❝we're not sluts, we're stress relievers❞
seven submissive boys trying to win the affection of one impenetrable gang godmother with a taste for vengeance and repentance all at the same time.
"llıʍ I 'noʎ ɹoɟ ǝɓuɐɥɔ oʇ ǝɯ ʇuɐʍ noʎ ɟı." - bts
est. 2...
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Namjoon was freaking the hell out.
"W-what do you mean, you lost it!?" Namjoon blurted out, flailing his hands around frantically. He was probably scaring his poor elderly professor.
"I-I'm sorry, Namjoon. It's just...there were so many papers and I lost track of where I put them..."
Namjoon took a deep breath and calmed down, massaging his temple as he thought of something to make his poor head stop pounding. Puppies and rainbows! Cupcakes!
Now he was just getting frustrated. I mean, How do you lose a fifty-page paper?!
"It's fine, Professor. I'll just reprint it and send it to you this time." He sighed and pulled an exhausted half-smile on his pretty face.
The elderly man sighed guiltily and tapped his fingers together. "Thank you, Namjoon. Again, I'm very sorry."
Namjoon picked up his leather brown satchel and ran a hand through his light brown hair. He adjusted his thin-framed black glasses before turning towards the exit of the classroom.
"It's fine," Namjoon waved over his shoulder to his professor and gave him a dimpled smile, letting him know that there were no hard feelings. "Goodbye, professor. See you tomorrow!"
With that, Namjoon made his way out of the class and into the hallway, walking briskly towards the exit. He checked the watch that was given to him by the librarian.
6:50 pm
The library closed at 8:30.
"sHiT!" Namjoon exclaimed and burst through the doors to the college entrance. He made his way to the bus stop and took a look at the bus schedule that was waiting there.
The next bus would arrive at approximately 19:00 hours.
That would mean he would have only about an hour and 15 minutes to print and email his fifty-page essay to his professor!
He started hyperventilating, which quickly led to him choking on his own spit. He leaned over his own knees and caught his breath.
How did he choke on air? He ran a callused hand down the exasperated expression that adorned his face. He felt pathetic.
Namjoon straightened his back out and took a deep breath, attempting to calm his quickening heart. He swore one of these days he was going to have a heart attack. But he would still work even in his grave.
The shallow grave he had dug for when he inevitably worked himself to death that is.
He looked out into the horizon to gaze upon the sunset. The sky was glowing a bright soft orange; rivaling that of a tangerine. The sun cast its golden rays down upon the clouds of white making them look as soft as cotton candy, turning them bright red; fire red. They reminded him of his pillows and he felt himself yawn.
