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mypoisonedvine · 4 years ago

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It’s Always The Quiet Ones... | college AU dark!Peter Parker x (slightly)naive!reader

for @nsfwsebbie‘s dream fic challenge, I was assigned to write something for @harryspet which was vv exciting bc I love her stuff ;-; no pressure right? lol (also thank you to @evnscvll for being my proofreader, sounding board, and partner for some very strange texting for the purpose of screenshots!)

Here is the prompt I got: peter is a dork and is weird and quiet, and the readers friends dared her to sleep with him. turns out he was really kinky and is really good at sex. can be dark. And hoo boy, did I run with that. I hope you like it!!

Word Count: 4.4k

Warnings: smut (it’s consensual but with dubcon undertones, manipulation, and implied coercion/dubcon at the end), stalking, blackmail, voyeurism, and general creepiness. Oh yeah and there’s some degradation and dacryphilia in there for good measure.

You and your friends were in the middle of your daily cafeteria lunch, chatting about the same sorts of small talk you always did.

“Oh god, it’s that weird guy from class!” Jackie blurted out suddenly around a mouthful of fries, pulling you out of the conversation you’d been having. Everyone at the table whipped around and your eyes went wide.

“Come on, don’t look all at once,” you hissed.

“Who is this guy?” Cody asked, looking around with confusion.

“The guy in the blue hoodie over there,” Jackie answered, motioning toward him with her head. It was Peter, setting down his tray of food and opening up his laptop, putting earbuds in. He was pretty much always on his laptop, it seemed like. He took a bite of his pizza before getting back to whatever he was working on.

“He looks normal, or normal-ish,” Mia shrugged.

“No, no, you don’t get it,” you shook your head. “We have him in Computational Physics on Tuesdays and Thursdays--”

“Plus Friday lab,” Jackie interjected.

“--and he’s… kinda…”

“Creepy,” Jackie concluded.

“No,” you denied, “not creepy. He’s just… a bit awkward, I guess.”

“And he stares at you, like, the entire time we’re in class. But won’t even talk to you.”

“Oh, that’s weird,” Mia agreed with a shudder.

“I don’t know,” you shrugged, “it’s kinda… sweet, maybe? I mean, he’s just shy, right?”

“Oh my god you are such a slag!” Jackie teased, shoving you on the shoulder. “You’re into him, aren’t you?”

“No!” you denied with wide eyes.

“You’re just into the attention,” Cody rolled his eyes.

“I mean, it’s kind of flattering, isn’t it?” you admitted. Jackie laughed.

“You should go over there and talk to him,” she decided.

“Nooooooooo, no way,” you shake your head.

“I kinda wanna see this,” Cody smirks.

“Literally just go over there and flirt with him, his head would explode,” Jackie suggested excitedly.

“I don’t even know how to flirt,” you chuckled.

“So you’re considering it!” Mia accused.

“I didn’t say that!” you squeaked.

“Pleeeeeease,” Jackie whined playfully. “It’ll be funny.”

“I don’t usually sleep with people for comedic effect.”

“I’ll chip in $20 if you do it,” she offered immediately. She turned to the rest of the table, “come on guys, we need to pool together and make her do it.”

“I’ve only got a ten,” Cody mumbled, pulling it out slowly before Jackie snatched it away.

“Okay, $30, who can make it $50?”

“Jackie, calm down,” you hissed.

“You’re telling me you wouldn’t sleep with him for $50? He’s cute!”

“I have $35 and 67 cents,” Mia counted, shuffling through her wallet.

“Oh my god,” you groaned, your head falling into your hands.

“Just do it, for me,” Jackie said, suddenly sounding oddly serious. You didn’t understand why it mattered so much, but you decided it couldn’t be that bad if you just did it.

“Fine, fine, just shut up and don’t stare at us,” you instructed, getting up to a ruckus of cheers. You didn’t even take the money.

You walked across the cafeteria, messenger bag slung over your shoulder, and hoped you wouldn’t totally make an idiot of yourself. If you hadn’t already just by talking to a guy over a dare.

He didn’t seem to notice you when you stood by his table, still focusing on his computer.

“Um, hey,” you waved, and Peter looked up at you as he took out his earbuds.

“Hi,” he replied quickly.

“What… what are you working on?” you asked, motioning to the laptop. He didn’t stop looking at you, and he didn’t say anything. “I… we have comp together? You know who I am, right?”

“O-of course I do!” he suddenly perked up. “Yeah, I just…” he trailed off and turned to his laptop. “I was just working on this model.”

“Can I take a look?”

He smiled a little, and moved his backpack out of the seat next to him. “Go ahead!”

You sat down and leaned in to look at his screen.

“It’s-- it’s not finished but, basically I just put the kinetic energy of an object on the x-axis, the potential energy on the y-axis--”

You used the laptop’s touch screen to move the model around, impressed with his work. “And the z-axis is the conservation of energy for work done on an object,” you finished.

“Uh, yeah, exactly,” he nodded.

“It’s beautiful!” you realized, appreciating the variety of colors as each data point was suspended in the graph.

“Do you do any modeling?” he asked you, and for a hot second it felt like a line.

“Um,” you laughed, “no, not much at least. Nothing extracurricular.”

“Oh.”

“I’m more into abstract math, if I’m being honest.”

He smiled. “Oh, you’re one of those.”

You laughed, shoving him on the shoulder playfully, but regretting it as you saw his smile drop a bit. “People are so judgmental about abstract math, as if it isn’t the study of the founding principles of mathematics.”

“So you think adding a pineapple and a banana is the foundation of mathematics?” he quirked an eyebrow.

“Okay, there’s so much more to abstract mathematics than weird variables,” you frowned. “Like basic functions on matrices! Don’t act like it isn’t dope as fuck to add, subtract, multiply and divide matrices. If you saw my whiteboard in my dorm you would understand.”

“If I had a whiteboard now I could prove to you that abstract math is overrated,” he countered.

“I’d love to see you try,” you scoffed. You hadn’t really meant it literally.

“I don’t have anything for the rest of the day,” he shrugged. It took you a moment to realize he was suggesting to actually come to your room and talk about math. You weren’t sure if that was even what would happen if you went back to your dorm…

You opened your mouth to say that you were busy, that you couldn’t, that you shouldn’t, so you were a little surprised when you heard yourself say “sure” instead.

And that was how you ended up sitting on your kitchen counter with Peter Parker between your legs, kissing you like you’d never been kissed before.

It sort of happened all at once. He just grabbed you and you were confused but went with it, because life is short and he was cute and his hands felt unexpectedly wonderful as they gripped your back.

You gasped a bit when he started to pull your shirt over your head but he didn’t slow down, quickly removing his own-- oh, hello there six-pack, nice to meet you-- kissing you again as he wrapped his hands around your waist and slid you off the counter, guiding your legs to wrap around his hips. He carried you to the bedroom with unexpected grace; he was so much stronger than he looked. And he looked different than he ever had before as he tossed you down onto your bed and started to kiss his way down your abdomen while his fingers slipped under the waistband of your shorts.

“Oh god, Peter!” you yelped as he kissed along your thighs, pulling down your shorts and underwear and tossing them to the side.

“Say my name again,” he demanded before instantly latching onto your clit, sucking and licking directly onto the bundle of nerves.

And you really had no choice in the matter, his name pouring from your lips over and over, accentuated with a yelp as he shoved two fingers into you, finding and massaging your g-spot before you could even process everything you were feeling.

“Oh my god, fuck, Peter!” you hissed, your head falling back onto the mattress so hard it bounced a little.

You were barreling towards an orgasm faster than you probably ever had before. This was nothing like the few other hook-ups you’d had since starting college-- it wasn’t even like the times you’d been alone with your hand or a vibrator. This was like an assault on the senses, so powerful that you couldn’t even really keep track of the sounds you were making or anything that wasn’t his mouth on you and his fingers in you.

“I’m gonna come, oh my god, I’m gonna come don’t stop please--” you moaned as your words turned into mostly incoherent nonsense. How could you be expected to form a sentence in these conditions?

Thankfully, he didn’t stop. He kept lapping at your clit as if he hadn’t even noticed your pleading, his fingers twisting inside you even as your walls clenched so tightly around them that it became difficult to keep up the pace. Your hips involuntarily bucked against his face, your legs quivered as he refused to give you any reprieve from the sensation, but he kept going.

“Oh fuck, fuckfuckfuck Peter I can’t-- it’s too much-- oh god,” you babbled, but it fell on deaf ears. A small part of your brain was confused why he wouldn’t stop-- you hadn’t told him outright to stop but it was kind of implied, right? Wasn’t it some amount of not okay that he was still going? It made your gut sink in a way that was equal parts disturbing and erotic.

You were trying to pull away but his arms wrapped around your thighs and held you down. God, he was strong. He looked kind of skinny in those hoodies he was usually wearing, but now that he was actually exerting some force he was clearly muscular. You felt helpless and it, oddly enough, turned you on.

“Peter, please, oh my god, slow down I-- I can’t take any more,” you whimpered; your voice came out all high-pitched and squeaky and it would’ve been embarrassing if you had enough brainpower left to care.

He groaned against your skin but said nothing, using his teeth to lightly graze your clit. Your whole body jerked at that, a sob tearing from your lips suddenly. It felt like you were past the point of orgasm now and just lost in some sort of aggressively intense world of pleasure-- it neared pain, really. You had never been pushed to your limits like this; you hadn’t even realized that there were limits which one could be pushed to this way! It was exhilarating and exhausting and overwhelming. You fought tears from forming because it would be so embarrassing to cry right now, and he would probably freak out and think you were hurt or something… maybe you were hurt, you couldn’t even tell at this point. But at this point, it was unstoppable. You were fucking crying from the overstimulation and he hadn’t even put his cock in you yet. Your face was so hot that your own tears felt cool as they poured down your cheeks.

Finally, he stopped when he heard your sobs. But instead of concern or fear or confusion, his expression was simply joy.

“Oh, you look so cute when you cry,” he cooed, sliding back up your body to kiss your tears away as they fell. Then he kissed your mouth, open and sloppy and aggressive, and the taste of yourself on his tongue made your head spin.

Before you could collect your thoughts, he pulled back and made quick work of his jeans and boxers-- fuck, he was big.

“You’re too kind,” he grinned, discarding the clothes and stroking his cock a few times.

You hadn’t realized you had said it out loud, and you felt a little nervous but then he was on you again, kissing you roughly and forcing his tongue into your mouth. You felt him reaching down, gripping his cock and rubbing it through your folds. You were soaked, and swollen, and nearly sore. Every time the tip slid over your clit, you jumped a little.

He pushed into you ever so slightly, moving the head of his cock inside you and nothing more. You whined with confusion and anticipation, but he continued on teasing you.

“Please,” you whimpered into his kiss.

He pulled back and looked down at you, his eyes blown so wide that they looked like they’d gone black. “What was that?” he asked, and you sighed because you knew he could hear you the first time.

“Please, Peter,” you repeated, louder, “I need more.”

“More…?”

You sobbed with frustration, and desire. “Fuck me, please.”

He thrusted forward and you groaned as his cock stretched you open. It was like night and day, how he went from slowly teasing you to slamming into your eager walls. You cried out and gripped at his arms, just trying to steady yourself and maybe stop your skull from whacking the headboard if possible.

“You love it, don’t you? You love my cock,” he growled. His voice was lower, gravelly. He sounded like an entirely different person.

“Yes,” you replied weakly.

“Say it,” he demanded.

No one had ever talked to you like this before and it made your cheeks burn. “I-- I love your cock,” you stammered.

He smiled and you hoped you’d done it right, and that he wasn’t smiling at your obvious nervousness or lack of experience. You didn’t understand how this was normally supposed to go, because you didn’t normally hook up with people so casually-- you had just never really been interested in it. But now that he was fucking you so hard you could barely breathe, you were starting to get the appeal. God, your last boyfriend hadn’t even made you come in five months of dating, meanwhile five minutes with Peter had made you a sobbing mess. Even now you were biting your lip to hold back your tears from the sheer intensity of the sensations you were experiencing.

“Oh, you poor thing,” he pouted condescendingly. “You don’t wanna cry but you can’t help it, huh? You’re my dumb little crybaby aren’t you?”

You tried not to react to that but you knew he felt your walls clench suddenly.

“You like that? You like being my stupid whore?”

“S-stop,” you begged weakly, feeling beyond humiliated.

“But you like it, angel, I can tell. Don’t lie to me.”

He reached down to swirl his thumb over your clit, laughing at the way you tensed up and tried to squirm away.

“Is it too much princess?” he asked, but the nickname read less sweet and more mocking. “Isn’t this what you wanted? You asked me to fuck you. Begged me. Now you act like you can’t take it, like you’re this delicate little flower and not the dirty fucking whore I know you are.”

“I-- I’m not a whore,” you denied even as you struggled to suppress your obvious arousal from the derogatory nature of his words. You felt a little guilty for being into it, and slightly insulted, but fuck if it didn’t make your back arch and your throat dry and your pussy so excessively wet.

“Oh, don’t play dumb,” he scoffed. “But, maybe you’re not playing. You really are dumb, aren’t you?”

You logically knew that it was too late to deny anything he said, but you still clung onto your dignity as best you could. “N-no!”

“Not all the time, just when you’re wet. Isn’t that right? You get so desperate for cock and you don’t wanna be smart, you just wanna be somebody’s brainless fuckdoll.”

That sounded so appealing in some forbidden, filthy way and all of a sudden you were going to come again, any second now.

“Yes!” you nearly screamed, falling into your pleasure.

“Come on my cock, baby,” he encouraged, “come for me.”

You didn’t even sound like yourself with the noises you made, or maybe it was just that you’d never had the chance to make noises like that before. Either way, your orgasm crashed through you and nearly punched the air out of your lungs. Your toes went numb. You didn’t even know that could happen. And most important of all, your walls tensed and fluttered so hard that he began moaning into your ear.

“Fuck, ‘m gonna come inside you.” You couldn’t tell if it was a warning, like he was asking permission, or if he was just informing you of his intentions which you would be powerless to stop even if you told him not to. You didn’t have to find out because you were on the pill, but it made you realize all too suddenly that you should’ve had him put on a condom-- how could you have forgotten?

His moans turned hoarse and with a growl and a tightened grip on your hips, he spilled deep in you, coating your walls as his length flexed and twitched inside you. For a moment you were just stuck like that, his weight holding you down as he caught his breath, and finally he rolled to the side and you could breathe cool air again.

“That was…” he began but trailed off, pulling you closer and kissing your shoulder. “You’re amazing.”

It was quite the shift from how he had been talking before. It was comforting, but you were still a little confused. “Really?”

He laughed softly. “Did you not notice? God, I’ve wanted you for so long…”

You were curious about where he was going with that, but then he suddenly sat up.

“Do you want some water?” he offered.

“Uh, yeah,” you smiled. “The cups are in the cabinet just to the left of the microwave.”

He nodded and gave you a quick peck on the cheek before sliding out of the bed, slipping his boxers on over his still-hard cock which was now coated in your come and his, and dashing out of the room.

You were mostly content to just lay there, although you felt uncharacteristically sore between your legs, and quite… sticky. You glanced over to your whiteboard and realized he never had any intentions of talking with you about abstract math. Was this just a one-time thing, or was he going to come back and ask you out? Were you boyfriend and girlfriend now? Or were you just a clueless romantic who thought that sleeping together meant more than it really did?

You rolled over and saw Peter’s phone resting on the bedside table. He must have set it there when he was stripping quickly while you two had been making out-- or that’s what you were pretty sure the order of events had been, it had all happened so fast…

At that exact moment, the screen lit up with a notification. You were about to roll back and not look at all, until you got a glimpse of the words.

PHYS 507, row 3, seat 14

You furrowed your brow. It looked like an alert for an upcoming class, except that this was your class, the one you had with him, and it wasn’t until tomorrow. No assignments due today, either. And what was with the row/seat thing? Peter didn’t sit in the third row… you did.

You picked up the phone just enough to angle it to see the rest of the notification. It wasn’t a calendar alert; it was a text message. “PHYS 507, row 3, seat 14” was the contact name. You could only get a preview of the message…

okay, it’s done isn’t it? can you please delete those pic….

You were curious, or maybe just concerned. Was the seat number supposed to be the person texting him? How were you supposed to keep track of who sat where to know who it was?

It had to be somebody from your row, but it was just you, Jackie, and a bunch of random dudes that Peter had never seemed to have any interaction with.

You assumed you wouldn’t be able to unlock the phone to even try to snoop, which you didn’t want to do anyways, but when you slid your thumb over the screen, you gasped when it opened straight to the conversation. Who didn’t put a password on their phone?

okay, it’s done isn’t it? can you please delete those pictures now? I did what you asked. I won’t tell anyone. just send me proof that the photos are gone, please.

You felt a little sick. You had no idea what this meant but it scared you. You saw the conversation from before but it didn’t make any sense. You scrolled back up to try to figure out what they were talking about and gasped when you saw a picture Peter had sent to the contact.

It was Jackie. But she wasn’t alone. She was on her knees in the lab room, and you gagged when you realized what she was doing-- or really, who she was doing it to.

She’d told you she had a casual thing with a new guy but refused to say who it was. You realized why now. She was fucking your professor, and you just knew she was doing it to get a better grade. You had been trying to figure out how she was earning higher marks than you but never seemed to be able to discuss the class material. It all made sense now, but it wasn’t a comforting feeling.

You scrolled down a bit to see the conversation after the photo, and your blood went cold as you read it.

You saw several more messages but you couldn’t bring yourself to read any of it. You knew everything you needed to know.

You weren’t sure what inspired you to open his camera roll… of course you wouldn’t find anything comforting there. But you had to see for yourself.

It was just a list of folders, so many you could keep scrolling for ages. Each had a label and a thumbnail image.

The thumbnail of Jackie on her knees jumped out first. PHYS 507, row 3, seat 14. 45 images.

A girl in a lacy bra posing for the camera. PHYS 509, row 1, seat 8. 12 images.

Two girls making out in a crowded room, holding red solo cups. ENGL 104, row 12, seat 5. 6 images.

A nude selfie in front of a mirror. PHIL 108, row 2, seat 2. 14 images.

And then the one that made your heart stop. It was a picture of you in a bikini, taken by a friend on spring break. PHYS 507, row 3, seat 13. 1 image.

The second you jumped up, dropping the phone, he was there with your promised glass of water in hand.

“What’s wrong?” he asked innocently. Just a second of silence was enough for him to pick up his phone from the floor and realize what had happened with a grin. “Oh, that,” he sighed, slipping it into his pocket after looking down at it with a sort of loving look, like he was proud of his work. “I suppose it’s my fault for leaving my phone right there, without a password, knowing I would get a text from Jackie any minute.”

“You wanted me to see it,” you grimaced, “you wanted me to see what you did to my friend. What you did to all those girls.”

“I didn’t do anything. They do all the heavy lifting, I just hack them and get pictures of it. Or, in your friend’s case, I hack them, find out they’re fucking the professor, and follow them to their next rendezvous.”

“You’re fucking sick,” you spat, and he just shrugged. “You’d better delete those photos of Jackie.”

“I will, don’t worry,” he soothed. “It’s a shame though, she was pretty prolific. You, on the other hand, you’re a good girl. You even had pretty good security, I respect that. Here’s a tip: your ISP creates the intranet that your wireless webcam uses to connect to your laptop. It’s password protected, but it defaults to your phone number, and most people never change it. Including yourself.”

You shivered. “You watched me with it, didn’t you?”

“Well, I had to since you didn’t have any good photos of yourself. And you do a decent job of erasing your porn history… but not a perfect job. You watch some interesting stuff. And you look so hot with your hand stuffed in your panties, rubbing yourself to whatever nasty shit you’re watching...”

“Shut up,” you demanded, covering your ears, “stop, please. This is so fucked up.”

He laughed a little. “You look better in person though. A webcam could never capture how perfect you look when you come.”

“Please just stop,” you sobbed.

“Stop what? I’m just telling you the truth.”

“I should’ve listened to my friends. You’re a freak.”

“Hmm, you seemed to like it before.”

“Just delete those pictures of Jackie… and let me go…” you seethed.

“I will,” he promised. “But, I need something to make up for the loss of some great spank bank material.”

You felt sick. But what else was new?

