll your eyes and bring out your red pen to start grading the papers he placed in front of you. he sits down on his swivel chair a desk away and busies himself with the next day’s lesson plan.
you’re a TA for park yoochun’s-- professor park’s-- world literature class; literature is one of your favorite subjects that you unfortunately couldn’t take, and in the beginning, you thought it would be fun to sit and hear one of the famed professor’s lectures on comparative literature, especially with victorian english and postmodern korean. it wasn’t just fun; it was superb. it’s a wonderful class, run by such an enigmatic teacher who cares so much about his subject and you see how much of his life he pours into words that turn into lovely images in audiences’ minds.
you don’t remember how admiration turned into admiration with emotions. maybe it was a day, or a week, but you slowly found aspects of professor park-- yoochun-- that makes him so much more perfect, but so much more human. he drinks his coffee black and almost scalding hot, he likes to gesture a lot when he lectures, he loves loves loves cheesy romantic books and movies, and you found yourself slipping a sticky note of your favorite romcoms on his table one day. the week after, before you drop off graded tests on his desk, you find a yellow sticky note covered with book and song recommendations written in blue scrawl, and a blooming happiness forms in your chest.
sticky notes turn into conversations on coffee cups, and conversations on coffee cups turn into actual verbal conversations, and those turn into late night take out dinner suggestions followed by debates on whether jane eyre had more feminist messages sense and sensibility. his laugh is almost borderline maniacal, face wrinkled with happy canyons around the eyes and mouth.
you hate that you’re in love with a man who literature is created for, the reason why cozy knitted sweaters and rimmed round glasses exist.
yoochun never, in his 9 years of teaching, had a TA like you. sure, he’s had more organized, way more focused TAs, but not one quite like you. there’s a certain softness he reads about in flowery novels that have coffee stains on the corners and cookie crumbs in the creases between pages, and somehow it exists in you. in between his lectures and lesson planning, he notices a lot: the way you nibble on the pen cap before you mark the page with corrections, the way your hair falls around your face oh so delicately like the descriptions of flower girls who run in the fields free from the worries of the world. yoochun dearly dreams of soft girls with even softer hands that hold his face like blown glass pieces, like he’s everything to them. he looks at you from the corner of his eye and sighs, going back to the paper etched with your name and his, a family tree that could be, but at the same time, could not be.
(he hopes one day, maybe in a different book, things could be different.)
you circle a phrase and draw a question mark next to it, finishing off the last essay. it’s mentally exhausting, grading papers that you can clearly see procrastination vomited all over; no wonder professor park-- yoochun, you remind yourself with a small smile-- asked for a TA. yoochun is still working on his lesson, rubbing his eyes momentarily before scratching the paper with his pen.
you drop off your finished work quietly and clear your throat. yoochun snaps his head to look at you.
“oh you’re done,” he says, almost disappointingly. there’s a frown in there somewhere, but he doesn’t show it.
“ah, yes, professor-- i mean, yoochun,” you respond, grip on your bag tightening. blood pounds in your head, too loud to hear his words.
“do you mind waiting a little bit? i was thinking we could,” he pauses, trying to find the right words. ironic, considering he’s a literature professor who should have all the words he needs on the tip of his tongue. “i don’t know, dinner maybe? but not takeout, an actual dinner.”
you hate that his shy but knowing smile has you so whipped.
you find yourself saying yes.
tbc (one day lol o/)
pairing: sofia/yoochun (yoofia?)
rating: pg(-13)
warnings: unbeta'd, kind of angsty??, student/teacher (college)
words: 895
a/n: for the birthday girl keyhun! happy birthday sweetie! way to go to being legal! B)
“ah, yes, more,” you moan along the curve of his neck, hands wandering down the lines of his back.
