I'll Remodel Your Mind, Hubby!
“I'll remodel your mind, hubby.”
“Tch... all brawn and no brains.” A grumbling voice. But her butt was brutally honest. It wriggled nonstop, hunting for the perfect comfy spot. Squeezing my thigh, squish squish.
That sense of stability. Her petite stature. The size that fit perfectly in my arms. The back of her head nestling against my solar plexus. Her scent wafted up. Damp forest air. Nutty roasted grains. Elma's smell.
“Am I in the way?”
“...No.”
She soon slumped fully against me, tension melting away as she went limp.
“Not bad, I guess. Nice and warm.” Her glasses had slipped down. She nudged them up with her index finger—tap—muttering under her breath. The tips of her ears flushed pink. She'd whined because she wanted to be close, after all. So stubbornly tsundere.
We returned to our respective tasks. Elma turned my lap into her personal chair. She pulled out her tablet and dove into grading answer sheets. I propped my book over her.
One shared space. Us, overlapping. Flip, tap flip, rustle. Nothing but the whisper of turning pages and the stylus drumming away. Dead quiet.
Her small butt perched on my thigh. Her back pressed to my belly. Our body heat mingling.
I read while my free hand explored Elma out of habit. Knead. Knead.
“...Ughh.”
My hand settled over her negligee onto her belly. Soft. Chewy like fresh glutinous rice cake, yet tender like the crumb of bread straight from the oven. Press a finger—sink—release, and it bounced back plump and resilient.
“Hubby...”
“Yeah?”
“Can't concentrate.”
The stylus froze. She didn't turn her head.
“Your hand's too hot...”
“Don't like it?”
“...”
No answer. Instead, she scooted back, pressing closer. Her belly squished so satisfyingly in my palm.
“No. Touch more.”
A tiny whisper. Permission granted. Stroke. Stroke. I rubbed her belly in slow circles. Gave her side a light pinch, traced up along her ribcage. Her body jolted each time. The stylus slipped during grading, slashing a wild line.
‘Partial score 5loooonggibberish’
The score was a mess, but whatever. Not my grade anyway.
Knead knead. My hand grew bolder. Past her waist to her lower belly. Then a bit lower. The junction of thigh and hip. Plump, juicy flesh gripped in my fingers. Fat perfectly compressed in her tiny frame.
“Hah...”
Her legs twitched. Wriggled helplessly.
“Th-there... tickles...”
“So soft.”
“Teasing me for getting chubby right now?”
Her head whipped around. Beyond the slipped glasses, almond eyes—not a hint of venom, just brimming with moisture. Droopy, hazy gaze.
“No. Feels good.”
Mwah. A light kiss on the crown of her head. Her face flushed scarlet.
“...Cheater.”
She snapped her head back. Buried her eyes in the tablet. But the stylus had been idle for ages.
“Hubby... your hands are like magic.”
“Belly hurt?”
“No. When you touch me... I get sleepy...”
She nuzzled her head against my chest. Purring like a contented cat.
“Like drugs.”
I felt the same. Holding this little creature chased away every worldly worry. Complicated equations. College exhaustion. All melted into her soft skin.
Thump, thump, thump. Ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump. Our heartbeats intertwined.
Time slipped by. The window outside grew dim.
‘Kinda sleepy.’
The letters on the page started dancing. Probably the awkward position—my arm was going numb too. Maybe scan it later for the tablet. She'd flip if she knew.
‘How dare you scan my precious textbook!’
‘Trying to leak files?!’
‘What if it tanks sales? You paying?’
Greedy Elma would come charging, but whatever. Feed her something tasty. Pet her. Cuddle. Watch a few of her favorite true crime docs under the covers—she'd cool off quick. Surprisingly simple girl.
Huh? That's weird. Normally her sharp senses would've caught it: ‘You had weird thoughts, didn't you!’ But...
I glanced down into my arms.
“...”
The tablet screen was dark. Her limp hand had dropped the stylus onto my knee. Head drooped.
“Hmmm... snorrre...”
Asleep.
“Snorrre... guh... mumble mumble...” Snoring away, even grinding her teeth a bit.
Makes sense. Warmth, belly rubs—full sleep aid combo.
I leaned down to admire her face. Glasses crooked across her nose tip, leaving a mark on her cheek. Lips slightly parted. Drool trickling down her chin. Who could imagine the fearsome Prof. Elma Bronzebeer, who terrorized undergrads like mice, like this? Just an oblivious little kid snoozing away. The others would never guess, even on their deathbeds.
A strange sense of superiority welled up.
‘Sleeping soundly.’
Carefully slipped off her glasses and set them on the table. Closed my book. Calling it here for today.
As I shifted to stand, worry hit—would she wake? Not a twitch. Instead, she clutched my clothes tighter, burrowing deeper. Sniffing my scent like a content pup.
“So damn cute.”
I scooped her up. Handling her like fragile china. One arm under her butt, the other cradling her back. She burrowed in even more. Total baby koala.
Turned off the lab lights. Opened the secret entrance. Warmth in my arms. Solid little weight. Time to deliver her home just like this.
Elevator. Whirr-.
A faint mechanical hum. Her head nodded in my arms.
“Mmm...”
Sleep-talking.
“...Meat...”
Of course. Even dreams full of food.
“Two-plus... all mine...”
Lips smacked. My chest grew damp. Drool.
“Hubby... ahh...”
Dreaming of me feeding her meat, maybe.
“All stolen... my meat... touch it and...”
A tiny fist thumped my chest.