“I need to finally get some good pictures of you. Come on, isn’t it sad that your folder is so empty?” he pouted, pulling the phone back out from his pocket. “I could ruin a lot of lives with these folders. Just let me take a few photos and you can spare them all the humiliation. Nothing I haven’t seen you do before.”

You really really wanted to just deck him, but you knew he could probably release those photos with just one push of a button. He was prepared.

“Don’t post them,” you pleaded.

“You’ll be good?”

You clenched your jaw. “I’ll be good,” you answered through your teeth.

“Oh, look at you,” he cooed, “such a sweet girl you are. Helping out your friend even after she threw you into the lion’s den to protect her secret.”

You hadn’t thought about it that way. A pit formed in your stomach.

“Now come over here and get on your knees,” he grinned, turning on the camera.

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marky4l · 4 years ago

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Step by Step / Mark Lee

step by step / mkl

pairing: Mark Lee x Reader

From an innocent childhood friendship to a juvenile high school rivalry to a forced pairing for a Psychology paper, it seems you and Mark just can’t avoid each other. But something’s a little different now.

genre: fluff, angst (a little bit), suggestive themes, childhood friends (barely mentioned!) to enemies to lovers, college!au

notes: lia yeonjun chan hyuck jeno all make tiny appearances

word count: 17.2k

hi!!! this is my first work nd I’m really excited to put this out I’d looove if you could give it a read :^) hound me on my inbox if u wanna i take anything

“Remember when we were best friends in fifth grade?”

His voice is a little quiet, and there’s a very obvious undertone of boredom, but you hum softly anyway, nodding, as if to question why you would ever forget. Fifth grade was a suburban brew of Star Wars marathons, figuring out the world, and Harry Potter merchandise littering your house. Fifth grade was lemonade and oatmeal, knitted sweaters, and sneaking into your mom’s vanity to swipe her makeup. And fifth grade was Mark—bright eyed, geeky Mark, with his Death Star replica and weird electronica music.

Mark, who had an affinity with Troy from High School Musical and Spiderman, and wanted to be just like them. Mark, who would show up grinning to your front door everyday, pie dish in his nimble grip. He was the one who had opened a lemonade stand at the corner of your block so he could buy you the Gryffindor scarf you’d been nagging your mom about the entire holiday season. He was the one who learned the chords to your favorite Jonas Brothers song and sang it to you each time you requested it.

“Yes, I do,” you answer instead, clearing your throat.

You attempt to push down all the memories that just ran through your head and adjust the grip you have on your pen. “Well,” Mark continues, “that was ages ago. Beats me why it ever happened.”

The timidity is replaced with a tidal wave of teasing, and the annoyance that had disappeared is beginning to crawl all over you. Again. You roll your eyes and pull up the slides your professor had assigned. “Beats me why we even ended up in the same university, let alone the same class,” you jab, “if you thought I forgot about how you outright failed our Spanish classes in high school, I didn’t.”

Your friendship with Mark had reached its unfortunate demise to the hands of middle school, where you had branched out with your interests and began to stick to societal (as societal as school can get) norms. He had joined the geeky, cool kids; you hadn’t joined a specific social circle, but you had a best friend, Lia, and you were generally good with everybody.

Somehow, despite you both being in good graces with everyone, you had a deep-seated dislike for one another that stemmed from an intense academic rivalry. Specifically, the competition to become school council president. That had ended now, seeing as though you were both in college, but the abrasiveness of your banter had never worn off.

“Oh, because you were so good at Physics?” he says, voice even. His brow is raised. “We all have our strong suits, you know. You’re one to talk.” You decide to pay him no mind, instead jotting down the criteria for your final project in Psychology 1—something about the stages of grief. You’re supposed to relate it to a different human process and show how they fit with one another.

It’s absolute fucking bullshit, and the fact that Mark Lee became your partner among a hundred students is beyond you. Absolutely beyond you.

He nears your screen, reading the content of your project, eyes squinted—you’d noticed his lack of decent eyesight years ago, but it seemingly hadn’t improved. “Relate the stages of grief…hold up, what? That’s difficult as hell. What are we supposed to do, lose a loved one?” You roll your eyes, turning to him. “No, Mark. The point is to find another process that happens gradually and relate it to this—denial, bargaining, anger. Get it?”

He stares back at you. “No.”

You groan audibly, turning back to your notebook. “This is impossible. Can we just switch partners so I won’t have to deal with you?” He smirks, kicking his feet up on the library table. Absently, you note how nice his sneakers look. Reclining onto the seat, he shuts his eyes as if to contemplate.

“I heard through the birdvine our professor’s the type to pair up people she thinks would look good together for shits and giggles. Girls and boys, boys and boys, you name it. Johnny”—he’s referring to a guy who’s a year above yours, studying Biology—“tells me over five couples have been born out of this class. Isn’t that nice?” You scoff, scrolling mindlessly through the slides to keep yourself distracted.

“It really is. A shame we won’t be adding to that list, because I can’t fucking stand you.” He laughs loudly, the vibration of it remaining in the deadly silent air. “I can stand fucking you, though,” he says, and then, before you can even blush, “All jokes. Don’t get your hopes up, ‘kay?” He’s quick to get up, just as flustered as you are at the uncharacteristic phrase that just left his mouth. He collects his jacket and jogs out of the library with a small, half-assed bye under his breath.

—

Lia’s eyes bore into yours. “He actually said that? I’m telling you, he’s some weird kinky guy under that whole cool geek persona. High school Mark would never have. Oh my god. He’s a furry—he’s a furry!” She flops back onto your bed, laughing. You poke at her waist in protest.

“It’s because he’s surrounded by too many weird classy fuckboys. You know, those that think that they’re all that because they haven’t roofied a girl.” You’re half-joking, and you’re really only referring to maybe two guys you’ve happened to see Mark with. As if to read your mind, Lia continues. “Hey, I heard some of them are okay. They’re not, like…those ‘nice guys’, if you get me.”

“I do,” you quip. “But I guess I’m just trying to find a way to justify the whole 360 in Mark. I mean, in high school, he was still nerdy—well, you know. Shy. But jump to sophomore year of uni and he’s suddenly some…” You rack your head for a proper term. “Sex god?” your friend asks, holding in a laugh. “Oh, eat shit,” you fire back, “really, eat shit. And while you’re at it, feed me some, too, because I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to turn in at the end of the term. Like, Jes—”

There’s a faint knock at the door, and then. “Lia? It’s—uh, it’s me, Daniel? Er, Daniel Choi.” Your wide eyes can’t possibly match Lia’s as she tugs on a decent-looking pullover and puts it on. As she swings the door open, you manage to sufficiently hide yourself under your duvet and attempt to hear their conversation.

“You know, it’s okay if you leave out the whole…saying your full name at the door part. Trust me…I know you,” she jokes, and you hear him laugh before you detect the crinkling of a plastic bag. “Chinese. Uh, I bought some extra for your best friend, because I’m not gonna pretend I don’t see the sentient blob on the bed.”

You pull the blanket off and smile sheepishly. “Hey, Daniel,” you say, “thanks for the food. I owe you an empty room next time, I swear by it. It’ll be easy, since I’m gonna be”—you heave yourself off the bed and onto the floor, where they’re both sitting—“holed up at the library for the next few weeks.”

Lia nods, chewing her chow mein, and then when she’s done, she explains to Daniel your whole huge Psychology end-of-term paper about stages and grief and whatever, oh also she’s partnered with Mark Lee, this guy that we both know from high school, and she dislikes his guts, oh you know him?

“Wait. You know him?” You repeat, and Daniel nods, ruffling his black mullet. “His room’s, like, three away from mine. He’s studying Theoretical Physics, right? Yeah, he’s always in his room doing school shit, but every weekend he’s out with the upperclassmen. He’s probably out now, ‘cause it’s Friday. How he even charmed them, though, is a mystery.”

Mid-dumpling, you roll your eyes. “Y’know, the hardest part is being partnered with him. But also, even finding what kind of gradual process to relate denial and anger too is weirdly hard. It feels like I could find something, but I haven’t gotten it…quite…” you trail off, your eyes landing on Lia and Daniel across you—they’re smiling softly at each other, and you distinguish their fingers interlocking quietly, as if you wouldn’t notice.

“…yet. Except maybe I have. How would you want to participate in my end-of-term paper?” Their gazes turn to yours, and you nod frantically. “Oh my god, I’m a genius! Seriously! Falling in love! Yes! It’s denial—anger—whatever, whatever! It makes perfect sense. The end is acceptance, too! Oh god, Li, it’s perfect. I will owe you for life if you help me out.”

“Wait, what? You dove straight into it, what—recap, please,” Lia asks, and you compose yourself before explaining giddily.

“Falling in love. It happens gradually, and we can compare it to the stages of grief. Seeing as you and Daniel are headed right there, we can use you as some test subjects. It’s not required to have respondents or subjects, really, it’s just an extensive paper, but it might help get the grade up. This is gonna be great, and if you ever wanna back out, you can, because it’s not mandatory.” Lia and Daniel meet eyes briefly, and then slowly, nod. “Okay, that’s pretty smart,” Daniel says, “I’m up for it. Are you?” Lia nods, slowly and hesitantly, and you smile widely. “You two just saved my Psych grade. I’ll be at Giselle’s tonight. Just…not on my bed.” You grab your keys and phone and bound out of your room, straight into the elevator at the end of the hall.

The elevator door nearly closes when a Converse-clad foot steps in, and your eyes rake up the figure, eventually landing on his face.

“Jesus fuck,” you mumble, “you must be kidding me.”

Mark enters the elevator with a small, teasing smile, hands tucked into his jacket’s pockets. “Hey, dude, what’s up? Was on your floor on my stop down to get some money Lucas owed me,” he says, “this is actually a godsend, because my genius brain found us a project idea. Relate grief to something else gradual? Easy as pie. Falling in lo—”

You cut him off before he can finish, “Falling in love, right. I thought of it first, earlier,” you say profusely, absently noting the pettiness in your tone. He whistles. “No need to get all possessive over an idea the previous classes have used before, man.” You continue, ignoring him. “Whatever. Lucky for our grades, I went the extra mile to get us some test subjects. Do you know the two Chois? Lia and Daniel?”

He nods once, “Yeah, their PDA on Instagram is fucking sickening, but I see your technique, and I like that—we get some extra data from their god awful PDA.” You nod once, and he continues. “It’s nearing 11 on a Friday night. Whose party are you headed to?”

“You’re welcome for the test subjects,” you gripe. “Anyway, I was so giddy about coming up with it, I just left them to…well, fornicate. As a compromise for being lab rats. I texted my…” you realize you’re starting to share too much to a guy you typically dislike talking to, and then there’s a silence in the air that’s painfully awkward.

“You texted your…?” Mark asks. “My friend, but she’ll be home at 1AM, so I’m out to kill time. No parties, just…I dunno.” He nods again, and then the elevator lets out a blissful ding. You step out simultaneously, and then he faces you. “Look, it’s freezing out, you’re in shorts and a puffer coat, and it’s three hours to 1AM, so I doubt you’ll get far.” You scoff at his words despite feeling your legs shake from the breeze outside. “I’ll be fine, dumbass.”

“Just concerned,” he says, in a tone that sounds more blank than annoyed, but he turns and heads toward the door anyway. He swivels back around briefly. “It’s in Johnny’s apartment. Just a couple people, if you get bored freezing.” He jogs outside then, and you inwardly appreciate the small gesture, but again, annoyance returns just as quickly. You linger a bit before heading out yourself, walking briskly to a local Japanese restaurant. You consider this an opportunity to have some me time, some rest after a shitty week in university. Lasting ’til 1AM alone and entertained would not at all be a problem.

You last one ramen bowl and head to Johnny’s apartment.

—

When Johnny Suh answers the door, he’s clad in a makeshift shower curtain gown of sorts, and is flushed and very buzzed all over. He hikes up the top to cover his chest and laughs profusely. “Did Mark invite you?” Behind him is a sizeable group of just about twenty people, which looks like forty in a cramped communal space. You’d been here before—Johnny likes to invite just about anyone to get stoned and listen to Kid Cudi on Fridays, and you had pushed Lia to accompany you before.

You distantly spot the kitchenette, the small living room, and then the two bedroom doors opposing each other. “The rule was to show up wearing something not marketed as clothing, but Mark didn’t follow the rules, so. Anyway, you’re off scot-free, too…” he pauses, “…if you take off the puffer coat. We’ve got heating, anyway. Free booze and weed, too.” You figure being in a flimsy tank top isn’t so bad—you’re sure half the people here are already getting laid or trying to, and nobody would really pay attention to you.

You shrug off the coat as Johnny steps aside to let you in, hugging it close to your body and navigating your way to the kitchen. The granite counters are filled with various bottles of booze, and you also note the cigarettes and blunts lining the island. You peruse the brands before settling on a sealed can of decidedly not-so-cheap-looking beer, and crack it open to take a swig. It’s warm and fucking disgusting, but there’s not much glitz in an “anything but clothing” off-campus college party anyway.

There are several people scattered among the living area, passing around a blunt—another group is playing suck and blow. You make your way over to the cheap couch on the far end of the room, taking a seat on the arm and stretching out your hand to claim the blunt. It’s Jae who passes it to you—Jaehyun Jung, an upperclassman whose infamy (for wearing nothing but toilet paper and running through campus) greatly surpasses him. “Who are you?” he asks, and you holler your name back over the Kanye West song playing in the background. “Mark invited me,” you tack onto the end as compensation.

He nods in understanding, watching you take a drag and pass it back to him. He only hands it back, saying, “It’s nearly done, just finish it,” and getting up to probably get some booze or another blunt.

You scan the area for a better place to cherish your weed, because you’re definitely not going to do it on the arm of a couch housing three couples making out to the high heavens. You spot an open window and a fire escape just beside the kitchen and walk over, ducking into the cool night air. It’s not quiet, it never is, and you treasure the peace that comes with the noise, closing your eyes and trying to milk the last few drags. All that is flushed down the drain when somebody kicks you out of your reverie and your last two drags are falling down, through the grills of the fire escape.

“What the fuck?” You look up to meet, of course, Mark’s gaze, teasing and mischievous.

“That wasn’t fucking funny, asshat. Get away from me.” You get up instantly, ducking back into the house and searching for your coat. It’s (very unfortunately) buried under a couple who have escalated from making out to borderline public indecency.

“Fuck it,” you mumble, swinging the door open and mentally preparing yourself for the cold once you get to the sidewalk, floors down. Mark follows suit, a laugh gracing the atmosphere around the two of you. “You know, I forgot how fun it is to make you pissed off. I did it all the time in eighth grade when I told our teacher you knew the solution to the Physics problems.” You’re fucking pissed. However petty, you’re fucking annoyed that you couldn’t finish the blunt, and you pay no attention to him.

He badgers on anyway. “Hey—it was a mistake, I wanted to say hi to you.” You scoff, finally turning—“Why? Because we’re friends? We’re not. We’re Psych partners, we came from the same high school, we share a couple mutual friends. But you and I are not friends, not objectively, anyway. Please, Mark. I only just re-acquainted myself with you today, but, like, you’re already so annoying!” You’re at the elevator now, and when the doors slide open, you step inside and let them close at once. You barely catch the unreadable look on his face in your annoyance, and you lean against the wall, shutting your eyes and breathing heavily.

How you’d even get to Giselle’s, or how you would wait out the remaining half-hour before she got home, was just up to whichever higher power happened to be witnessing you that night.

—

The door of your professor’s office closes with a saddening click. You stare back at her name, embossed on the wood in bold, in defeat, accepting your fate with a heavy heart. Just fifteen minutes prior, you had entered with a whole spiel prepared on how you just had to swap with somebody from your class so you wouldn’t have to work with Mark. This speech had occurred twice now—with your TA, and then once with your professor. This was your second chance, your redemption: so you prepared notes, you prepared convincing words—you had a point.

But your professor simply shooed you away, muttering how she didn’t have time for you because she was going to be receiving hundreds of papers in a few weeks’ time from a different class and she, quite honestly, couldn’t be bothered. You bite your lip, thinking back to the previous Friday—it was nearing two weeks since your small outburst at Mark. Since then, you’d expected to build a silent rapport of just working, observing Lia and Daniel, and then parting. And that was almost it. You would show up to your so-called “lab rat sessions”, cup of warm caramel latte in hand, and work.

Except Mark would constantly make noise, jeer, swipe your pen, and do other things that got on your nerves.

“You’re going to have to stop trying sometime,” Lia says, backhugging you. She’d been waiting outside. You let your head loll back onto her shoulder and whine. “Do you know when you’re so frustrated you want to cry? Yeah? That’s exactly how it is, Li. I can’t keep up with this for another two, three months. It’s like he’s not even, like, fuck, like he’s not even trying, y’know? We’re building the foundation of a pages-long paper. This isn’t some finals essay he can bullshit in three hours.”

You groan as Lia pulls away from you, whirling you around to face her. “It’ll be fine, I swear to you. I’ll help out, anytime you need it. I promise. If I start hating Daniel, I’ll even pretend like I’m in love with him. Head over heels.” You let yourself laugh and pull out your phone as you two begin to walk towards your dorm.

She tsks. “We’re gonna have a thing tonight, right? Like, a lab rat session?”

You nod, squinting over your calendar app. “Yeah, at around 5:30 to 6. It’ll be quick, but Mark and I are gonna have to stay behind to divide the work for the general paper and then start. Hopefully we can get some outlining done by tonight…so don’t wait up,” you sigh. She smiles apologetically, pinching your waist affectionately.

“Daniel and I will totally help you. He’s a Mark anti now. I told him about the party outburst thing.” You had sent her a slew of texts that night, and like every other story you had told (save for the most private ones), Daniel had caught wind of it. You’re half sure he was capable of blackmailing you at that point. “Good,” you shoot back, “I’m going to need all the anti-Mark force I can get.”

“Why?” You both turn to see Mark standing idly behind you. There’s a beat, and then: “You look like an inane stalker,” you retort, turning to continue walking. Lia follows suit—with the two of you, the vibe of the atmosphere would always come easy. If one was mad, the other would act mad, too.

“Hey,” Mark repeats, falling into step beside you, “why do you need an anti-Mark force? Tell me.” At this point, your nerves are on fire and your blood is boiling, and you’re beginning to envision beating him up on the quad. “Mark, it’s been great, but we’re going to our dorm, and in case you don’t want to catch a restraining order, I suggest you get off at your floor instead of following us like a creep,” you say sweetly, quickening your steps until he’s far behind you, smiling. Fucking asshole.

“I’ll see ya this evening, then,” he teases, and you grumble under your breath.

—

It’s 5:45 when Lia and Daniel leave the library—fifteen minutes early. You and Mark leave ten minutes later, hours before you were supposed to complete your task. You’re fuming, and for once, Mark has the decency to read the room and feel remorse.

The evening had started off well enough, though—Lia and Daniel had showed up, did their thing, described what was happening, and you and Mark had noted it down. And then, well. Mark spilled water all over your planner, which, in hindsight, was definitely unintentional, but in the spur of the moment, you could do nothing but your natural—everybody’s natural—response to getting something precious ruined. You began to cry. “What the fuck,” you sniffled, “is wrong with you?!” You had shaken the majority of water off your planner, but any and all dates had been smudged and bled, and you couldn’t bring yourself to forgive him. “I know I called you annoying, but this is too far,” you had said, watching his face go from teasing to genuinely sorry. “Dude, it was accidenta—”

“I don’t give a fuck—!” You quickly cut yourself off and wipe your tears when you see a young library assistant heading towards your table. Everybody composes themselves—Lia and Daniel straighten out the things on the surface and Mark sits up straight. “Hey,” he says. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but two students already came in with a noise complaint. We’re gonna have to ask you to,” he makes a gesture, “leave for now and come back tomorrow. Also, the puddle on the table…yeah. I’m really sorry.” He leaves, as if to make sure you have no other choice but to just go, and you slump back onto your chair in exhaustion.

“You two can go ahead,” you hear Mark say, “I’m really sorry about this. We’ll clean up and apologize.” Faintly, you hear them get up, and you feel Lia’s hand squeeze yours as she promises a text and food later. You let your eyes remain shut, drinking in the quiet, trying to calm your inner turmoil.