“how much more?” a deep, velvety voice asks, a leg being lifted from the slightly damp sheets, a whimper of pleasure coming from your mouth. you feel a smirk against your collar bones, teeth scraping down down and you’re almost there, chasing white light and--
“miss sofia? sofia?” you snap out of your daydream just to see your coworker still in front of you. he waves a hand over your face, his own contorted in irritated amusement. he drops a pile of papers on the desk and you’re quick to shuffle them into a neat stack.
“glad to see you awake, miss.” you can hear the laughter thinly shielded in the back of his throat. you blush red.
your mouth curls into a sigh. “you can just call me sofia, professor park.”
“and you can just call me yoochun, miss sofia,” he responds in the same tone, but with an amused rise of an eyebrow. you roll your eyes and bring out your red pen to start grading the papers he placed in front of you. he sits down on his swivel chair a desk away and busies himself with the next day’s lesson plan.
you’re a TA for park yoochun’s-- professor park’s-- world literature class; literature is one of your favorite subjects that you unfortunately couldn’t take, and in the beginning, you thought it would be fun to sit and hear one of the famed professor’s lectures on comparative literature, especially with victorian english and postmodern korean. it wasn’t just fun; it was superb. it’s a wonderful class, run by such an enigmatic teacher who cares so much about his subject and you see how much of his life he pours into words that turn into lovely images in audiences’ minds.
you don’t remember how admiration turned into admiration with emotions. maybe it was a day, or a week, but you slowly found aspects of professor park-- yoochun-- that makes him so much more perfect, but so much more human. he drinks his coffee black and almost scalding hot, he likes to gesture a lot when he lectures, he loves loves loves cheesy romantic books and movies, and you found yourself slipping a sticky note of your favorite romcoms on his table one day. the week after, before you drop off graded tests on his desk, you find a yellow sticky note covered with book and song recommendations written in blue scrawl, and a blooming happiness forms in your chest.
sticky notes turn into conversations on coffee cups, and conversations on coffee cups turn into actual verbal conversations, and those turn into late night take out dinner suggestions followed by debates on whether jane eyre had more feminist messages sense and sensibility. his laugh is almost borderline maniacal, face wrinkled with happy canyons around the eyes and mouth.
you hate that you’re in love with a man who literature is created for, the reason why cozy knitted sweaters and rimmed round glasses exist.
yoochun never, in his 9 years of teaching, had a TA like you. sure, he’s had more organized, way more focused TAs, but not one quite like you. there’s a certain softness he reads about in flowery novels that have coffee stains on the corners and cookie crumbs in the creases between pages, and somehow it exists in you. in between his lectures and lesson planning, he notices a lot: the way you nibble on the pen cap before you mark the page with corrections, the way your hair falls around your face oh so delicately like the descriptions of flower girls who run in the fields free from the worries of the world. yoochun dearly dreams of soft girls with even softer hands that hold his face like blown glass pieces, like he’s everything to them. he looks at you from the corner of his eye and sighs, going back to the paper etched with your name and his, a family tree that could be, but at the same time, could not be.
(he hopes one day, maybe in a different book, things could be different.)
you circle a phrase and draw a question mark next to it, finishing off the last essay. it’s mentally exhausting, grading papers that you can clearly see procrastination vomited all over; no wonder professor park-- yoochun, you remind yourself with a small smile-- asked for a TA. yoochun is still working on his lesson, rubbing his eyes momentarily before scratching the paper with his pen.
you drop off your finished work quietly and clear your throat. yoochun snaps his head to look at you.
“oh you’re done,” he says, almost disappointingly. there’s a frown in there somewhere, but he doesn’t show it.
“ah, yes, professor-- i mean, yoochun,” you respond, grip on your bag tightening. blood pounds in your head, too loud to hear his words.
“do you mind waiting a little bit? i was thinking we could,” he pauses, trying to find the right words. ironic, considering he’s a literature professor who should have all the words he needs on the tip of his tongue. “i don’t know, dinner maybe? but not takeout, an actual dinner.”
you hate that his shy but knowing smile has you so whipped.
you find yourself saying yes.
tbc (one day lol o/)