Laughter burst out. Pfft.
“I'll grill some when we get home.”
“...Mmm... meat...”
“Yes yes, eat up, Your Majesty.”
Whispered. Her closed eyelids fluttered.
“...Queen...”
Lips mumbled.
“Shii... don't say thaaat... stop teasing...”
Hates that even in her dreams, huh. I just chuckled.
Ding-.
Doors opened. Familiar air. Our home. Tonight's dinner: meat party. Hanwoo two-plus.
After dinner. Living room.
Elma demolished two packs of two-plus Hanwoo. Three slices of cake for dessert. Even I was stuffed, picking at scraps. Back sweaty too. Honestly wanna crash.
But Elma's eyes were intense. Like a general marching to war. Dead serious.
“Hubby.”
“Yes.”
“Sit.”
Stern voice. Pointed at the rug before the sofa. I sat obediently, legs crossed.
Elma? Climbed onto the sofa. Not enough—stacked three memory foam cushions and stepped up.
“Ahem, ahem.”
Pointer in hand from who-knows-where. Those damn fashion glasses. She flicked up the slipping ones with her index finger.
“Tonight.”
The pointer sliced the air. Whoosh. Tip aimed square at my crown.
“I'll remodel your mind, hubby.”
“...Remodel?”
Unsettling. Finally turning me into a cyborg? ‘Flesh is weak’ or some nonsense?
“Yeah! My husband has to at least top the midterms!”
Phew. Just cramming.
“Dr. Elma Bronzebeer's husband flunking A+? What about my reputation? People'll whisper, ‘Prof can't even keep house’!”
“No one knows I'm your husband.”
“Argh, whatever! Even if they don't... ugh... just deal with it!”
Elma stomped her feet. Irritably shoved up her glasses again.
“Public and private separate. From now on, I'm not your wife—I'm Prof. Elma Bronzebeer. Got it? Student.”
“Y-yes, Professor.”
I nodded with a smirk. Tiny prof gripping a white board marker. Snap—golems popped out. Whiteboard sheet installed on living room wall. Whirr- projector on. PPT screen up.
She smacked the sheet with the pointer. Smack smack.
“Focus! Exam scope starts with non-linear mana circuits.”
The lecture began. Genius magitech engineer. Youngest full professor. Getting her legendary lessons as 1:1 tutoring? Tuition fully justified.
Or so I thought...
“Okay, inject mana here.”
She drew a circle over the PPT.
“Circuit activates, right?”
“Yes.”
“Here's the key.”
Eyes gleaming, she swung the pointer wildly.
“Push it in ‘shwoooosh-’.”
“...Pardon?”
“Then the circuit end goes ‘zzzt!’ Don't miss it—snag it ‘papapap!’ and boom ‘kuuung!’ See? Easy!”
“...”
Silence. I stared blankly at the board. One circle. And mouth-made sound effects.
Shwoosh. Zzzt. Papapap. Kuuung.
“...Professor?”
“Yes! Question?”
“That ‘shwoosh’... specific density?”
Her brows furrowed. Annoyed look.
“Ugh, who cares about numbers? Feel it!”
She smacked her own chest. Pat pat.
“Mana tickles then clumps heavy—you know that ‘shwoosh’ feeling?”
“We need concrete explanations for answers...”
“Aaaargh, so frustrating!”
She clawed her hair, stomping on the cushions.
“Duh, you see it! Twisted circuit! Screams ‘shwooooosh’ to anyone!”
“That's ‘cause you're Elma.”
“Any scholar worth their salt knows!”
Elma's a genius. That was the problem. The type leaping from intuition to conclusion, skipping steps. Living proof that geniuses suck at teaching.
“Look again.”
Gripped the marker hard—scritch—new doodle. Lines like dancing worms.
“‘Papabat!’ here, resistance ‘sliiiick’ to zero. Output ‘kuuuung’ resonance.”
Onomatopoeia extravaganza.
“So, ‘papabat’ at how many hertz?”
“Aaa, seriously!”
She shrieked.
“Are you an idiot?!”
“...”
“Why can't you get this simple stuff! Even my house golems would understand!”
Sharp rebuke. Face flushed red. Glasses perched mid-nose.
“Just feel it! Talk to the mana! ‘Hey, how do you wanna flow?’”
“Talking to mana...”
“I've done it since I was three! Why can't you!”
You're the weirdo since three. Wanted to say it, but her excitement wouldn't quit.
“Blockhead! Tin can! Hubby's brain just for show? Use that good head!”
She huffed, whacking the sheet with the pointer. Thwack thwack. Screen shook like an earthquake.
Honestly, kinda unfair. I'm departmental runner-up. Blockhead treatment?
‘Oh, playing rough, huh.’
Mischief stirred. Time to tease back.
Slam. Closed the book. Extra loud on purpose.
“...”
Elma's mouth snapped shut.
“H-Hubby?”
I drooped my head. As pitiful and limp as possible.
“Sorry. I'm too dumb.”
“Huh?”
“You're a genius, but your husband's dumber than a golem. Must be frustrating.”
Packed up slowly. Zipped pencil case. Closed notebook.
“Class ends here. No point—only raises your blood pressure.”
“N-no, I didn't mean it like...”
“I'll just sleep. Being dumb means I need extra shut-eye for brain cells.”
Stood up. Didn't look back. Turned sharp on my heel.
Flopped face-down on the rug, back to her.
“Tired. Night.”
Closed my eyes. A gulp from behind.
“...Ah.”