Ten minutes later, when you’re out in the cold November air, Mark finally speaks. You had cleaned up and collected your things in silence. “I’m really sorry,” he says, “it was an accident, for real. I know I tease a lot, but, uh, I’m being serious. I would never have done that on purpose. I see you write shit on that thing a lot, so…I know how much you like it. Treasure it…? I don’t—whatever it is, I’m really sorry. Like, really. T’was an accident. If you need me to pay for it…” You shake your head softly, hugging your damp planner closer to your sweater-clad chest. “It’s okay. Thanks, anyway. For helping. I’ll email you what you have to do. Bye,” you turn and begin walking in the direction of your dorm. The sun is beginning to set, golden orange hues casting a vast array of colors onto the landscape of the city. You sigh softly, heart heavy with annoyance and exhaustion, and speed up before you start having a mini-breakdown.

—

Stage 1: Denial|

Your cursor blinks back at you as you finish typing in your outline for the introduction. It’s early into November, but already, you’ve had to shut your window to shielf yourself from the biting breeze outside. Across you, Lia applies mascara and talks to you. “What are you up to?” she asks, face contorted.

“This godforsaken paper,” you mumble back, “just finished the introduction outline. I’m trying to give a loose definition for each gradual ‘stage.’” Shoving your Macbook off your lap, you get up to stretch. “Which I’ll probably find on Google Scholar, honestly. If you had to give me a definition—what’s denial?”

She hums contemplatively, wand on lash, and then pipes up. “I think it’s just a stage where you can’t face the fact that you’re interested in that person. Like, why them? With Daniel, he wasn’t really my type. So the whole denial was denying I liked him, because…well, yeah. But I think it differs. Some people deny it because they’re shy, or ashamed, or weirded out that they even like them.”

You’ve had your fair share of crushes before, and sure enough, you had denied them all. But that was high school—college, though, had only brought short-lived flings and one night stands; you were an overachiever, much too committed to your own prosperity to pay mind to anybody else for too long. (Except Lia.) So you hadn’t really experienced the whole boyfriend-in-university thing—not that you particularly wanted to, but you were just human; you were curious. Lia had gotten it, and it looked wonderful.

Speaking of—“So, a week without meeting Mark in person, huh? How is that going for you?” You scoff lightly, shaking your head as you pull your hair into a bun. “It’s going just fine. Dandy, actually. We work from our dorms and you and Daniel just update us. It’s a fine arrangement that I regret was not formulated sooner.” Lia nods in understanding, and you watch her pull on a top, mutter I’m out and head outside. For the fifth time this week, you’re alone in the dorm, with nothing but your Alexa playing SZA and your laptop. You pull it onto your lap again, staring at the boldface letters you had typed minutes prior: denial. You had no firsthand experience of being mature and going through denial; not in that way, anyway. You found it stupid that people even denied when it would be less painful to just admit interest.

You blow a raspberry as you research studies related to the term, bored out of your mind.

—

Two days later, you meet Mark again.

You’d also had the pleasure of, for a minute or two, meeting a friend of his, Donghyuck Lee from Economics. He’s loud and amusing and, from your viewpoint, undeserving of somebody as boring as Mark. (That’s from a minute-long intercation.)

At Lia’s insistence (and likely Daniel’s, too), you two met up to properly work and collaborate. In fear of being kicked out again, the four of you had chosen to meet somewhere else—a cafe off-campus affectionately named something along the lines of Saltwater Coffee. Naturally, after Donghyuck leaves, you find yourself sitting idly (awkwardly) beside Mark. “They won’t be long,” he says suddenly, “er, Daniel just texted me. They’re near.” You nod, pursing your lips, eyes trained onto your laptop. “We’re almost done formulating the denial stage and we can start outlining anger and bargaining. This’ll take about a week more—maybe mid to late November? Uh, I know it seems justifiable to slack off with the holidays,” you say, “but I really want us to finish this early. The due date’s in mid-February, so we can pass this on the 14th.” You turn to face him. “Get it? ‘Cause it’s Valentine’s Day.”

He nods. “Okay. No slacking. I get it. The Valentine’s is smart, too.” You nod back in silent understanding, turning back to type frantically into your keyboard.

You hear the door jingle and Lia’s small “hey, guys”, so you look up and offer a smile. “I’m gonna go order everyone some coffee,” Mark says beside you, getting up and shuffling over to the counter. Daniel joins him, and Lia takes a seat across you, her smile knowing and apologetic. “Everything okay?” You blow a raspberry, but smile, anyway. “It’s not so bad. It could be better, but no more banter, just very annoyed auras…? You get it. It’s just been tough trying to divert my focus to this and ignore all the annoyance I feel.”

“Totally, I get that,” she says, “but all the same, I’m glad he’s matured a little bit and lessened all the ribbing.” You smile at that, agreeing, and then the conversation spirals into one about both of your days—“Professor Callahan totally pops a stiffy over Professor Michaelson”, “Daniel tells me Joshua cheated. Yes, on Jess!”, “Mia dropped out the other day and nobody knows why, hope she’s okay”—before Daniel and Mark return, coffee cups in hand. Mark places one next to you, and profusely, you look up at him, who’s just about to sit.

“Thanks, but I don’t drink brewed coff—”

“It’s a caramel latte, the only thing you drink. Heard you say that to Lia once.” He takes a seat and pulls his laptop open.

You stare at him, taking the cup and bringing it to your lips. Sure enough, it’s caramel—thick, and foamy, and sweet. You look up at him again, but he’s busy on Google Scholar, perusing through journals and studies. You shake your head before turning to Lia, who’s already looking at you, expression mirroring yours.

Sweet, she mouths, but you purse your lips and choose not to acknowledge it. “Thanks,” you say quietly, and he hums to say you’re welcome.

Your eyes flicker to him. He’s wearing a knitted sweater, but he’s pulled it up to his elbows. He’s typing quickly, and he can use all his fingers, too (you fail miserably at that), and his brows are furrowed as if he’s stressed, or in a hurry. You’ve never really noticed this much of Mark before. It’s probably, you think absently, because you’re confused. Puzzled at the gesture that you didn’t expect—at all.

After an hour, he angles his laptop to yours. “Nailed the intro. High five?” You open the Google doc on your own browser, and sure enough, the word count has increased monumentally. You can’t deny his knack for writing. “There are a few discrepancies in grammar,” you say instead. “But…okay. This is good.” You ignore his hand, in mid-air, and continue researching.

Lia holds in a giggle, but turns back to Daniel, who, after fifteen minutes, turns to you and Mark. “Lia and I are heading out, guys,” he says, and Lia quickly tacks on. “Hey, if you need me to stay, I can,” she says quickly, but you smile and shake your head.

“This might take a while. Go ahead. See ya at the dorm, Li. Bye, Daniel.” Mark bids his farewells, too, and they leave you alone in the cafe. It’s nearing a three hour crunch when he abruptly gets up to stretch, a low grunt leaving his lips. “I’m exhausted,” he sighs, “but at least we’re nearly done with this whole denial thing.”

“We’re actually only just starting,” you state, “this is going to go through a lot of editing and proofreading.”

He chuckles and walks back to the counter to order something, and you shut your laptop to rest your eyes. Your glasses rest uncomfortably on the bridge of your nose as you breathe deeply. You lose track of time, and you open your eyes ten minutes later, fumbling to get up properly. There’s a panini beside your laptop, wrapped neatly in a tissue and laid on a plate. Mark’s is empty, save for crumbs, and he says nothing.

“Get up,” he remarks teasingly after a while, and you groan in exhaustion. “I am, I’m up,” you mutter, straightening your back and flexing your neck. Inwardly, you wonder if you should thank him for the panini that is obviously yours that you obviously did not buy for yourself.

Then Mark’s hand stretches out to take the panini, and he takes a bite. “Sorry,” he says, “I had to put my second sandwich in your space. This table’s a little small.” You hum back in acknowledgement, nodding once. “It’s, uh…all good,” you respond, voice small as you type into your laptop. Internally, your body fills slowly with humiliation and confusion, but you stay quiet, and that’s how the rest of the night goes: a silent, steady beat of keyboard clicking and the occasional question.

No banter, no nothing—it’s a godsend, yes, it is, but you can’t help but miss the abrasive, playful conversations the two of you had built up over the previous several weeks. But really—had you truly assumed he had bought you a panini? As if a coffee wasn’t enough? You felt at odds with yourself for even expecting such a gesture from the guy whose main habit was to annoy you to the ends of the Earth.

“It’s late,” he says, as if he’s reading your mind and knowing you’re absolutely mortified inside. “Let’s head home.” You nod, deeming the night’s work satisfactory—maybe even beyond, considering the amount of effort you both put into the output. You shove your laptop and charger into your bag and pocket your phone, lingering awkwardly and waiting for Mark to finish packing up. He’s particular with it—he has little sections in his backpack for the wires and chargers, and even his AirPods, and his laptop.

“Very organized,” you find yourself commenting offhandedly, your tone taking on a teasing edge. He glares playfully back at you.

“Sorry I don’t want my wires to break,” he shoots back, eyeing your flimsy tote bag, “unlike some people.” You roll your eyes and, against your strongest wills, a smile appears on your lips, albeit a small one. His eyes linger on your smile for a little bit before he clears his throat and zips up his knapsack. “Let’s, er, go. Thank Jesus we’re in the same building.” When you exit, the air bites at you despite the jacket covering your body, and you quicken your pace. “It’s cold as hell.”

“Ironic,” Mark says. You hide a smile.

—

That’s what November brings you—the next week and a half are composed of just slowly learning to get used to working with Mark again and going home late into the night, crunching to the max.

Your paper begins to take on more and more structure, and two out of the six days you’ve met, Mark has set down a caramel latte for you to arrive to. The acoustic music slowly phases into holiday guitar, and the coat rack at the entrance is weighed down more and more as the days pass, preparing to welcome December.

You and Mark work silently, save for the rare banter and eyeroll, and very gradually, the annoyance that had bubbled up within seconds before had sank down. You’re not friends, per se—it’s just that the frustration and exasperation had lessened considerably.

You were civil. That’s it. You won’t try to deny that you’ve been thinking about this a little too much—about what your “friendship” had become with Mark. You hadn’t snapped at him in days, and he hadn’t tugged at your ballpen in even longer. It wasn’t that you had cowered him into silence by crying over your planner—it may have instigated it, but his behavior was…different.

More calm, more sure. Less childish. He would still tease you, but not as much. It’s nearing mid-November now, and you’ve successfully done much of your introduction and denial, needing less and less of Lia and Daniel’s presence. (Which you’re sure they’re grateful for.) But being left alone with Mark isn’t as bad as you once thought—

“Hello. Earth to you,” you distantly hear, and you whip your head in the direction of the voice as you pace back to your dorm building. Mark stares blankly back at you. “What,” you mumble back. He quirks a brow before continuing. “I was saying, I think I need to take a rain check tomorrow. The, uh”—he clears his throat—“um, yeah.”

You eye him. “Okay…?”

He nods profusely, “Yeah, all good.” The walk continues in silence, the sun finally setting down behind the Manhattan skyline beyond you and the breeze taking on a chillier temperature. You sigh softly, fatigue overtaking you as you stare at the building nearing you. “If you take a rain check, just make sure you write it within the day or after,” you say, half-sternly and half-tiredly. He mumbles a “got it” and you both jog up the steps to the lobby, where you run into, by some weird twist of the day, a small group of anti-abortion protesters.

“Jesus Christ,” Mark mutters under his breath. “You have got to be fucking kidding me.” You rub the bridge of your nose in your fingers, choosing to tune them out and instead maneuver your way through the door. Before you can even take a step, though, they’re all up in your face with pamphlets and brochures and a guitar. “Excuse me,” you grunt, trying to gently push them aside, but they only come on stronger. “A child is a child,” they say. “If you know anybody who’s—”

“Is this your new initiative? Preying on college students on school grounds, unaccounted for?” Mark asks from behind you. You turn to find he’s filming and stifle a laugh. “I’m surprised nobody’s kicked you out. Won’t be long, now,” he adds with a smile.

You tune out nearly everything else—it’s really just them telling Mark to stop recording and him retorting with equally snarky phrases. It’s not until maybe after a solid two minutes of back and forth that one of them, a weird middle-aged woman, pulls out a burgundy gummy bear from a bag and pushes it into Mark’s camera. He takes it from her and examines it, puzzled. “That,” she says matter-of-factly, “is the approximate size of a fetus. It’s big. It’s sentient, alive. What, I beg of you, what would you do?”

Mark squints at it. Then he pops it into his mouth, takes your hand, and runs straight to the elevator across the floor.

“There’s a bunch of anti-abortion people outside, it’s not cool!” He hollers to the receptionist before the doors close with a damning click.

There’s a beat, and then.

Both of you are doubling over in laughter. “Why the hell would y—why would you do that?! You’re insane!” The response is: “Because they’re not cool! They’re fuckin’ annoying! So I ate their baby!” There are tears in your eyes, your laughter so hard it’s nearing silent—Mark’s, though, is loud and annoying sounding, though you seem to not mind so much. The laughter subsides when the ding of your floor sounds and you straighten yourself up. Getting into a different position reminds you of the very there, very obvious brushing of your hand against Mark’s, which he’d taken just moments earlier, post-baby eating.

You freeze and jerk your hand away. “I’ll, um, go now,” you say, “I’ll see you tomorr—no, the day after.” Against your wills, you meet his eyes, and you’re surprised to find that he’s already looking at you, an unreadable expression on his face. “Okay,” he says, his eyes not leaving yours. Your heart beats faster at a very small increment, but you head out and semi-run to your room, swinging it open and leaning against it.

You look up to find Lia and Daniel engaged in a heated Monopoly match. You make no noise, mind (and heart, but you can’t tell why) racing fast. You watch them play for a second before they both look up slowly.

“You’re smiling like a goddamn idiot,” Daniel says. Your face falls immediately. “I’m, um, no I’m not,” you say casually, pacing over to your bed and flopping onto it. Lia laughs loudly.

“That sounded so freaked. Like we’re your mom and you just brought weed home kind of freaked.” Pause.

“Are you hiding something from me?” She rises from her spot to look at you, head in pillow and all, and you let out a muffled “no!”, probably too defensive for your own good.

It’s Daniel’s turn to snort. You look up and glare at him, “You’re getting too comfortable for your own good. You need to humble yourself, Daniel. What’s it again? Oh yeah, Yeonjun, right?” He rolls his eyes at the use of his Korean name and turns back to the Monopoly board.

Lia flops atop you, eliciting a grunt from your lips. “Are you okay? Did somebody flirt with you? Did Mark finally fuck off and leave you alone properly?”

At the mention of Mark, your heart races—you will it to stop, and audibly groan in the process. “What is it, you bitch?” Lia asks, tugging on a section of your hair. “It’s nothing, Li! Nothing, I promise.” She glares at you before walking to Daniel and covering his ears. Instantly, he begins to let out a chorus of Lalala, and deeming the environment safe enough, you let it slip.

“Mark and I held hands. But it—”

“You what?!”

“It really, really doesn’t mean anyth—”

“How can that not mean anything? It’s hand holdi—”

“If you would listen to the backstory you’d know!” She pauses, and then uncovers Daniel’s ears and knees him.

“Okay, get out. Monopoly postponed, Jun,” she says, pushing him out insistently. He barely collects his phone and keys before he’s out, but you swoon silently when you catch him pressing a short goodbye kiss to her forehead before actually leaving. She turns immediately, fire and curiosity awfully evident in her face.

She nears you. “Explain.”

And that’s what sparks the story of the weird protesters, Mark’s power move, and the unintentional hand hold that lasted a few moments too long. She nods the entire time, laughing, and then her face straightens out again. You can almost hear the gears in her head turning as she analyzes the situation, and then she nods once.

“Okay. Perfectly justifiable to freak out.” Another pause. “But why were you smiling?” You stare blankly back at her, head working impossibly quick to formulate a reply. You’ve taken too long now, judging by the way Lia is looking at you with the most shit-eating grin on her fucking face. You groan.

“You like him, you bitch!”

You shake your head, facing her. “I don’t, dude. Trust me. I just…it was a fun experience, so naturally I’d be laughing. And smiling. But I’m just not interested in Mark! I’m not,” you fumble, being completely honest.

You didn’t—not even if you looked in the mirror and asked yourself. But you couldn’t deny the feelings you felt in the ten seconds from the elevator to your room, your heart racing and your fist curling and uncurling. When you look at Lia again, she’s still smiling, flushed. “You like him,” she says into her palm, which she’s slapped over her mouth in disbelief. You stare back at her, your expression baffled. “If I did,” you begin, getting up to discard your shirt, “I’d have told you by now. It’s really not that big of a deal unless you make it out to be.”

After that, you and Mark spend nearly three weeks walking on eggshells around each other. While conversations are no longer avoided, and you could talk without getting exasperated or too embarrassed, finger brushes are frequent, and eye contact only makes you extremely nervous. You had worked until the second stage—anger—already, but you’d still been polishing the denial and introduction. Considering November wasn’t over and the paper was due February, you figured you were moving at an okay pace. Besides, a lot of your friends hadn’t even begun.

—

There are two instances where you rush home, mortified beyond belief.

The first when when you struck up a conversation with the cute, Australian barista. Scrawled in big penmanship on his name tag is Chan. You had brought up, in passing, how often you’re at the cafe and how you probably deserve a free drink. He replied with a low hum, and you dialed down your flirty tone, slightly embarrassed. But not really. You’ve rejected plenty of people before. It’s when you’re already paying for your drink that he replied, handing you your (for a change) iced matcha with a small grin.

“I’d have flirted with you weeks ago if you didn’t have your boyfriend with you all the time. He’s always buying you your drinks.” You spluttered for a good second, staring at him incredulously. “He’s not my boyfriend,” you finally said.

He had shrugged, nonchalant. “He sure as hell looks at you a lot for someone you’re not dating. And you do it just as much, if not more. I’m observant, by the way. Not a stalker.” You had taken your cup and paced over to the other end of the cafe, sat across Mark, cheeks heated.

He looked up, brow raised. You shook your head.

The second time was when Donghyuck graced you both with his presence. You quickly found out that he was a magnetic presence and you both shared similar interests. The energy you both created was both amusing and annoying to Mark.

Although you kept quiet mostly, you enabled Donghyuck’s incessant teasing, which annoyed Mark to the ends of the Earth. “You’re a dork. Isn’t he?” You look up and nod with a smile. Mark rolls his eyes, sending Donghyuck into a laughing frenzy. Mark just grunts and continues typing.

Hyuck had made a joke about how two Physics textbooks discussed why the sad man named Mark owns two of them and didn’t have a life, and you laughed.

You didn’t usually laugh, not around Mark, at least, since it was safe to say you didn’t have any source of entertainment in such a boring guy. But you laughed at the witty joke, and Donghyuck, without thinking much, had said in passing: “Mark, I guess you’re right about everything about her being pretty.”

Mark said nothing, typing. You said nothing. Nobody said anything, not even a sly Donghyuck or, from the counter, an even slyer Chan.

—

When you see Mark next, it’s three days later, and it’s, for the second time, in Johnny’s apartment.

Lia had asked if you wanted to tag along, and you found no harm in going. (“You’re going because Mark is” becomes Lia’s favorite phrase of the night, so much it’s spread to Daniel, who you’d succumbed to and spilled everything to hours prior.) The walk there has something boiling low in your gut and you’re quiet, in fear you might end up vomiting in nerves or saying something stupid. Lia teases you, but her hand clasping yours reassures you, and you squeeze it tightly.

You get there late—it’s past 1AM, and you have a sense of deja vu walking into the cramped space. It’s fuller this time—people are creeping into the bedrooms to smoke in private or do some other things, but suffice to say it’s crowded as fuck.

“Want a drink?” Lia hollers, and you nod over the music. Johnny’s neighbor is another upperclassman named Doyoung, though he’s mainly referred to as Doie by just about everybody around him.

You’ve seen his girlfriend call him bunny a few times, though you’ve long desired to repress that memory.

Judging by the fact that you can faintly hear a different song from the next room, the party has probably extended to Doyoung’s. There’s quite a gathering this week—the rich freshman who you’d befriended once before, Chenle, and his horde of friends are here; from Lia, who hands you a drink, you learn that Kun and Sicheng, two incredibly attractive juniors, are here, too—in Doie’s, though. The party only intensifies, which is hard, because Johnny’s apartment is very tiny.

Eventually, you find yourself in the bathroom, smoking a joint you’d grabbed out of the clammy hands of a tipsy Chenle and kicking a couple out under the guise that you’re Johnny’s cousin. Chenle had protested but eventually given in, pulling a new one out of his pocket.

The bathroom light is white and harsh, but there’s a very funky lamp at the corner. From your place inside the dry (and thankfully clean…looking) bathtub, you eye it. It’s a tall one in the shape of a glass of margarita.

You heave yourself up and find the switch, and then when it’s on, you giggle at the green light emitting from it. You have absolutely no idea why Johnny, Jaehyun, or their roommate Jungwoo (3J, as some call them) have a decorative, margarita-shaped green lamp, and in their bathroom nonetheless, but you shut off the main light and return to smoking your blunt. Deciding your ass aches far too much, you lean against the tile wall and cherish the smoke.

The door opens abruptly, and you curse, pushing it back closed.

“I have explosive diarrhea,” you say robotically, using the same excuse you did for the previous three couples that showed up.

From the other side, you hear a shrill laugh and sound of confusion. When you peer over the other side and see Mark, you groan and laugh. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I saw you come in. Like, twenty minutes ago.”

“I’m cherishing the party privately.”

Mark ushers himself into the dark space and shuts the door. He makes a show of locking it, as if to show you it’s possible to do so. The sound of it locking sends a wave of nerves up your spine.

“I didn’t lock it in case a medical emergency happens and they have to rush inside.”

Mark quirks his brow. “I doubt they would think to go inside the restroom and not panic and call 911, you know.”

You shrug in indifference and take another drag, reluctantly offering it to him.

He takes it, and you pause for a second to observe him. His hair, dark, and which usually covers his entire forehead like a broom or at least parts in the middle slightly, is now styled differently.

He’s in a fitting black shirt and blue jeans, and, upon your closer inspection, silver rings adorn his fingers. You will yourself to look down. It’s dark. “What’s that you’re holding?” You ask instead, trying not to extend your stare at his shoulders.

“Your puffer coat,” he says, tossing it to you. “Left it last time.”

“That time when you annoyed the shit out of me, right,” you retort.

“Yes, exactly that time. That was ages ago. Weeks ago. Look at us now.”

“Us now—what, still disliking each other?”

He laughs humorlessly, but doesn’t entertain you further. He turns to the lamp instead. “Do you know I was there when they moved this in,” he begins, gesturing to it, “Jae got it at some weird, awful flea market, and he had to buy some extra wiring to fix it or whatever. I was doing Physics homework. It was at the start of this school year. And I bet you didn’t know…” he bends down and reaches to the base of the lamp, pressing a button, “that it changes color.”

The room is bathed in red now, and you swallow. “Interesting,” you manage to say, despite the racing in your head. “Very,” he responds, taking a step closer to you. You gaze up at him. He’s tall. You breathe softly. You nod in agreement. You don’t know what to do. You want to punch him and kiss him and leave all at once.

You want to kiss him, oh God, you want to kiss him.

“Oh God,” you say softly, out loud. Oh fuck. Too much weed?

He inches closer, leaving the blunt on the rim of the sink. “Why?” He smiles a little and you smile back, nervous. He’s so close now, and he smells so good—like cologne and laundry and weed. You shake your head. “Nothing,” you mumble back.

He’s even closer now, eyes boring into yours. You adjust your strap, a nervous habit. He takes your hand and does it for you. “I like this song,” he says casually, like he’s not playing with the strap of your dress. “Do you know what it’s called?” It’s vaguely familiar to you, but you shake your head.

“It’s Jhene Aiko,” he replies, and you nod. You gravitate closer.

You stare at him. He stares back. “I’m high,” you say. You giggle. “I had a brownie and that blunt.”

“That’s a lot,” he says. “Don’t finish the blunt, ‘kay?” You nod back, and giggle again. In two seconds, your nervous mechanism has kicked in and you’re laughing like a psycho. “I’m high,” you repeat, and then he kisses you, effectively sobering you up.

Huh. He kisses you, effectively sobering you up. He kisses you.

You kiss back, shocked and relieved, deepening it, trying to get as much of him as possible. His hands are big and wide and warm, traveling all over you. You want him. Your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him closer, lips molding against yours deliriously.

“Want you,” you say when his hands play with the hem of your dress, teetering closer and closer to your core. “I said, I want you,” you whine, “now.” Mark only laughs, his hands under your dress and playing with the lace waistband of your underwear.

“I like how this feels,” he mumbles. “Wanna take a look.” You whimper, hiking your leg up and nodding. “Please, just…touch me,” you say breathlessly. “Please.”

“I will,” he says, voice calm. “You’re being good.” You can’t deny the noise you make at the praise, breathy and loud. You pull him in again, drunk for more, your hands raking through his hair. It’s dark, the both of you basking in the small red light. Mark hikes your dress up, inching it higher, slowly, until he sees the hem of your white lace underwear. He grunts and pulls at it. “I love this,” he says. “So fuckin’, Jesus.”

You giggle against the smile. He toys with your panties for a bit before finally pulling them down, watching them sink to your ankles. “Hot,” he jokes, and you laugh in disbelief. “Why would you even be joking abou—”

“Mark! Let’s go, it’s 2:30!” Donghyuck’s voice is just as loud and clear as it would be if you weren’t separated by a door. Jolted, you and Mark instinctively break apart and stare at the rattling door. “Maaaark,” he sing-songs, knocking to a beat. You stare at Mark, waiting for him to respond.

“I have explosive diarrhea,” he says. You stifle a guffaw, pulling your panties up.

He pouts, tapping your ass. “Bullshit,” Donghyuck says from outside. “I’m cooomin’ in!”

In the span of a minute, where you realize Donghyuck is not bluffing and in fact has a stolen bathroom key from Jungwoo’s bedside drawer, you manage to shove yourself into the bathtub and hide yourself with the curtain. Mark switches the light back on, much to both of your disappointment, and pretends to smoke the blunt you’d left on the sink fifteen minutes ago. Ergo: pre-kiss.

You find your phone on the bathtub floor and grip it, turning the brightness down. You have a plethora of messages and voicemails from Lia, five calls from Daniel, and an interesting iMessage of Donghyuck’s red, weed-induced eyes from an unknown number. It could be anybody, and that scares you.

The texts are all frantic, and they’re the last things that bring you out of your high and back to reality. Where are u, who u with?, u getting railed??!, Have you seen mark?

“Hyuck, if I actually did have a shitstorm coming out of my ass, you’d be so sorry for breaking in,” you hear Mark say. You sink lower into the bathtub, awaiting Donghyuck’s voice. “You were the one who suggested we go at 2:30, and you’ve been smoking weed for the longest time, dipshit,” he says, “now let’s go. I haven’t seen your Psych girl all night, so you can cry about it at home.” You faintly detect Mark protesting and then, “Let me just freshen up! Just go ahead.”

Reluctantly, you peek out and find Mark alone. You get up and fix your dress.

You’re sober now. The red lights are gone. It’s just you and Mark, plain and simple. Your feelings haven’t gone away, though. You’re fucking fucked. You want him to fuck you. Oh, fuck.

“Go,” you say instead, spluttering. “And I’ll see you. Tuesday.”

You leave first despite yourself, not turning around for even a split second, finding a worried (and then relieved) Lia and taking five consecutive tequila shots to down the nerves and denial bubbling in your system. She raises a brow, but you refuse to even meet her eyes, head and heart pounding impossibly fast. You want to kiss him again. So, so bad. But what the fuck did you just let happen?

—

Stage 2: Anger|

Lia hadn’t pressed, and you were nervous, but it was getting easy to diverge the details of what happened during Johnny’s party. You had instead opted to work alone, too much of a coward to even see Mark’s face. If you were being completely honest with yourself, you feared you might just kiss him if you ever saw him. So you spent days at class working, and then at your dorm working, adjusting your route to avoid, as much as possible, Mark or Hyuck’s buildings and that godforsaken cafe. You did text Mark, though, and the exchanges were brief, not even a “thank you” or “good morning” preceding them. It was awful.

Working alone forced you into a heavy load of retrospection. You would think deeply, like how you are now, spiraling into a series of questions where you studied the play-by-play of what happened in the bathroom, up against the wall. You liked it. A lot. But you couldn’t. You wouldn’t let yourself. Why it even happened…God. You mentally berated yourself for giving into it. Didn’t you hate him? Or at least dislike him? Didn’t you take pleasure in scolding him or fighting with him?

“You’re freaking me out,” Lia says from her bed. She’s been staring at you. “You’ve been lying on your bed staring at the ceiling for twenty straight minutes.” She walks over to you, flopping next to you, her arms winding around your body. “You can tell me anything.”

“I know,” you say, nervous. You gulp.

“Okay. If you’re n—”

“Mark and I kissed.”

She sits up and turns to look at you.

“Made out, more like. We were going to fuck if we didn’t get interrupted.” You’re mortified, refusing to meet her gaze. When you look up, her face is even, but you know she’s bubbling over with giddiness inside. “That is so fucking great, dude,” she replies. “Why are you so embarrassed?”

“Because it’s Mark,” you whine. “He’s not…I don’t know.”

She lies back down. “You’re overthinking this.” You laugh, poking her waist. “I know, but I just…I feel like he might not like me much anymore.” You recount the way you left him hanging, despite the lack of awkward air and the potential to talk and become something. She tsks but justifies it, because she’s so good at that, being a mediator, and you continue with your day quietly.

Your mind is always on it, though, his hands and his lips, and you’ve scoured Spotify for the song playing that he had commented on.

It’s called Pussy Fairy. You cannot make it up. It’s a weird title, but the song is heavenly, and you can’t deny when it’s full blast on your AirPods and your hand is creeping closer and closer there, trying desperately to replicate what you felt in that moment. When you’re not sated, ashamed and sighing, you resort to working on your paper. There are moments where both you and Mark are working at the same time, and you hate yourself for getting all flustered when it happens.

—

It’s a Tuesday, in the early afternoon, when you’re out of class and cleaning out the little litter in your dorm, repasting whatever decorations fell off, et cetera. You have the time, anyway, and it wouldn’t hurt to fix the place up a bit. You’re halfway into re-stringing Lia’s fairy lights when someone knocks on the door, jolting you. You curse under your breath, hopping off her bed to swing the door open and reveal—

“What is up?!” Donghyuck grins back at you. His hand is raised in a high-five invitation, which you hesitantly reciprocate. “Mark tells me you’re meeting today, and that I should come remind you, since it seems like you forgot. He says you haven’t texted all day. Since I was on this floor—do you know Jeno Lee? Do you know it’s so amusing how Mark, Jeno, and I all have the same surname? Anyway. I was here on your floor to remind Jeno about an Econ presentation, and Mark texts me and goes, if you’re with Jeno, then remind you—you as in you, you—to come meet me and work.”

He talks so goddamn fast. “You talk so goddamn fast.”

He just guffaws, high-fiving you again. “Well, you get my point, right? Meet Mark at the cafe and work is all he said to do. If you wanna.” You nod slowly, absorbing his words. “Tell him I’ll be a little late,” you say simply, and as you’re about to shut the door, he talks again, his voice quieter this time. “I know you were hiding behind the curtain.”

You pull the door open again, so fast a minuscule gust of wind washes over both of your faces. “You’re kidding,” you say, “you’re kidding.” You stare at each other for a second before his solem features break into a smile. “I am. Mark spilled everything to me, so I decided to trick you.” Relief and annoyance break over your system as you swat Donghyuck’s shoulder. “You’re a dick,” you spit. “You’re bringing a bad image to Econ majors.”

He merely laughs and closes the door himself, light brown hair fluffing with the severity of his laugh (cackle.) Slightly annoyed, you drag yourself to get dressed, dread building up in your stomach at the prospect of seeing Mark again. Not when your mind conjures up what happened everytime you just see his name. Or the word mark. You’ve been out of it since it happened, not even responding to your usual heated debates with the conservative Trump supporter in class. You suppose the best way to confront it is to simply confront it.

When you get there, though, it’s clear that confrontation would not be an option. Immediately, when you sit, the air shifts into something oddly familiar—the atmosphere between the two of you when you first got partnered up. Except now, Mark won’t even give you a pinch of attention, or banter, instead typing his questions into the document to avoid verbal conversation. (He is a fucking petty bitch, you’ll give him that.)

You stroll over to the counter, pout set on your lips. “Hello,” Chan says politely, and you just smile half-heartedly. “Lover’s quarrel?” He teases, and you roll your eyes. “He’s ignoring me,” you respond, watching him make you a latte. “And we’re not dating. We never were.”

“Mm, right,” he says, finishing and setting your drink in front of you. You laugh a little, taking it. “No. We weren’t. But I’ll update you.”

When you return, Mark’s looking at you, quiet as ever. You break his gaze and continue working, working and working until the sun sets, nestled deep behind the horizon. When you look up again, the sky is already dark, city lights providing solace to the place. You look at Mark quizzically, as if to ask him what time you should both leave, but he just shrugs. “Any time,” he states plainly, and huffing, you get up.

“I’ll go right ahead then,” you say, trying your best to sound annoyed and get your message across. He says nothing, watching you pack up your stuff and sling your bag over your shoulder, and then eventually, leave.

Daniel is the first to see you in your raged, annoyed state—you meet him in the elevator of the lobby, your blood boiling and your fists balled. Knowing you’re headed to the same floor, he presses the button, ruffles his hair, and then lets the silence take over. And then, “What’s going on?” You breathe deeply, turning to him with a tired look on your face. “Mark’s going on,” you mumble, “he was ignoring me the entire time. And to think he was the one who requested my presence! It makes no sense. Why would he ignore me when we can just talk about it?”

“About what?”

It suddenly occurs to you that Daniel knows about your weird feelings for Mark, but not how they culminated. You splutter. “Um, about us. Everything.” Daniel looks amused, but the doors open, and you thank them for the temporary exit from the topic. He stops you right outside, though, and pulls out two ticket, card-looking things. “Wait, um. Listen, Lia and I are going to reach our seven-month…anniversary, I guess, of, y’know, being a thing. I know it seems really small, but I want to give her a little something out of appreciation, so I got us a room at this ski lodge outside the city.”

“That’s so sweet,” you say honestly, “but I must admit, it comes on sort of stalker-y. Like you’re whisking her off out of the city.”

He beams even louder. “That’s why you’re coming. With Mark!”

You gape back at him. “Did you miss the whole I-hate-him thing that happened in there?” You jab your finger towards the closed elevator doors, disbelief written across your face. He laughs. “Sometimes you can’t keep hiding behind”—he begins walking to your room, and you follow suit—“emotions, like anger. When I liked Lia, there was a point where I was just pretending to alienate her so I wouldn’t have to face that I was starting to love her. Like her. And you know, she did it right back.”

“Oh, quit it,” you scoff, insistent. “You’re lecturing me like you’ve been married a decade.”

“That’s what I want,” he says, and you gag. “The first step to that would be ski lodge trip, so you’re coming!”

You’re in front of your room now, and you pinch his wrist as he reaches for the handle, gaining his full attention. “I’ll gladly go,” you whisper, “if Mark’s out.” Daniel just laughs, shaking his head. “No, no. An overnight trip would delay your paper severely. Plus, they have two beds per room.”

“We’ll be staying in the same roo—hey, Li,” you say, quickly cutting your angry rant off when she opens the door, her face confused (to say the least.)

“Mm, hey,” she says, ushering the two of you in. “How long were you two out there?” Daniel shrugs, ruffling his hair and then pressing a kiss on Lia’s forehead. You boo from your place on your bed, buried under your duvet. “You both suck,” you holler, “always sexing it up in a sacred space. AKA my room.” Lia just grins and jumps on top of you, drawing grunts from you both. Daniel seats himself on the floor and busies himself with his phone. “How was Mark,” she whispers into your hair, and you groan.

“Bad,” you respond, “I’m so annoyed. We’re back to square one.” She makes an apologetic noise and gets up with a sigh, adjusting the strings of her pullover and then hugging Daniel. You watch them. You want to kiss Mark again. Life sucks that way.

—

Predictably, Mark turns down the offer of the ski lodge. He’s polite about it, too, especially since he and Daniel have grown a little bit closer since the start of your project. Daniel is, by no means, a “Mark anti”, but he would participate in the ribbing sometimes. Still, he’s insistent on the trip, saying it’s the best way to welcome December and that the forecast predicts a nice, thick layer of snow. It takes a week and two coffees everyday for Mark to give in, under the condition that he buy his own room when you get there.

Which, honestly, really, you have no problem with. Really, you think to yourself as you unceremoniously shove a knitted sweater into your bag. Really. Lia, who had graciously accepted the surprise, watches you abuse your bag, shoving sweater and scarf inside like they want to murder you. “Relax,” she says after a while. You laugh, playing it off (not so) casually.

The drive up there, courtesy of Daniel and a borrowed Prius, is fun, and cramped, but still decent, considering it was just an hour long. You’re in the back with Lia, and Mark is in charge of the AUX, which, of course, comes with its own bout of jokes. You even find the heart to participate and laugh in a few, not daring to meet his eyes. But all his songs are so fucking good. Frank Ocean, Jhene Aiko, SZA, and smaller indie artists flow from the speaker under his phone. The car ride has its share of epic karaoke moments—Mark plays ABBA, and Queen, solely to make sure everybody is belting out to the high heavens.

You get there when the sky’s purple and orange and there are some skiiers scattered around, though, since it’s not the proper holiday period, not too much. You trek over to the main lodge and that’s where Daniel pays for his reservations, and he and Lia retire to their room and promise to get up for dinner. You’re, again, alone with Mark in the lobby as you both stare at each other, willing the other to get up first. He does, to buy his own room like he said he would, and you can faintly hear the exchange from your seat on their nice, fluffy couch.

“I’m sorry, sir. We’re renovating a majority of the rooms for the holidays. That’s why reservations were a prerequisite for staying here.”

Mark sighs. “Okay, right. I’m so sorry. Um”—it’s at this point that you go up next to him, polite smile on your face, ready to take the room key and fuck off—“could we just get an extra blanket, please? For one of the beds.” The receptionist gives a curt smile, handing over the keycard and nodding. “That’ll be one queen-sized warm blanket, then,” she hums, typing away. The receptionist beside her goes to the back, presumably to get the blanket. Mark nods, smiling. “For two queen-sized beds, it must be a big room for both of them to fit comfortably,” he comments offhandedly, fiddling with the card.

The receptionist chuckles. “There is only one bed, sir.”

Oh, God. “Oh, God,” you whisper. “One bed?” She nods with an eye-crinkling smile, like her words have not just rained hell upon the two people across her. “One bed and a sofa,” she corrects herself, reading the information on the computer by the desk. Not wanting to risk your last shred of sanity, you smile profusely, walking quickly towards your room which, thankfully, is on the same floor, at the end of the hall. It’s a small, quaint place that would be honest-to-God perfect if not for the fact that—

“There’s one bed,” Mark sighs, the truth clicking into place. “Daniel is a fucking shithead.” You drop your bag onto the carpeted floor, surveying the room with a scrutinizing gaze. It’s sizable—a bed, a couch, a window. There’s a small wooden desk that looks like its legs can barely hold its weight, and then another door, leading to the bathroom. It’s not bad at all. But you’re exhausted, the sun’s long gone, and your resolve is shredding away as the seconds tick by. “Take the couch,” you say dismissively, “or the carpet.” You make a beeline for the bed, but Mark’s arm wraps around your waist, effectively stopping you.

Ohmygodohmygodohmygod “Shut up and let go of me, dick,” you stutter out. Mark loosens his grip and you shove him off, glaring at him. He gazes back down at you, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “We can’t just make up terms without negotiation,” he says matter-of-factly, and you blow a raspberry. “Fine. Let’s negotiate then. I’m a girl and that puts me above you because chivalry isn’t dead, thus, boom, I get the bed.”

“I was in the uncomfortable passenger seat all day and my lower back hurts,” he counters.

“My legs are wobbly.”

“Bullshit. My back aches.”

“You already said that, it’s invalid.”

The back and forth only intensifies, your arguments growing more and more bizarre, until finally, your volume is so high Lia says she can hear it faintly, four doors down.

“The couch looks comfy,” you try, but Mark stands firm.

“Do you know what? The bed is big. It’s a big bed. And we’re not going to take up much space. If we divide the bed with the sofa pillows…” you pick up the cushions and line them up neatly along the middle, “…then we can sleep beside each other without having to make contact with each other.” He seems convinced, stepping closer to the bed and nodding. “Okay. I get first dibs on the shower.”

“Asshole,” you mutter, but you let him anyway. You’ve unpacked nearly all your things and he isn’t done yet, so you’ve resorted to scrolling mindlessly through Tiktok and laughing at just about everyone that pops up on screen. Mark finally exits after what feels like forever, and you keep your eyes trained on your screen to avoid looking at him. From your peripheral vision, he is very much shirtless. There are no words exchanged, the thickness in the air only building bit by bit.

—

Three hours later, post-dinner, post-abandoning the thought of working on your paper, you’re stumbling into your room after helping the very tipsy couple of the night into theirs. You’re beyond tired now, and you can tell Mark is, too, despite the lack of eye contact or communication between you. You don’t even look at him, brushing your teeth and removing your makeup and clipping your hair up into a bun. It’s when he does the same, and you’re both in bed, using your phones, that he finally breaks the silence.

“I’m not mad,” he says. His voice is even and calm, and you quickly shut your phone off and sit up, peering over the pillow boundary you had created. You look at him expectantly before he sighs and continues. “Why did you leave?”

You stand up, getting out, trying to increase distance. You’ve never really liked confrontation. “I was weirded out,” you spill, “and scared…? I guess with the nearness of being caught, and with all the lights on, I was just shocked back to reality.”

He sits up. “What’s reality?”

“I don’t—know,” you splutter, getting back on the bed. “Not kissing you?”

He laughs, and then it becomes silent. “Right. Let’s sleep, then.” Without another word, he pulls his lamp off, and only the white moonlight is left illuminating the both of you. Shucking yourself under the covers, feeling your heart practically thump out of your chest. You honestly think he can hear it, or at least feel it. Suddenly the boundary doesn’t do much. You turn away from him, nervous, and you can faintly hear his breathing even out. You shut your eyes for a second. When you open them again, he’s looking right at you. “Just checking to see if you’re asleep,” he says quietly. You nod. And then you lean upwards, just a touch, so your lips nearly brush slightly. “Night,” you say, before turning to sleep for real.

You’re not sure when. And how. Sure, you faintly remember digging your legs sleepily through the sheets to find warmth and tangling Mark’s in your own. But still—when you’re up, the pillow fort is at your feet, hanging precariously off the four post bed, and your back is against Mark’s chest. His breath fans lightly over your hair and you blearily register what happened overnight. His arm is slung over your middle, it’s quiet, and oh Christ, he is hard.

It’s fairly late. He’s hard. The antique clock mounted up on the wall tells you it’s around nine, which essentially gave you seven hours of sleep. He’s hard. You bask in the warmth of Mark for a while before your resolve solidifies and you gently push his arm off from its position on your hips. He only comes on stronger, wrapping fully around your waist, mumbling incoherence into your hair. He’s hard. You squeeze your eyes shut, summoning sleep to overcome you quickly, but it never does. Dread overcomes you as you feel your underwear grow damp.

“Mm,” Mark grunts, his hand around your waist loosening. You move away but his head suddenly lolls into the crook of your neck, his lips touching the side of it. You whimper. He’s a fucking asshole, even when he’s asleep. You pinch his arm, jolting him to half-awakeness, and you roll away, despite your body’s protests.

He blinks his eyes open. “Sorry, shit,” he says, voice deep and ridden with sleep. You’re fucked.

“It’s okay,” you splutter instead. “Just go back to sleep.” You faintly register that you sound just as exhausted as he does, and you bury your head back into the covers. Everything, plus the sound of his voice, has you dripping, and you breathe in deeply to poorly disguise a whimper. He chuckles, already half-asleep, from where he is, and it’s quiet for a few minutes before you realize he’s fallen asleep. Knowing Lia and Daniel will be busy for a while, you pull a spare pillow over your head and chant to yourself before falling back asleep, too.

When you awaken, the bed is cold and empty, and the shower’s running. You check the time to find only an hour has passed, but you’re much more awake now, getting up and knocking incessantly on the bathroom door. “Hurry,” you demand hoarsely, “I want to go skiing.” You hear a muffled okay and scurry over to your bag to find the pair of leggings you had packed for this. You also find your parka, and you pull off your shirt to clasp on a bra.

“Not that I don’t mind,” Mark says, eliciting a yelp from you as you tug a sweater on at record speed, “but generally, that kind of thing only goes unnoticed in nudist colonies. I could research some for you, if you’d—ow! I was joking, God!” You bonk him twice over the head with the Bible on the bedside table, your brows furrowed angrily. “You looked, asshat,” you say, collecting your things and locking yourself in the bathroom.

When it becomes increasingly evident that Lia and Daniel have no plans of exiting their room, you grumble and resort to skiing alone. But as you’re shuffling out, bundled up, you spot Mark leaning against the exit waiting for you. He looks up and tsks. “About fucking time,” he says, holding the door open for you. It’s not that cold out—maybe you’re just used to having snow and chilly weather, and so is Mark—so you barely shiver, walking around and looking for a good place to ski.

“Forget skiing,” Mark says after a few rounds. “Let’s go sledding. I have a thing.”

“A toboggan, you mean.”

“A funny word. Really, just say sled.”

You let up, anyway, the bright sky and cold ground sending serotonin right into you. Sure enough, Mark does have a nice, blue sled that he lets you on, and then the two of you are bolting down the hill at breakneck speed, laughing all the way. It’s quite a long ride, and you’re smiling and yelping so much the cloth you’ve used to cover your neck has ridden down, the cold air hitting your face harshly.

You land very ungracefully—the toboggan hits a small tree and sends you and Mark catapulting in the same direction, your hands clawing at the air for expense. You find Mark’s arm and cling onto it in the split second you’re in the air, landing on a clearing of thick snow. The arm you’ve clung onto pulls you closer, Mark grunting “be careful,” and when the whole fiasco’s over, you’re smiling like an idiot, and you’re right on top of Mark.

You’re not straddling him or anything, but you’ve just happened to land with your face a little above his. You can’t stop laughing, your face flushed and red with the cold air hitting your face. So you laugh. Why wouldn’t you laugh? It was a good day. A good ride down the hill. So you keep laughing until they’re reduced to giggles, Mark laughing right along as you pull down the covering of his mouth and tug his beanie off, ruffling your hands in his hair and dipping down to kiss him.

He kisses you right back, his lips cold but quickly growing warm with the friction. You smile into the kiss, your hands roaming all over his pink face. The kiss is giggly and light, your hands all over each other as the sunlight filters in through the thick trees overhead.

You pull away after a while. “I hate you,” you whisper. He presses a kiss to your jawline and lets it linger there. “You think I don’t?”

—

Stage 3: Bargaining, Depression|

You’ve begun to type the structure out when Lia tugs on your pajamas, her tone insistent and curious. “What’s up with you and Mark?” she presses, her cheek pressed to your stomach. You fervently hope she doesnt notice how your breathing quickens, and, keeping your voice even, you answer. “We’re…thinking about things.”

Which—you were thinking about things, to be fair. There were things to be thought and you had to think about them. It was a broad half-truth. It had been two weeks since the ski lodge thing, and you and Mark had decided it was probably best to shut the fuck up about everything you had done. (Everything meaning a few kisses here and there, and maybe a little more under the covers.) You’d hated yourself for hiding it from Lia, but you and Mark were actually feeling hesitant about moving forward with whatever you were. There was a lot of ambiguity and questions, and until you could clear it up yourself, you knew you weren’t ready to tell anybody else. You had talked about it already—clearly, the two of you were beyond jumping straight into a relationship after not liking each other that much and then becoming hesitant friends.

But it was, if you had to admit it to yourself, nice having that little secret.

“I’d want to tell Lia soon,” you tease, walking steadily beside Mark. The afternoon sun is warm on your heads, the snow falling intermittently. He turns with a small smile. “I’d want to tell Hyuck, too.” You scoff, burying your head in his chest. You probably look fucking disgusting. Around you, Washington Square Park is full of natives and tourists, and college students like you, all scurrying around and giving you that very much holiday feel.

He buys you a hot cocoa and hands it to you. “Are you heading home soon?”

You take a sip, your tongue hot. “If my ratty dorm counts as home, then yes.”

“Home is a feeling, not a place. Does your ratty dorm feel like home?”

“Kind of. Lia’s there. And so is the rat infestation in the ceiling.”

Mark nearly chokes on his cocoa. “You’re gross as fuck.”

You let out a loud laugh, your beanie nearly falling off with the bounciness of it. Mark reaches behind you to catch it, pressing a kiss to your lips in the process, soft and light and God, you like it. A lot. “Clumsy,” he remarks, pulling it back on and dragging a generous amount of your hair in front of your eyes as he does it. “It’s gonna be Christmas soon, and thank God we’re nearly done with this paper.”

“It was my genius idea to combine bargaining and depression,” you quip. “That’s my gift to you. Merry Christmas, Mark Lee.” He laughs at that. His laugh, you’ve noticed, is goddamn loud, and it’s a literal cackle, but he always looks so happy when he laughs. And buoyant. “You look stupid,” you say, but the smile on your face is undeniable. He glares playfully at you, taking your hand and walking you both in the direction of your building.

“New York in the snow,” he hums. “Always a great place.”

“It’s full of tourists,” you counter. Always disagreeing.

He chuckles and then, like clockwork—like how you’ve done it for the past six dates—you separate when you’re just shy of a meter away from the lobby entrance. Your fingers curl in search of his, and you jog up the steps, eager to get into the warmth of the building. The lobby’s pretty empty, save for a couple of students. Mark’s ahead of you, already pressing the elevator button and waiting impatiently.

“We’re alone,” he sing-songs, his eyebrows wiggling. The doors open right as you take Mark’s hand, and you look up to meet Daniel’s wide eyes. Then you look to the right to meet Lia’s.

Despite your inner turmoil, you remain nonchalant, pinching Mark’s wrist instead of holding it like you’d planned. “That’s why our professor fucking hates you,” you say, narrowing your eyes. Your heart is beating a mile a minute, but you muster a neutral expression, shoving your hands back into your pockets. Lia knows you, though, and her furrowed eyebrows and parted lips say everything—but you just shrug, playing off what they could have caught you doing. “Hey,” you say, walking into the elevator with Mark. It all blows over.

AKA: Daniel has to drag a curious Lia away from you, with a promise that you would converse later. You and Mark are alone again, in the elevator, your hands barely touching, laughs loud. It’s all blurry after that. You’re high on a laugh and the thought of a kiss—you drag him over to your room, hands in his hair, breathless, loose kisses. You’re both so exhausted, though, that all you manage to extend your energy to is taking your tops off and making out lazily to the songs you’d recommended to each other.

“Mm,” he says when one of your songs starts playing. “It’s a nice song.” You nod with a smile. “I know it is, it’s one of my recommendations. It’s called Softly.” He plays with the strap of your bra. “I’ll give it more of a listen, then. Also, a red bra to school? Whatever will the professors think,” he jokes lightly, pressing insistent, but soft kisses on your shoulder. You laugh, pinching the inner part of his arm and eliciting a swear from him. “I was joking! I know you wore this for me, stupid.” The wind whistles outside, barely audible from the half-open window across the room, overlapping with the music.

This all feels too real, now.

You pout lazily against his bare chest. “Get off before Lia gets in,” you mumble, your heart beginning to race. He does, for what it’s worth, rolling off your bed with a loud thump and tugging his shirt and sweater back on. You watch him (fondly) annoyedly, your hair draping over you as you get up to properly shove him out. “Out, out,” you chant, laughing, and he giggles, turning abruptly to poke at your waist.

“Shut up,” you groan, a smile on your face. There’s a beat, then he pulls you close and kisses you, running outside right after with a literal guffaw. You watch him, wrapping your fleece blanket around your frame as he runs to the elevator, sweater backwards and hair messy.

—

Doubts are normal. This you’re assured of, but your head pounds with the sheer amount of things you’re cramming into it. You squint impossibly harder, trying to get the nail polish into the crook of Lia’s nail. You’ve probably overdone it, judging by the way she jabs her knuckle in between your eyebrows, her face contorted in worry. “Are you…okay?”

You narrow your eyes, the inner debate of telling her raging on and on. The nail polish drips onto her fingernail, rolling onto her pant leg, and she yelps, but her eyes are still on you. “You can tell me anything,” she says, softer this time. You know she’s serious—you know you can. You always have. You told her about every fling, one night stand, pregnancy scare, bad grade, hot professor, and spoiled deli food you’d encountered since you ever became friends. She knew you. And you were so sure she knew what you were about to say.

Except you didn’t know what you wanted to say. Your feelings were a mess, and you wanted one thing as much as you wanted the other. You couldn’t place what you wanted, and if you had to narrow it down, you’d realize that you were scared of what you wanted. You were never really one for commitment, or a relationship, or really anything, for that matter. And the fact that you were so hung up on thinking about what you and Mark would become—Mark? It all seemed so dystopian, almost. Like you’d never expected it. Your friendship was a childhood bubble that popped in the span of your first high school semester, and that was that. But just two days ago you were being kissed all over by the same guy you’d had a cutthroat student council president competition with.

It seemed so absurd? Crazy? Those adjectives were a little over the top. Deep down, if you dug deep enough into the parts you didn’t even tell yourself, you knew what you were. And if anybody else were to know, it would be Lia.

“I’m scared,” you choke out, your voice shaky. “I’m scared and sad, and happy and angry, and I want this but I don’t.” You cover the nail polish, shaking your head. “This is all so new to me. I hate how much I feel, especially because it feels so wrong. You know me—relationships are just not cut out for me. They’re scary and new. And people in relationships turn all gooey. I’m scared that this won’t last, but I’m scared that it will, and I’ll be doomed to an eternity of bland, padlocked relationships. It’s weird. I could be feeling this way for anyone, but it had to be Mark? If only I didn’t hate him, then maybe we could’ve gone off on a better foot. If only this whole thing never fucking happened, right?”

“It’s okay,” Lia cuts in. “Being scared is okay. It’s part of the whole process. And nobody said you had to get along like conjoined twins in a relationship. They just go when they go and end when they end. Not every relationship starts as a high school sweetheart thing and ends with three kids and a picket fence. And I’m so sure Mark would be so understanding if you didn’t like him or if you chose not to continue.”

“You knew?”

She laughs. “Of course I knew. I know a post-sex glow when I see one, and I was blinded that morning at the ski lodge.” You groan, pinching her indignantly, hiding your face in your hands as she laughs out of view. “Okay. Take some time and think about it, but for now, I want to get my nails done, so.”

—

It’ll be a week before you come up with what you want, and the whole time you generally avoid talking about solemn topics with him in person.

It’ll be another few days before you finally talk to him personally—with your paper nearly finished, you suggest a meeting at the library. It’s just two days before Christmas Eve, and you know Mark’s going to be driving to Canada, so you want to snatch him away for your own personal time for just a second. The snow has all but thickened as you meet outside the building, the silence deafening.

“Hi,” he says, smiling. You know he’s probably picked up on your erratic, quieter behavior in the past several days, but you gulp and lead him inside anyways, to your favorite section. “It’s almost Christmas Eve,” he says, watching you stall, surrounded by Philosophy books from just about every century. “I know,” you say, hoping you don’t sound too nervous.

“You sound nervous,” he says.

“Do I?” you ask shakily, your voice taking on an unnaturally high pitch. “I mean, er. I guess I sort of am. I guess I’ve been thinking about everything lately—about you and me and everything that just happened so suddenly. Because—because it did happen so suddenly. I just…needed time? Yeah, time. To think about everything. Because it all happened so quickly, I…” you stutter. “I’m scared of these things. I’m not used to them. Relationships? Things that last longer than a couple weeks? I don’t like these.

I have something bigger I want to focus on and anybody who gets in the way just isn’t worth it. And it’s so weird how it was you out of all people I started thinking about it with. Usually I just have the rare fling and then they’re gone, and I’m not even mad. But you’re different. And I like it.

But I just needed time to find out if I really liked it. If I really wanted to try. I know it’s only been a few weeks, and I probably sound really fucking stupid, but you get me—you get me, right? And that’s how I realized—if it happens, it happens. If it doesn’t, it doesn’t. I don’t know why I overthought it. I mean, it’s a good thing and a bad thing that I did. Like, on one hand, I got to really think about how this would play out, and on the other, I’d just end up spiraling. And it’s just weird. I hope you don’t know I hated you. Hate you? Hated you. I was just—it was all so juvenile. Everything just stemmed from that one awfully dumb high school rivalry. But other than that, you were always a cool…see what I mean? I’m kind of rambling—even if I thought I had planned this out. And. Yeah. I dunno. I fucking…I hate you, stop laughing.”

Mark smiles down at you—you’re busy pretending to read a Sartre book to look unfazed, but your flickering gaze says it all.

“Okay, stupid,” he says, bordering onto a laugh. “If that’s your way of saying you’re willing to give this a try, then I graciously accept. Should I be saying something equally long? I—is that how this works?”

You roll your eyes and kiss him instead, pulling him close, Sartre’s postulates dropping to the floor alongside your tiptoes.

—

Stage 4: Acceptance|

“Acceptance is just that. Just accepting that you love that person after weeks or months of all the other stages. With her, it was. Like. It’s the whole sitting down after silence, having some time for the revelation to set in before you realize you love them. Or like them? Well, love them, I guess. But I don’t know why you would be asking me this.”

You bury your head further into Mark’s shoulder, your eyes strained from how long they’d been trained onto your screen. You smile up at Daniel, thanking him for the input and beginning to type it in, watching Lia doze off on his shoulder. “We’re asking because we’re not quite there yet,” Mark hums, “it’s just February. It’s barely been two months.” You nod, watching Mark type where you left off on the document. Daniel snorts from across you. “You’re just about, I guess.” Mark chuckles, shrugging so your head bounces off his shoulder unceremoniously.

“Like I’d ever fall in love with that shitstorm,” he says pointedly.

“Oh, and I’d fall in love with this dickwad?”

“You’re perfect for each other. Bullying, but we all know Mark brought back gifts from Canada and that you stitched an initial onto his sweater.”

“To practice my embroidery. Also, I stitched Mark’s initial. M. Asshole.”

“Okay,” whistles Daniel, his hand unconsciously coming up to make sure Lia doesn’t fall off his shoulder. “But hey, you’re just about to submit this paper and I’m fondly remembering all the times you despised each other. And when you”—he points at you, devilish grin on his face—“started gushing to Lia about how he”—he then turns to Mark—“kissed you at Johnny’s party.”

“God, it’s not the time for that yet, we’re still a fresh couple,” you groan, burying your head in your hands. “You have so much dirt on me, Choi.” Mark just laughs, though, loudly, bringing the other cafe-goers’ attention to yours. He bites your shoulder to stifle it, eliciting a laugh from you. “I agree, there should be a certain time requirement for pre-relationship embarrassing stories,” Mark says, closing his laptop. Lia gets up at that point, already half-awake from the ruckus (AKA Mark’s laugh), pulling on Daniel’s sleeve. “Alright, and that’s my cue to get this girl some more coffee and then go.”

“Mm, I’ll come with,” you say, “I need a refresher before we leave soon, anyway.”

You walk in between them, your fingers laced in Lia’s as she squeezes them sleepily. They order first and then they’re off with a smile and a polite goodbye, leaving you to order your drink. You gaze up at the menu, and then down at—

“Long time no see,” Chan says with a knowing beam. “How is your not boyfriend boyfriend?”

“Well, he’s my boyfriend now.”

“See, I always know. What do you want?”

“An iced ca—how did you know?” You ask, tempted.

“It’s just…the energy? It was a hit or miss, but I kinda got that feeling that something was going to happen.”

“Hmm,” you hum. “An iced caramel then.”

“And a black coffee for her best friend!” Hollers a new voice that you could never miss, turning slowly towards the entrance to meet Donghyuck’s crazy eyes. He’s in a suit, which isn’t unusual given the sheer amount of presentations he’s had to do since the new year started. You roll your eyes but put in the extra cash anyway, much to Chan’s amusement. Hyuck nears you with a sly grin. “I hear you’ll be submitting your paper soon. I just want my name in there so I’m in your professor’s good graces.”

“She’s not even going to be your professor, Hyuck,” you say, taking your drink and smiling at Chan. You and Donghyuck both walk back to where Mark’s sitting, you beside him and Hyuck across the both of you. “Yes, but it pays to be in somebody’s good graces, I swear. See what happened? I got you two together. I orchestrated your entire love st—”

“Okay, now you’re just lying, Hyuck,” Mark says with a laugh, finishing up the first few paragraphs and closing his laptop. “We’re not even in love.” But his friend lets out a teasing smile, his eyes narrowed, and he gets up with a loud farewell and alibi about “being needed by my better friends.” You assume he’s talking about Jeno.

—

You walk to Mark’s room alongside him, thanks to the promise of his roommate, Jaemin, sleeping at a friend’s. Your fingers are intertwined loosely. The sun’s setting and Mark’s room is sheathed in beautiful shades of orange and pink, a vast array of dusk settling over the space. It happens quietly, but full of laughs, which is how it happens when you’re both tired and/or shitfaced. You do this a lot—a routine of sharing new songs or books you’d picked up over the week and then making out while they play in the background or while one of you read. It’s awfully, horribly, terribly fucking intimate.

“Your bra sucks,” he jokes.

You love it.

“Get better abs and we can talk about it,” you counter, poking his toned stomach. He really, fully guffaws at that, pulling you onto his lap and then tugging his guitar out from where it stands at the corner. You flop back onto his bed, watching him play—and then registering the familiar opening of the Jonas Brothers song you used to request nearly everyday. “Lovebug,” you muse with a smile, singing along to his voice, carried away. You’re sleepy and light, and you know deep down—in that space of yourself where you’re all but honest—that you were going to fall in love with him someday.

Later, when all you’re doing is hugging him as he reads your latest Philosophy requirement to you, he pauses.

“Is this the 21st century idea of love?” He asks idly, unclasping your bra and connecting the moles on your shoulder. You hum.

“It’s the Gen Z idea,” you say, connecting the ones on his bare back. “And this isn’t love.”

“Corny.” he smiles against your collarbones. You kiss his neck. It’s all very gradual.

—

hope you liked it :) drop an ask! I absolutely love all types of feedback

#mark lee #mark lee imagines #mark imagines #mark drabbles

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thesoftboiledegg · 3 years ago

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Hot take: while "Claw and Hoarder: Special Ricktim's Morty" as a whole isn't great, it has a lot in common with "Auto Erotic Assimilation" and improves on it in some respects.

I know, I know. But hear me out!

Both episodes feature Rick having sexual escapades with large groups of people, with a focus on one relationship in particular. "Auto Erotic Assimilation" makes the scenario as obnoxiously hetero as possible by showing Rick slobbering all over hot alien girls. His main focus is a beautiful, sexually uninhibited woman with ridiculously exaggerated proportions.

OK, there are men involved, but the episode blatantly refuses to show Rick getting physical with them (except for one moment that's onscreen for all of half a second.) There's a couple of other mentions here and there, but overall, the episode drives home the point that Rick is a self-insert ladies man for you, the straight male watching at home. He's kind of fooling around with men, but he's, uh...not ACTUALLY doing that, lolz, that would be gross.

Also, I don't think that "Auto Erotic Assimilation" is a great portrayal of Rick's sexuality even when it does briefly mention the men. Most of the episode is about how wild and kinky Rick is. Considering how much that episode focuses on his kinks, it just reads to me like "Haha wow, Rick is so wild and crazy! He'll have sex with anything--animals, aliens, even MEN! Isn't that kinky and gross?"

Two seasons later, "Claw and Hoarder: Special Ricktim's Morty" infamously features a "soul bond" and dragon orgy. Like "Auto Erotic Assimilation," Rick gets caught up in sexual encounters with multiple partners. The main difference here is that Rick's main focus is a male dragon. The episode plays it straight without acting like Rick is being "gross" for being attracted to a male character. There's even a great scene of them smoking weed and hanging out, which is one of my favorite scenes in the entire series.

Later on, Rick (aaaand Summer and Morty) get caught up in a dragon orgy with male and female dragons. OK, Rick didn't initiate that or the original soul bond with Balthromaw, but the episode wasn't shy about showing us how much he enjoyed it. Again, there's no undertone of "Haha wow, Rick is so gross and freaky, am I right??" Dude's just having a good time with some dragons.

I mean...considering how weird the show still tends to be about Rick's sexuality, I think "Claw and Hoarder: Special Ricktim's Morty" only got away with all that because the dragons weren't humanoid. Still, it's a way better (and more respectful) portrayal of Rick's sexuality.

Aaaand that's why I like it way more than the Unity episode.

#rick and morty #rick sanchez #unity

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anothers-trash-my-treasure · 4 years ago

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Stoners

Stoner Snaf <3 So this one's kinda weird, I based it around the Watch Me from fictober so if you haven't already read that, I suggest reading it first! It's also set in a post COVID world because I need something to look forward to. Disclaimer; I wrote this while very high last night and didn't really edit it so it's probably a mess.

Pairing: Merriell Shelton / Female Reader

Warnings: 18+, unprotected sex (don't do this), recreational drug use, if you squint there's some kinky undertones but nothing too crazy.

Word Count: 4.4K (i haven't written something this long is forever omf)

Tags: @edteche2 @xmxisxforxmaybe @diasimar @txmel @gloriousdarkangelsworld @paradoxicaltornado @404-not-found-xix

Enjoy and happy 4:20

Ever since the pandemic, you hadn’t been able to do crowds. Not like you used to anyways. It killed you a little bit because all the things you missed doing so much involved crowds; concerts, clubbing, festivals, travelling. Getting back into the swing of things took time. The feeling of being surrounded by people you don’t know set every one of your nerves on fire in the worst way. It felt so...

Uncomfortable.

This is probably why you didn’t last more than a half-hour at some seedy dive bar your friends had dragged you out to for the night. They begged you to go out with them, if even only for a drink or two. It had been so long since the whole group had a proper outing, it was nice to have the gang out for a night. Until some dickhead grabbed your ass and whispered some unwanted filth in your ear, his breath hot and unpleasant on your skin. After that, you were quick to grab your bag and say goodbye to your friends. You knew they were disappointed, but you could still feel the strangers breathe on your skin like it had been singed.

You welcomed the cool air of the night, feeling it immediately cool your skin. You hadn’t realized how warm it was inside but now that you were out in the open, you felt better. The burning on your neck had settled, more of an afterthought now. Your brain still felt overwhelmed, and you knew exactly how to remedy that.

Sitting down at one of the picnic table benches nearby, you began to sift through your bag when a voice rang out through the quiet streets.

“Well aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,”

You’d know that slow drawl anywhere, you’d go so far as to say it near haunted your dreams.

“Merriell Shelton,” you beam up at him as he walks closer to you, nodding at his friends to continue without him, “I haven’t seen you since-”

“That last party.” He nods, smiling at you in the way where you’re not quite sure if he’s flirting with you or if he’s just that naturally gorgeous, “when I taught ya’ how to smoke.”

An excited smile bubbles onto your face and you shake your head at him, “Oh, you’d be so proud of me. I’ve grown so much since then.”

You resume digging through your bag to find your various forms of weed paraphernalia you carry with you. The pandemic had not been kind to you, and some days it felt like the only thing keeping your head above water was your bedtime joint. It wasn’t something you were terribly proud of, but it helped your anxiety and that was good enough for you lately.

He barks out a laugh at your response and you can’t help the pride the swells up inside of you knowing that you made him laugh like that. He comes to sit on the bench, placing himself close enough that it wasn’t weird, but far away enough so that he wasn’t directly in your space.

“What, you some kinda stoner or something now?” he asks as you layout your joints and pipes. He whistles, a mix between being impressed and mocking, when you pull out your vape too, “Damn, you got a bong in there too?”

Now it’s your turn to laugh, “No, that stays at home.” you say with a wink, “So, how have you been?” you ask, starting to put everything but your joints back in your bag.

He blows out through his lips and laughs a little, running a hand through his hair, “Been better lately, that’s all that matters, I s’pose.” He watched, something like a weird form of pride in his eyes as you pull out a joint and light it carefully. You certainly can’t complain, you forgot how great it felt to have his eyes on you.

You hum knowingly, “That’s what I keep telling myself, anyway,” you hold the joint up hesitantly.

“I don’t usually share my joints anymore, but if you’ve got your shots...” you shrug, your sentence tapering off. It’s a weird world you live in now, no one quite knows what’s socially acceptable anymore.

He smirks at you, amused, taking the joint from your fingers, “I’ve got my shots alright,”

His eyes don’t leave yours as he brings it up to his lips and takes his hit. He’s not even doing anything out of the ordinary, but he looks like he’s up to no good in every way. It’s like he’s just taking you in as if comparing you to the girl he met years ago.

“You changed,” he comments on an exhale, passing it back.

You nod, laughing softly, “Turns out I get really impulsive when I’m alone,”

He scoffs, “tell me about it,” and then he’s shrugging off his hoodie to reveal a handful of new tattoos covering his skin, “Buddy of mine is an artist,”

You gasp, ‘ooo’ing at some of the more complex pieces. Without thinking your hand darts out to let your fingers drag against his forearm, following the linework of the ink. His muscle twitches beneath your fingers involuntarily and you’re reminded of how long you’ve gone without intimate touches like this. You wonder if it’s the same for him. Did he long to be touched so innocently like this too?

“They’re wonderful,” you say, pulling your hand away, still admiring from a distance.

“Yea, I like ‘em.” He shrugs, nodding at you to take the last pulls from the joint, it’s your weed after all, “You get any?”

You shook your head, “No, surprisingly enough every time I finally convinced myself to book an appointment, shops got shut down again.” You said, only kind of bitterly.

He laughs and you scowl at him, “Aw, baby, don’t be like that,” he laughs, swatting at you half-heartedly, “Look, I betcha I can get you a discount at my buddy’s shop.”

You eye him suspiciously, “I can’t tell if you’re kidding.”

He puts a hand to his chest with a lazy smirk, “On god,”

You bite your lip to suppress a smile, shaking your head lightly, “Okay fine but that just means you’ll get to see a whole lot more of me,”

His smirk turns darker, into something more playfully suggestive, “I have no problem with that,”

A silence fills the space between you as you both take each other in. You had really only hung out with him that one night and nothing had really happened. You just sat and talked really. You talked for a while. You talked so long you didn’t realize the party had ended until your friend came to get you. You exchanged numbers and then just a few weeks after, you were instructed to start isolating. You’d kept up a steady social media friendship since then, but you had missed actually talking to him. He wasn’t much of a texter. The silence only lasts a moment, but it feels thick with tension.

“You look good by the way,” he comments, leaning ever so slightly closer to you, “I meant to say that earlier but then you made me strip for ya-”

“Whoawhoawhoa!!” you sputter through a laugh, “I did not make you do anything, you did that yourself.”

He shakes his head at you, “Nah, that doesn’t sound like me.”

You're giggling at this point, “You’re ridiculous.”

He beams at you, clearly pleased with himself for the moment. It settles for a second as he looks at you, eyes softening a bit before he glances down, nudging your knee with his a bit, “I missed you,” He cringes a bit, “I know it’s weird to say but, I did.”

Your nodding before you can even think to play it even a little bit cool, “No, I get it,” you assure him, smiling softly, “I missed you too, actually.”

He hums, smiling a rare soft smile at you before changing the subject, clearly wanting to shift the attention away from his moment of vulnerability, “So why aren’t you inside?” he asks.

“Oh,” you glance back at the bar behind you, having forgotten it was even there, “I was heading out, I wasn’t really in the mood for dive bars tonight.”

He nods, “The crowds right?” you nod and he’s talking again before you can ask him how he knows that, “I get it, sometimes being so close to that many people again makes me wanna crawl out my skin.” he chuckles.

You nod, a weight lifting off your shoulders to know you’re not alone, “Exactly, it’s not something I’ve gotten used to yet.”

“Well, can I walk you home?” he offers with a smile, “I’m in no rush to head in there,”

You smile and nod, “I’d like that,”

Somehow he had ended up on your couch. You weren’t entirely sure when walking you home had turned to him being on your couch, but you certainly weren’t complaining. You were both pleasantly high, talking anything from movie theories to possible dystopian futures and alien invasions.

“Look, I’m jus’ sayin’ that if I was an alien, I wouldn’t wanna fuck a human, are you kidding?” he reasons, eyes squinted as if he’s offended and your laughing so hard you have tears in your eyes, “Nah, I’m goin’ for a much cooler species.”

He watches you as you fight back giggles at his ridiculousness, a lazy, grin settled on his face. He reaches for his jacket that’s slung across the arm of the couch, reaching into his pocket to pull out his own stash and you gasp, mocking offence.

“You had your own weed all this time and you’ve been smoking mine?”

He rolls his eyes, settling the joint between his lips and lighting it. He inhales slowly, watching the tip as it sparks to life, eyes flicking back to you as he exhales, “I was gonna share,”

He holds out the joint for you, however as soon as you go to steal it he holds it back, just out of your reach, “what’s the magic word?”

“Oh my god, are you kidding?” you ask through a laugh, straining forward further in an effort to reach it but you’re hindered from the way you’re sitting. You make grabby hands at it instead.

“Ya want it or not?” he asks, eyebrows raised expectantly. There’s a tension between the two of you, still mostly playful but turning ever the more thick as the moments pass by.

You huff, getting comfy again in your spot, keeping your hand stretched out lazily, “Please,”

As soon as the word leaves your lips you can see his eyes get darker, that infuriating smirk only stretching across his face and you’re so mad that that’s all it takes for the playfulness between you to shatter into pure sexual tension.

Without a word he hands you the joint, enjoying the way you quickly bring it into your mouth for a deep drag to calm your rising nerves. It’s infuriating, how good he looks like this. All calm and relaxed on your couch in the low living room light, curls messy and looking at you through hooded eyelids. You want him. Just his eyes on you like this has a warmth pooling in the pit of your stomach.

You try to play it cool though, taking another slow drag and enjoying the way the smoke rises up around you. His eyes zero in on your lips, watching with a peaked interest as they wrap around the filter, watching the way the smoke escapes them. Neither of you say a word for a while. Just sitting in a comfortable quiet, a forgotten Spotify playlist playing in the background as you pass the joint back and forth.

He didn’t make his move until the final few hits of it. He shifts to sit straighter on your couch, a little more proper. What left his mouth was anything but.

“C’mere,” he says lowly, cocking his head to the side and gesturing to his lap, “gotta nice seat for ya,”

You don’t hesitate to comply, your high erasing any ideas of playing hard to get. You maneuver yourself as gracefully as you can, swinging a leg over his and settling there, straddling him comfortably with his hands on your hips. Once you're settled he raises the joint to his lips, taking in the last drag, eyes glimmering in the low light of the room. He holds it for a second, one hand moves upwards to cup the back of your neck and pulls you in closer.

Your lips are so close, the tension crackling between you like electricity. He tilts his head ever so slightly, lips parting to exhale the smoke into your mouth. You inhale on impulse and your mind goes blank as your lips brush ever so slightly together. You knew people said shotgun kisses were hot, but you had never truly believed them until now.

You know you should pull away to exhale, but you can still feel his lips brushing against yours and your mind is dizzy from the weed and from him and you can’t take it anymore. You close the distance the rest of the way, kissing him slowly through your exhale, smoke slipping through your lips as he returns the motion.

You kiss him like that for a while, enjoying his hands on your waist and the feeling of his chest beneath your hands. You were quickly realizing that Merriell was his own kind of drug. You’d only had a little taste of him and yet you found yourself craving more. His fingers flex against your body and you can’t help to low noise that slips out of your throat. It only spurs him on, emitting a growling sound of his own as he tugs you closer, dragging you against his growing erection. Your hand slides into his hair in response, feeling like you’re so high on weed and him that you might just fly away.

“Is this okay?” he asks against your lips, letting his forehead press against yours while he waits for your response.

You hum your affirmative, nodding your head quickly while diving back into for another kiss, this one much more ravenous than the last. God, you felt like you were starving for him. You couldn’t get enough at the way his tongue slid against yours, the feeling of his hands gliding up and down your body. They continue down the curve on your spine, settling once they reach the globes of your ass.

“You don’t know how many times I thought ‘bout this,” he mumbles, pulling away to stare at you teasingly through hooded eyelids. His accent, already a slow drawl, comes out much thicker when he’s high like this. It washes over you like honey. He smirks at you and before you can begin to wonder what he’s up to he brings one of his hands down in a sound smack against your right ass cheek.

You gasp at the feeling, dulled by the layer of your jeans but rippling throughout your sensitive skin nonetheless. You laugh lowly against his cheek, “likewise,”

He bites his lip on a grin, capturing your lips in a single, filthy kiss as if he knows exactly what it’ll do to you. Your hands wander up under his t-shirt, nails digging in sightly, just as a preview, returning the favour.

Like a switch, he’s on you a little more urgently and things begin to move faster. His hands tug on your shirt impatiently and you obediently part to take it off, shucking your bra off as well, and feeling pleased when he follows your lead. Your hands explore each other's bodies, every inch of new skin. It’s not long before he switches positions, standing up and dropping you back on the couch so that this time you’re laying on it properly. Without wasting a moment, you wiggle your jeans off, tossing them somewhere over the coffee table and taking in the way his eyes darken further at the sight of you.

He crawls his hips between your legs, capturing your lips in a messy kiss before starting to trail them down your body. Your high has your skin feeling so sensitive, every soft brush of his lips feeling like a shock of electricity through your body. He spends time on your breasts, marking and kneading them with his hands, enjoying how responsive you are beneath his ministrations. Though he doesn’t spend long there, clearly more interested in another prize.

He settles, this time his shoulders keeping your legs spread. He presses a soft kiss to your inner thigh, lets his fingers dust over your panty-covered pussy. Your muscles twitch at the feeling, and you feel your cunt clench around nothing. He looks good there, tattoos cover his skin and you long to be able to leave something that permanent on him. Fuck, you want him so bad.

He grins at you, knowing exactly how impatient you must be feeling. And that bastard uses it to his advantage. Sucking marks into your thigh just to watch your squirm. Eventually, he pulls your panties to the side, letting his fingers slide through your folds. He whistles lowly between his teeth.

“Mmm, baby, you this wet for me already?”

The whimper that leaves your lips is pitiful, your hips twitching in an attempt to get the pressure where you need it. He chuckles under his breath, eyes darting between your heat and your face, “Look at you,” he near coos, letting his thumb trace circles around your clit, watching as your mouth drops on a silent moan, “You want it so bad, don’t cha? Sweet thing...”

“Are you gonna be an asshole like this all night?” you ask, breathless but trying to redeem some of your dignity through what little wit you have left.

He laughs, sinking a finger into your heat just to watch the pleasure ripple across your face, “Don’t pretend like you don’t love it.”

And he’s right of course. You do love it, love the way he comments on how wet you are for him, almost mocking. Love the way he’s taking his time to find the most sensitive parts of your body and using them to his advantage. You let out a breathy moan as his finger brushes your G-spot.

The sound must do something to him because within a second he's attaching his mouth to your pussy with a growl, not even bothering to remove your panties before doing so. The heat of his tongue on your clit as his finger works that sweet spot inside of you turns your breathy moan into one much louder.

He’s good with his mouth because of course, he is. Within moments you feel like you're right on edge. And the smug bastard knows it too if the amused glint in his eyes is anything to go by. Your one hand twists in his curls, encouraging his movements while your other works at your nipple.

“God,” you whine, tugging at his hair as you feel heat wind up your spine. You swear you’ve never felt this good. It only takes another flick of his tongue against your click before your orgasm rips through you, thighs attempting to squeeze around his head, stopped by his free hand holding your one leg open so he can work you through it. Your body twitches in its aftershocks, mewling pathetically when the simulation starts to ride that edge between pain and pleasure.

“It’s just Merriell, actually,” he supplies when he pulls away with a smirk.

“I fucking hate you,” you breathe out, pulling him up your body so you can kiss him again, despite your words. He laughs, moaning softly against your lips when your hand finds the bulge in his jeans.

He kisses you for a while, letting you paw at him for a bit before he pulls away to work them off his body. There’s no real rush, the high allowing you to take it slow and enjoy the moment as opposed to the frenzied fucking drinking tends to lead you to.

You whine and he laughs at you, low and cocky as he leans down for another wet kiss, “You hurtin’ that bad for it, baby?”

You beam up at him from your place on the couch, feeling comfy and sexy with the way his eyes trail across your skin, leaving a tingling feeling in their wake. You shrug, watching with interest as he rids himself of his briefs, admiring his cock as he awaits your response.

“It’s been a while,” You say, distracted as you anticipate the stretch required for your body to accommodate him, ‘I’m excited, sue me.”

His hands use your hips to drag you closer to him, lifting one leg onto his shoulder while letting the other wrap around his body. He leans down to kiss you and you only have half a second to wonder the last time your legs were stretched like this before the feeling of his cock at your entrance steals the breath from your lungs.

Your mouth drops open, a moan caught in your throat as he slowly sinks into you. Your eyes roll back, shamelessly enjoying the stretch as he sinks, inch by slow, pleasurable inch. He continues the slowness, but you’re not sure he’s doing so on purpose.

When your eyes focus again you see the definition of bliss on his face as he thrusts slowly in and out of you, moaning lowly in his throat.

“Fuck,” he says, drawing the word out through gritted teeth, “that’s it, takin’ me so good.”

His thrusts begin to pick up, still fucking you slowly but with more force behind them. Each sharp movement of his hips as the tip of his cock dragging sweetly against the deepest parts of you, and it feels so fucking good. In the moment, it’s intense. He’s folded over you, holding your leg against your chest so he can suck and bite at your neck as he fucks you. You can’t help the filthy moans you let loose in his ear, one hand fisted in his hair while the other digs your nails into the smooth skin of his back.

“Merriell,” you gasp, feeling distinctly insane with the pleasure you're feeling. Your head drops back onto the couch, body jolting with each thrust of his hips. It’s good, god, it’s so good. But the need that burns through your veins makes you impatient, “Let me ride you.”

The words are out of your mouth before you can stop them, but it’s a suggestion he is clearly open to acting upon. He quickly pulls out, sitting back in his original position and pulling you on top of him.

“Be my gu-” he doesn’t finish his sentence, instead tapering off into a moan as you waste no time in sinking down on to him again, “Christ,”

You waste no time. Quickly stabling yourself with your hands on his shoulder and maneuvering yourself up and down on his cock. Now it’s your turn to watch him. Watch him as his eyes roll back and his hands grip your hips with a vice-like grip. That smirk never strays from his face though, clearly enjoying himself.

“You look so pretty like this,” he talks, bringing a hand down on your ass again, loving the way it spurs you on, “talk to me baby, tell me how it feels.”

You moan, loud and borderline pornographic, “You feel so good,” you breathe, biting harshly down on his lip, savouring the growl that vibrates through the both of you, “Oh, fuck, Merriell, you feel so good,” You emphasize your words with a particularly good roll of your hips.

You can tell he’s getting close by the way his hips start to snap upwards to meet yours and the way his brows furrow in concentration, “Fuck, baby girl,” he groans, unaware at the way the nickname makes you melt, “tell me you’re getting close. I wanna feel you cum around my cock.”

You nod immediately, pulling on his hair so you can capture his lips harshly, letting him bite your lip and pull your hips frantically against his own, “yes,” you whimper, “yes, yes, fuck imgonnacum,” you rush out, feeling like every touch he’d ever laid on you compiling into this one moment. It’s completely overwhelming and for a moment, you blackout.

When you come to he's kissing at your neck, hands massaging and pull at your ass, helping you ride of the aftershocks of your orgasm. His sounds have turns high and desperate against your neck, hands gripping at your skin so hard you think you’ll have bruises tomorrow. He needs you to keep going. Give him something.

The small, dare you say whimpery, “Oh baby, please,” has you moving quickly, almost as desperate to make him finish as he is to finish.

In the blink of an eye, you’ve lifted yourself off of him and onto your knees in front of him, quickly enveloping his entire length into the warmth of your mouth.

“Oh fuck, baby,” He moans urgently, both hands coming to tangle in your hair as you work your mouth over his cock, eyes trained on his face, “Fuck, I can’t-”

You hum, encouraging and within seconds you feel him reach his climax. His head thrown back, hips twitch upwards into the welcoming heat of your mouth, a low long moan pulled from his throat. He lets you bring him down, continuing to suck and lick softly at his spent cock, eyes lazily following your every movement.

When he finally pulls you up off the floor it’s to kiss you, lazy and heated. You collapse basically on top of him as you kiss, unbothered by the smallness of the couch and the cold air that bites at your cooling skin. He makes a noise in his throat when you pull away, watching in amusement as his eyes barely open to look at you.

“‘M so fuckin’ high.”

It pulls a laugh from you, bubbling up from your chest. He smiles, bright, relaxed and dazzling, “Hope you weren’t plannin’ on kickin’ me out because ‘m not movin’ for a while,”.

You rest your head on his chest, letting yourself sink into the moment with him, your own high coming back to you as you bask in the post-sex haze.

“You're still gonna get me discounted tattoos though right?"

#merriell shelton #snafu shelton #stoner!snaf #merriell shelton x reader #snafu shelton x reader #snafu x reader #smut

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smol-and-grumpy · 4 years ago

Text

EUPHORIA - Chapter 1

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: He’s Dean Winchester, owner of a shady night club. She’s a journalist who has been asked to write an article to expose the indecency and debauchery that’s going on behind closed doors. But he’s also Dean Winchester, the boy who sat next to her in class. The boy who was too cocky for his own good.

Series Warnings: Slow burn, slow build, feelings, mutual pining, consent is key, praise kink, dirty talk, light d/s undertones and other kinky things, after care, angst, fluff, chapters will be warned individually.

WC: 2481

A/N: All I can say that this fic starts slow, hence the warning of slow build and slow burn. It’s going to get a little kinkier because I’m trying to fill out some kink bingo spaces. Please share your thoughts with me, I’d love to hear your feedback. Beta’d by @deanwanddamons <3

Series Masterlist ~ SPN Masterlist

Become a Patron ~ Buy me a coffee

Y/N stands in line and feels kind of out of place. No wonder. After the call, she didn’t exactly have a lot of time to change into anything too nice. She also didn’t have a lot of time to do research, but she’s here in her black skinny jeans and a simple blouse. She’s glad she opted for some boots with heels today and not her Chucks. She took a last look in the mirror before leaving her work place, thinking that she might look alright, maybe a little on the pale side but there was just really no fucking time. She stares at the building and the door ahead of her.

The big sign above the door says ‘Euphoria’ in fancy gold lettering.

It’s one of the biggest, in-demand night clubs, at least from what she’s heard. Her colleagues were raving about it. She could neither confirm nor deny, having never been here. She’s not one for nightlife to be honest.

The big bouncers at the entrance kind of scares her and she really hopes that they will let her in. She wants to write a story about the club but they don’t need to know that. She just needs to get in, and have a look around.

There was a woman on the phone earlier, calling up the agency where she works. She was so angry, telling them that she already contacted the police but they waved her off. Y/N’s boss was quick to pass the phone to her, because she wasn’t biased, and the woman said that she would love for Y/N to go investigate and expose the club for the indecency and debauchery that went on behind closed doors. Apparently, the reason for the woman’s anger was that her daughter, barely legal, worked at the club and the woman had a feeling that her daughter’s been doing things that exceed her work as a simple waitress and that the owner of the club pressured her into something the girl can’t get out of.

And now, Y/N’s just really here to see if the allegations are true. She knows that it could just be disappointment, confusion and frustration of not having control over her own daughter anymore which can lead someone to be so drastic about it. But if it is really true, it could mean a big breakthrough in her career as an investigative journalist. Even though Y/N isn’t sure if she’s on the right career path she wanted to take. If she’s honest, she’d rather just write a novel like she had done at the beginning, publishing stories that people rarely bought, but she loved doing it, loved everything about her writing process, loved the feeling of being able to write what was on her mind, to create characters from scratch. To get into the depths of emotions, to write down their feelings.

However, she needed a roof over her head and something warm in her belly. Y/N needed an income, even though it wasn’t as steady as she wanted it to be, but at least it’s something. Especially now, after she had finally detached herself from her abusive ex and built up her own little life. He wasn’t really physically abusive, more the emotional type. Pressured her into things she thought she wanted too — like that damn stupid sex tape — but it turned out that she didn’t. She didn’t want any of the stupid games he played, and she needed many therapy sessions to realize that.

Now, two years after finding herself, she could breathe easy again. She could really enjoy life. She wouldn’t let anything or anyone dictate her emotions and she believed that the saying was really true; What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.

She jerks back to reality as the line’s moving ahead again. There are still two more girls in front of her and then it will be her turn.

Her heart thumps fast in her chest.

Of course, the two girls get in without any problem at all. They are barely wearing anything!

Just as Y/N predicted, one of the bouncers stops her. “Excuse me,” He just says, eyeing her up and down.

He doesn’t say anything more though, so she’s kind of wondering if she should talk? Should she? Yeah, she probably should, so she summons up all her courage, “What’s wrong?”

The bouncer, who’s so fucking big, starts to frown and it makes him look even meaner, “I don’t think I can let you in like this.”

“What does this mean like this ?”

“Boots are not really appropriate for our establishment.” He says calmly. She can see that he’s been trained to keep a cool head.

“Well, I’m sorry, I just got out of work and my friend wants to meet me here. She’s probably inside waiting for me already,” She whines, throwing him a pout while she’s at it, using her big puppy eyes too. It usually works and she hopes that it works on this big guy as well, “Please? Make an exception? Just this once? We’re not staying too long. I just don’t want to disappoint her because she just got her heart broken and she needs my company, please?” She pouts some more, for fucking good measure.

“Dammit,” The bouncer groans out the word before placing a hand to his ear. She can see now that he��s wearing an earpiece, “Yeah, sir, sorry to disturb, we have a situation— yes, sir. Okay,”

The bouncer turns his attention back to her but he doesn’t say anything, just jerks his head towards the open door.

Y/N smiles and whispers a thank you in passing.

Euphoria is big, alright. The music is not too loud, which is weird because the music is always way too loud in clubs, but this one is just right. You can still talk to each other comfortably and you don’t need to scream to be heard.

There’s a packed dance floor and a long bar. A drink sounds about right, so she decides to go there first.

“Hey,” The bartender greets her with a bright smile, “I’m Garth, what can I do for you?”

Wow, he’s friendly. Bartenders usually just stare at her and raise their eyebrows, making her feel like she’s wasting their time because she obviously doesn’t look like she’s a heavy drinker, nor does she look like she’s a good tipper.

She smiles, “Are you always so friendly?”

“Your first time here I reckon?” Garth chuckles and is really taking his time. The other people standing around the bar don’t seem to mind waiting a little longer.

“Yeah?” She frowns a little, she doesn’t know why it’s so obvious.

“Friendliness and patience is key. Mr. Winchester wants his guests to feel comfortable. We’re all friends here.” Garth smiles when he looks into the crowd, winking and greeting some patrons as he does so.

“Mr. Winchester?” The name sounds familiar. She’s gone to high school with someone named Winchester.

“Maybe it’s him, how many Winchesters are there, eh?” Garth shrugs, “So, what can I get you?”

“I’m having a martini, please,”

Garth nods at her with a smile and turns around to mix her martini. He’s quick to place the drink in front of her, “On the house, since it’s your first time.” He winks, before he moves to take an order from someone else but he’s quick to be by her side again when he’s free. She strikes up an easy conversation with Garth when another girl walks behind the bar with an order.

The girl looks familiar. It’s the daughter of the woman who called her. The woman had sent her pictures so Y/N would recognize her daughter. The girl is blonde, the make up a little dark around her eyes. She wears a black leather mini skirt and a leather crop top. Her heels are very high.

“Garth, two bottles of Dom Pérignon Vintage Rosé,” She says and then frowns, “We still have two bottles of it, right?”

Garth chuckles, “Hey Claire, yeah, just restocked,” He proceeds to fill a big bucket with ice and calls for a male waiter to come help carry, “VIP, right?”

“Yeah,” She girl smirks, “It’s wild tonight,”

“I can imagine,” Garth smirks.

The girl, Claire, walks off with one of the male waiters, up the stairs and Y/N watches them disappear behind another thick looking door.

So, the VIP room is up the stairs then. How will she fucking get in there?

Y/N returns her attention back to Garth, thinking that if they’re all friends here, she can maybe get Garth to tell her about the VIP room and maybe he can show her? She has to feign interest in becoming a VIP — if it’s easy to become one?

Dammit, she should have done some more research.

She watches Garth work and waits until the man is free to come over and talk when she hears a voice behind her. It’s deep, husky, and it rolls above the music.

“Do you like it here?”

It makes her turn in her seat.

The man who looks at her is tall, broad, has an easy smirk on his face that borders on cocky, his hair a little tousled and he has crinkles around his eyes. Her brows furrow, he looks damn familiar and then the penny drops.

“Oh, I know you! Dean, right?”

She notices that he’s a little taken aback. She doesn’t know if he’s offended that it took her so long or if he’s surprised that she still remembers him at all. To be honest, he’s quite memorable. He sat next to her in English and they had History and Chemistry together. He rarely showed up and if he did, he always stared out of the window or pretended to listen when in fact she knew that he couldn’t care less about being there with his give ‘em hell attitude. She had the feeling that it was all just a big joke to him and he just sat out his time like a criminal who wanted to get school over with, to be released into the world. Surprisingly though, during English, when he sat next to her, it seemed like he really tried to follow the class, tried to get involved. And she remembered that he did really well on his GED.

Y/N never had the feeling that Dean was dumb. On the contrary. They read The Great Gatsby in her English class and Dean had some insightful additions when they discussed it.

He was always the bad boy in high school, though, and she thought that he was chasing after skirts which he probably did, but not as much as he took care of his little brother, Sam. Sometimes, Y/N would be jealous of what the two brothers had. They both came from broken homes, but the difference between her and Dean was that he had someone else to talk to. Someone else to get his mind off his situation at home, while she was stuck with cleaning after her alcoholic mother who she would constantly find passed out and laying in her own filth after a school day.

Maybe that’s why she didn’t like to go home. After class, she’d walk to the playground closest to the school. She would sit under the big tree and do her homework or do some writing until it got dark and she really had to go home. She would get lost in her stories. Stories of happiness, stories of happy families — something she didn’t have. Sometimes, even now, when she’s having a rough day, she’d still go there, sit under the familiar tree and write. It is her happy place.

Her and Dean were never friends at school. He hung out with the popular crowd. They never really talked outside of class, but one time, during English, he asked her if she’s going to prom. She said no. Not because she didn’t want to, more because she didn’t have money for a nice dress and she had to take care of her mother. And besides, nobody would ask her anyway. She asked him in return if he’s going. Dean just shrugs, “Nah, prom is stupid anyway.”

“You still here?” Dean asks when he sees that she has zoned out for a bit. It’s really a bad habit of hers, she knows.

“Yeah, sorry, I—”

“—I’m surprised you still remember my name, Y/N.” He smiles, it’s bright and wide and the crinkles deepens around his eyes. He looks very good and she can see that he had made something out of himself, unlike her.

“Of course I do. You still remember me too, apparently.” She tries to return his smile. It’s really addicting.

“Well, you’re hard to forget,” He says with an easy smile, “It’s your first time here?”

“Why does everybody think that? Do I have ‘ first time’ stamped on my forehead or something?”

He has to chuckle, “No,”

“Actually,” She says, and takes another sip from her martini, “I’d like for you to tell me more about your club. It’s your club, right?” She raises her eyebrows as if she’s not sure.

“Yeah, what do you want to know?” Dean asks, his hands disappearing into his pants pockets.

Y/N grins, “Well, Dean, I’ve heard about your club and your VIP rooms. Is it true?”

He cocks an eyebrow, “Is what true?”

“Well,” She gestures with her hand, and feels a rush of blood to her head, “You know, they say that people can get what they want in there?”

He lowers his face to be level with her, moves in closer, and brushes his nose against the faint hair on the side of her head. It makes all the other hair on her body stand erect, “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” He whispers and stands up straight with a cocky grin on his face.

She swallows and pulls her eyebrows into a frown at his remark.

Dean Winchester is still as cocky as she remembers him to be. Nothing has changed, has it?

Well, one thing had changed. She’s not the shy little girl anymore, she can stand her ground. If Dean wants to play, he can play. She won’t back out so easily.

Y/N smiles, it widens on her face and she clicks her tongue while she pretends to think about his words. After a while, with another big smile, she says, “I’ll find out,” She winks at him before she hops off her stool and she’s determined to walk to the bouncer up the stairs when Dean grabs at her wrist.

“Come with me,” He says in a deep and stern voice before he begins to walk ahead. She grins because he has taken the bait.

Chapter 2

#euphoria #dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester fic #dean winchester fan fic #dean winchester fan fiction #nathalie writes

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lightleckrereins · 4 years ago

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Six dressup on possible updates and why some things won’t happen

Because between things I want to do, things I need to fix, and things people have asked about or suggested I literally made a list dividing everything between: will absolutely happen|maybe|I have to check if this could work|not possible|makes my life harder so nope|already tried and it didn’t work|not making it

Make all the clothes in all the colors: (not making it, please stop asking) I have said this before, and I’ll say it again: this is a really big no. Even if I could make this in less than a few months the game file would grow four times its current size and it already takes my computer ten minutes to load so not happening.

Different body types: (not possible) This one right here is the biggest no. Making different body types: plus size, different height, more gender-neutral bodies is technically impossible. A different body means redrawing all the clothes, which I am not making, because everything fits differently on each body; and there is no way on the Meiker algorithm to change the body and automatically change all the clothes with it. Trust me I wanted to do this, it is in the first page of my “what would I do if I actually made the game” notes and it was the first thing I crossed out because it can’t happen.

More face options: (will absolutely happen) meaning different noses, more eyebrows, adding eyebrow colors, more eye shapes, potentially another eye color, maybe more mouth shapes. Yes, to all, I knew I wanted more eyes and eyebrows since I was testing the game, so all of this are happening. Just be aware that this is still my cartoon style and some things don’t happen in it.

Face markings: (will absolutely happen) won’t be many things, but freckles and moles will come.

More skin tones: (will absolutely happen) when I made the skin tones, I thought I had everything covered. Turns out the middle range of skin tones doesn’t read that well on some screens, and that needs to be corrected. And believe it or not I did a ton of research to make this game as diverse as possible, and I want to add darker skin colors with different undertones like the lighter ones.

More hair colors: (maybe) I think there is a nice range so far, maybe adding another brown and blond hair colors could be nice. Problem is that this takes a while, and I don’t know if I have enough motivation for it.

Alt colors for the Howard ponytails: (will absolutely happen) Yes. And green spacebuns, because why not. And other queen-color details for the hair.

Allow different hair colors for each hair piece: (makes my life harder so nope) I do see the appeal, but I also think it would be way more tedious to change each part individually each time you want a new hair color so not happening.

Makeup: (already tried and it didn’t work) there is a folder in my face assets file called eyeshadow, I spent over an hour working on it, has all ten colors and everything. I had to drop the idea the second I started working on different eye shapes. There is no way for makeup to work and not look weird with at least one eye shape.

Nail polish: (I have to check if this could work) no clue if this could look good again my style, I don’t usually do nails.

Tattoos: (not making it) I really don’t feel comfortable with this one. I believe tattoos are a deeply personal thing so I have no clue what would work for the queens. And there is no way I will take the queens tattoos and add them, because that is super disrespectful to them and stealing from their tattoo artists.

Glasses: (already tried and it didn’t work) as much as I like the idea the HOH glasses already look weird with some hairstyles, so this idea was discarded months ago.

Non costume clothing items: (not making it) including, but not limited to: student cast and studio cast costumes. First this don’t fit the aesthetic of the current costumes. Second a huge reason why the game works is that the costumes follow certain rules (costume parts, where waistbands go, etc.) so other clothing pieces is a big no. But there is one thing I will try to make:

Denim jackets: (I have to check if this could work) won’t make any promises, but I do like this idea

Allowing for a both a Cleves top and a shorts underlayer at the same time: (will absolutely happen) Yes.

Band tops as an under layer so they can be worn under the Cleves jacket: (will absolutely happen) this is the reason I asked for ideas on the first place. I hadn’t thought about this, but it makes a lot of sense so yes. Not the long sleeved one for layering reasons but the rest of them yes.

Other shorts/pants as an under layer to wear with the Howard skirts: (makes my life harder so nope) this wouldn’t work for a dozen of layering, and lineart reasons and taking bottoms to a different category would be confusing

Remove the bra piece that shows under the parr/teal/orange tops: (not possible) I cannot remove the bra because that would qualify as nudity and Meiker’s no 1 rule is no nudity. I will try to make it smaller, but It can’t be removed completely and will show in some way or another under those tops.

More hairstyles: (will absolutely happen) I already added a few things that are not on the show, but there are so many more things I want to try specially with curly and kinky hair because that’s not something I usually do and the game was the best practice I had in a long time. And the hair 3 menu needs to be expanded.

Microphones: (I have to check if this could work) I will try to see if this could work on the back hand.

More backgrounds: (will absolutely happen) I mean the dark blue/Parr background. Maybe something else, maybe a non-stage background.

Extra accessories: (will absolutely happen) More earring styles and adding nose rings and other facial piercings

A few more costumes: (will absolutely happen) this is basically first UK tour costumes. I already have og Cleves and Aimie’s Howard top, so future costumes: Maiya’s old top (the puffed sleeves one, not the trash bag sleeves one) and pants. Grace’s original costume. Millie’s old top (the one with no over sleeve). Natalie Pilkington’s Aragon skirt.

#six the musical #six dressup game

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homosociallyyours · 4 years ago

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Some housewives thoughts:

-this Tom Girardi scandal is !!! like apparently now Tom's defense is going with him being senile? And I learned this in the New York Times, which is WOW. Meanwhile Erika keeps posting weirdly edited/heavily facetuned pics of herself in lingerie as a SavagexFenty ambassador... Listen girl you're definitely a babe BUT it's fucking WEIRD to be posting thirst traps with all this swirling around?

The implication here is that she spent a lot of the money he's accused of embezzling, so like. Showing off the fancy lifestyle is A Choice.

-watching RHOSLC is really a rollercoaster in terms of how I feel about each of the ladies, but the new normal vibe is FULLY GROSSED OUT every time Meredith and Seth kiss 🤢 I mean I'm already hetphobic (joke) but everything about their reconciliation is SOOO fake I can't even deal. Their chemistry is deep in the negatives too. Yuck.

-also the only lady I can consistently love is Heather Gay, not just bc of her last name but bc she's so dang conflict avoidant and I can truly vibe with that! We're hiding, we're peacemaking!

-i stayed away from RHOA for so long bc I associated Kim Z with the show and her vibes are Not It for me, but I really gotta dive into the seasons without her bc it's got so many queer undertones/loads of lez subtext.

-the REAL reason I need to get into RHOA, though? Kandi. Freakin. Burruss. She is easily the hottest of any of the housewives-- hotter than Leah or Erika or. Anyone. For real. She's openly kinky and I'm not even mad at her saying she and her husband are a package deal bc he's a fox too?? Please Kandi and Todd, let me iiiiiin! I'll be good!!

-just tried to watch RHODallas and have up after 10 minutes bc it's kinda ick BUT their new housewife is Chinese and a Dr and not shying away from calling out the shitty people in the cast and I'm 🥺 loving it!

-i already miss Potomac so much and can't believe I have to wait a whole YEAR for more 😫😫😫

#rhoslc #rhoa #rhobh #rhod #real housewives #reality tv #many opinions!!#i try to tag all these but lmk if you have a prefered tag to block

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starker-stories · 5 years ago

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Piercing Play

Title: Piercing Play Link: AO3 Square Filled: G-1 Ship: Starker, Peter Parker/Tony Stark Rating: E Major Tags: No Archive Warnings Apply Piercings, Tongue Piercings, Ear Piercings, Nipple Piercings, Corset Piercings, Dom/sub Undertones, Aftercare, Possessive Tony Stark

Summary: “Your body retracts in anticipation of the pain,” he explained as he took the forceps from Peter’s hand. “If you did somehow manage to push the needle through — put your tongue out, Peter.” Peter did. Tony situated the forceps, gently pressing them together. “You’d likely flinch…” He took the needle in his right hand and held it above Peter’s tongue, in the center of the forceps opening. “And wind up with a crooked, at best,” he paused, “piercing.” He pushed the needle through.

Created for @mcukinkbingo

Peter had been fascinated by the idea ever since he saw pictures online. But he healed quickly. Perhaps too quickly. Experiments would have to be performed before he brought the idea up to Tony. But that alone, was another whole issue. What if Tony didn’t want to do it? Worse, what if Tony thought he was weird for wanting it done? Still, experimentation didn’t commit to anything, right? He could just accumulate data and then never act on them.

∼∼∼∼∼

Tony stared back at Peter as he went around him to get his breakfast. He smiled.

“What?” Peter said, offended at the scrutiny.

Tony kept smiling cryptically.

“I found it in your jewelry drawer!”

“Um hmm.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Why is it weird for me to wear it when you used to!”

“Never said it was weird, Pete. I was just surprised. You’re so stubborn about me buying you jewelry. A one carat fancy red diamond… it’s ostentatious even for me.”

“A diamond? I thought it was, I dunno, a garnet? That’s May’s birthstone.”

“No, baby. It’s a diamond. Red’s the rarest color. I bought it… I don’t know why… on a whim. I’ve never worn it. I haven’t worn an earring since I was at MIT. But the clarity and color are perfect. Because it’s a single earring, not a set, I got it for one point two instead of the four it’s worth, even as a single stone. I forgot all about it until this morning. When’d you get your ear pierced?”

“One point two… You mean million?” Peter squeaked and went to remove the gold stud.

“Keep it. It’s pretty on you.” He bent over and put a kiss behind Peter’s ear, behind the earring. Tony smirked. “You know I can’t resist it when you wear my colors.”

Peter blushed. “I don’t know if it’ll last or I’ll heal out of it. I did it myself when I first woke up. This morning.” He paused, screwing up his face. “Alone. In Bed. Again.”

“Sorry. Finally solved the problem I’ve been having with the glove. I’m gonna crash while you’re in class.” He downed the rest of his orange juice and started toward the bedroom. He stopped and looked back at Peter and smiled again, taking in the gold stud with its sparkling red diamond that was in his ear. “That’ll probably stay as long as you keep it in. As soon as you take it out, though, it’ll close up because of your healing.”

“I can keep it?” Peter asked.

“Yep. You finally let me give you something expensive,” he teased.

∼∼∼∼∼

Tony was right. The earring stayed as long as he left it through the hole. When he took it out, it closed up even before he could put the earring back in. He had to pierce it all over again.

So Peter knew that a piercing, left in, would stay. Even knowing that, it took longer for him to work up the nerve to do the next experiment. He’d read that piercings didn’t always stay, even for non-enhanced people. In a lot of places, they simply worked their way back out. Especially if the piercing was through a flat part of the body, instead of a dangly bit like an earlobe. If a normal human rejected a piercing like that, what hope did a spider-bitten one have?

Then, as always, there was the issue of finding out if Tony was interested.

Maybe it was because he felt bold in the mornings. He waited until Tony would be tired. When he had been working through the night again. Peter laid everything out on the glass topped table and propped the magnifying mirror up where he could see himself.

“Ow ow ow.” The ear piercing didn’t hurt like that! He was being a baby. He couldn’t be hurt. Peter tried again. “OUCH!”

Tony walked into the dining room, watched the situation, and finally gave himself away by chuckling.

Peter jumped. He hadn’t realized he’d been being watched. “It’s not funny!”

“You do realize if you do that, you’re not going to be able to kiss me for two weeks,” Tony said, amused.

“I don’t get infections,” Peter said, irritatedly.

“It’s a little harder to do to yourself than an earlobe.”

“Yes! It shouldn’t be.”

“Mmm.” Tony came and sat in the chair next to Peter’s at the dining table. He turned until they were facing each other. “Your body retracts in anticipation of the pain,” he explained as he took the forceps from Peter’s hand. “If you did somehow manage to push the needle through — put your tongue out, Peter.” Peter did. Tony situated the forceps, gently pressing them together. “You’d likely flinch…” He took the needle in his right hand and held it above Peter’s tongue, in the center of the forceps opening. “And wind up with a crooked, at best,” he paused, “piercing.” He pushed the needle through.

The sound Peter made was garbled around the protruding needle through his tongue, but the expression on his face was clear. And noticed by Tony. It was anything but pain.

He pushed the stainless steel barbell through Peter’s tongue. “That’ll do until I can get you something better to replace it. But baby, you can’t just be buying your jewelry from,” he took in the quality of the piercing kit spread on the table, “Ebay.”

“Will it stay?” Peter asked thickly. He stuck his tongue out and looked at it in the mirror.

“Same as your ear. As long as something’s in it, it’ll stay,” Tony said. He got up and brought Peter a glass of crushed ice. “Suck on this to keep the swelling down.”

“You knew how to do that,” Peter said, his words broken by bouts of sucking on ice.

“Um hmm.” Tony cleaned up the table. “I know you can’t get an infection, but you should still do the mouthwash thing. About once an hour. You’ll probably be healed around the barbell by afternoon.”

“That wasn’t your first time,” Peter said, a little surprised.

“Nope.” Tony wrapped the needle in a pad of foil until it wouldn’t poke through, then sealed it in a baggie then threw it away. “This some college thing?” Tony asked. “It’s mainstream now, isn’t it?”

“There’s… I know a few people who have tongue piercings. Or lip ones. It looked… interesting,” Peter explained.

“When I was in school, it was just the punks and goths… and the kinky.”

Peter sideeyed Tony. “Your entire life is in the media somewhere. If you were punk or goth, there’d be pictures for me to laugh at.”

“One would think,” Tony said, noncommittally.

Peter rolled his eyes. “And I had this whole… thing… planned.”

Tony smiled. “I’ll bet. I could keep playing dumb and let you. It’d be cute.”

“I hate you.”

“If you hate me, baby…” Tony inched closer, running the palms of his hands up Peter’s thighs. He stopped when they were framing the prominent bulge in Peter’s jeans. He leaned closer and whispered against the red diamond earring in Peter’s ear. “Who’s going to push needles through your pretty pale pink skin?”

“They won’t last, I’ve tried on my arm,” Peter said, his words gasped on heavy breaths.

“There has to be a flap of skin for a piercing to be permanent,” Tony explained. “Surface piercings last for a few months or so, if they’re done right. But that’s on ordinary people. You’ll probably heal it out, even if I put the right jewelry in.”

“Oh,” Peter said, disappointed. He could already tell that his tongue was healing.

“That’s not a bad thing though. If it lasted a few hours, that would be enough. Then,” Tony said, a wicked gleam in his eye, “I would get to start all over on skin that hadn’t been toughened and desensitized by repeated piercings.”

∼∼∼∼∼

It became a thing for them. A special night. Peter would suggest a new place to pierce and Tony would oblige. The tongue piercing didn’t affect him. But once piercing moved off of the dining chair and into the bedroom, Tony was more than just obliging. And Peter was getting more out of the experience than a new piece of expensive jewelry.

When Tony pierced him, it was more than just a matter of pushing a needle through skin. Tony’s hands wandered before finally piercing a hole in Peter’s body. No need to worry about infection, he kissed the place his needle went. He kissed Peter’s lips as he dragged a needle across his skin, watching the red line form and immediately disappear. He drew abstract patterns while Peter moaned and panted in anticipation of Tony forcing the needle through the chosen place.

Tony pressed his thigh against Peter’s jeans-covered crotch allowing him to frot against it until he came in his pants. Which is how he came twice when his nipples were pierced. Tony came after, while he sucked on Peter’s nipples and played with the rings he’d just put in.

Peter learned that there was a type of piercing called ‘spider bites’, which was of course impossible not to resist. Tony made two holes close to each other, right underneath Peter’s bottom lip line, at the corner of his mouth. After putting in the twin rings, Tony fucked his face, moaning at the sensation of the spider bites and Peter’s tongue piercing.

There was more piercing on his earlobes, yielding two on each side. But that wasn’t the end of protruding bits of flesh where the rings would stay in. He had his traguses done. Two helix and one forward helix. His jewelry was small and delicate, but made of gold with precious gems.

Tony found out that if he coated the needle with an alkali solution, it slowed Peter’s healing. His belly button piercing stayed in over a day. But he woke up and found the banana ring lying on the bed underneath him.

“Baby, you have an outie. That makes it basically a surface one. Not gonna last,” Tony explained.

Peter still pouted over losing the beautiful, diamond encrusted jewelry.

“I’ll have the stones remounted in something that will stay.”

A week later, Tony pushed a very long needle through the center of Peter’s hand. He carefully ran it between the bones of his second and ring finger. The end of the bar that was in his palm was a tiny little ball with one small diamond in it. It wouldn’t interfere with the function of Peter’s hand at all. But the end that was on the back of his hand was a laser carved peridot, Peter’s birthstone. It was surrounded by a ring of diamonds. The carving on Peter’s right hand was an elaborate T. The one on his left was an S. Any mark Tony wanted to put on Peter never stayed. This would.

∼∼∼∼∼

A couple months later, Tony found a set of four pictures on his desk. Surface piercings all. And he wanted all four done in a single session. It would take over an hour to complete the patterns, if not longer. By the time he finished the last, the first would be rejected by Peter’s body. They had brief sessions where Tony tried out various things to extend the wound time. When he got it up to three hours, he agreed to do the corset piercings Peter wanted.

∼∼∼∼∼

The guest room had a massage table in the center. It was brightly lit, but only with dozens and dozens of candles. Tony had a surgical tray set up with specially coated needles, forceps, gentian violet, scissors and several rolls of ribbon.

∼∼∼∼∼

Peter was riding an endorphin high. It stopped hurting eight needles into their session. But that couldn’t take away from the excitement of needle after needle piercing twice through each pinch of skin. The pop of it going in. The push and drag of it coming out.

His breathing was heavy but steady. He held it as soon as Tony lightly touched the sharp point to his skin, before he pushed it in. A little warning to him that the piercing was coming.

Thirty-six times. Alternating sides on his back. Moving each pair in towards his spine a little closer then out again, forming an hourglass shape. There was a tug on each ring as the bead snapped in. Then the quiet hiss as the ribbons were threaded through. Tony tugged on them, pulling them tight as he laced them in an intricate pattern. Peter can feel the skin pinched together toward his spine as he pulls the ribbons tighter.

“Sit, baby,” Tony said gently. He guided him carefully from laying on his stomach to sitting up on the table. “You okay, Pete?”

Peter hummed his assent.

“Words, baby.”

“Yes, Tony.” Peter’s voice was soft and floating, and as high as he was.

“Look up now, precious.”

Peter tilted his head up. The neck lacing piercings were more painful, but Tony was very skilled with the needle. He tried to get it over with as soon as possible.

“Too fast,” Peter said, panting.

“Hurts?”

Peter shook his head. “Too fast. Can’t feel it enough.”

Tony smirked. “All right baby. These are shallow. I’ll take my time.” He listened for Peter’s fast and heavy breaths. Not strained. Just filled with pleasure. He looked down at Peter’s hard cock. “Gonna have to let me give you a Jacob’s ladder one of these times. “I don’t want any genital piercings. I’ve looked at them, they don’t appeal to me. I don’t want anything to get in the way.”

“All right, baby. But if you change your mind, I think you’d like the sensation.”

“I like this sensation,” Peter said between bouts of panting. “So shut up.”

Tony gave a little laugh. “All right.” He pushed two more needles into Peter’s throat. “I’ll just keep putting beautiful things into your beautiful body so that I know you’re mine,” he purred.

Peter whimpered as the last needles went in on either side of his Adam’s apple.

“Rings now, baby.” Tony never used anything less than gold. Each corset ring was custom made. Each little captive bead, no matter how small, had a little TS engraved in it. For Peter, piercing was about sensation. For Tony it was about ownership.

Yet for each, it was also the other’s.

Peter took pride in every little mark on his jewelry. Sometimes it was hidden, engraved on the bar of a barbell where only Peter and Tony knew it existed. Other times it was blatantly obvious, like on Peter’s hands. Every mark claimed him as Tony’s. He’d be sitting in class and get hard just by looking at the backs of his hands. Peter was owned. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

The sensation Peter was addicted to, Tony was addicted to causing. He loved feeling the resistance as the needle went in. But more than that, he loved the little gasping moan that Peter gave. Sometimes, if it was a thicker needle, or in a more sensitive place, that moan became a cry of intense pleasure and Peter came just from Tony’s needle, no frotting or handjob required. The kid could come just from Tony making Peter’s body his.

“There, Pete. All laced up,” he said after he tied the knot on his chest. “Are you sure you want to go on to the next?”

“Yes Tony.” Peter’s voice was desperate, the way he sounded when he was right on the edge of coming and couldn’t quite get there.

“Which one next, abs or feet?”

“Abs. Please save my feet for last,” Peter whimpered.

It was another long piercing. Lots of tiny little rings to be laced together. Peter chose a set of colors, unlike the plain black on his back and neck. Tony paused halfway done and looked over Peter’s shoulder at his back lacings. They were all still in place, even though they’d usually be coming out by now.

Tony caught a pinch of skin over Peter’s gorgeous abs in his forceps. Instead of immediately doing the piercing, he used multiple pairs of forceps and clicked them together on all of the outer run of positions at once.

“I’ll give you the slow ones you want when I do the center row. These are mine, baby.” Tony’s hands were fast and he used a needle gauge two sizes larger than was required. They made such a lovely, visible hole.

Fast. One right after another. Not even giving Peter time to take a breath between. His attempts to gasp in air only made his head spin. Tony was rock hard against Peter’s own erection as he straddled his thighs.

“Oh baby,” he groaned, looking at the needles sticking out of Peter’s flesh. The drips of blood running down from each. But he didn’t take long to appreciate the visuals. Just as fast he threaded the golden rings back through the holes and snapped their beads into place, giving them a very deliberate tug and twist as he did.

Releasing the forceps was like releasing nipple clamps. Peter cried out as full sensation rushed back into the pinched skin. “Oh Tony!” But his erection never flagged. Quite the opposite. He was straining hard in his briefs. Tony was naked, started out that way. Peter always liked a little bit of clothes on during the sessions.

When Peter screamed Tony came all over the kid’s stomach. Including on some of his fresh abs piercings. The sudden force of his orgasm had him falling forward, as he often did, laying down on Peter’s body. That scream wasn’t pleasurable for either of them. In his moment of passion, Tony had forgotten about the pulled tight corset piercings on Peter’s back.

“Oh fuck, baby, I’m sorry,” Tony said, lifting up fast.

“Check!” Peter said, frantically worried. “Did they pull out?” He sat up on the massage table.

Tony looked over at them. All the ribbons and rings were still in place. “Everything’s still beautiful, darling, just like you,” he said kissing Peter’s shoulder. “Pete, just because you found four pictures doesn’t mean you need all four done at once. Baby, it’s too much for you.”

“No it’s not, Tony.”

“What if I simply laced the edges on your abs, and we see about doing one foot. I know that was something you really wanted,” he said, tenderly. “It will look like little ballet slippers on your feet. But I only want to do one today. Both on another day. Cinderella lost his other slipper at the ball.” Tony lifted Peter’s face and gave him a slow, deep kiss as he reached down and caressed his erection in his briefs.

Peter sighed, disappointed with himself, but the cold sweat he was breaking out in told him that Tony was right. It was too much for one session. “I wanted it so badly.”

“Baby, you’ve been amazing. So much better than anyone else ever could’ve been. Each one of these that you’ve chosen is a full session, Pete. And you’ve done three.” Tony placed one tray of instruments on the floor and sat down beside it. He raised his knee and tapped the back of Peter’s calf. “Come on, my handsome prince. Let me see if the slipper you left behind at the ball fits that gorgeous foot of yours.”

Peter balanced his foot on Tony’s thigh, pointing his toes downward. “Okay Prince Charming.”

Tony smiled up at his boy. “Five down either side and one just below your middle toe. Can you do that, precious?”

Peter bit his lip. “Um hmm. Yes Tony.” His hand replaced where Tony’s had been and he gently massaged himself through his underwear.

The skin on the top of Peter’s foot was tight over the structure of it. A forceps wasn’t able to grasp enough to be effective. Tony laid out eleven curved needles. He slowly worked each of them through Peter’s thin, delicate skin on top of Peter’s foot. Followed by a slender gauge captive gold bead ring. The color laces would change the look. White or black and they’d look like laces for Converse. But in the broad pink ribbon does indeed make Peter’s foot look like a ballet or ballroom slipper. Tony ties a pretty bow right at the bottom of Peter’s middle toe. Meeting his gaze, he kisses his sweet prince’s foot then lets it dangle loosely, helping to arch the boy’s foot into pointing his toes gracefully downward.

Tony rose and knelt behind Peter on the massage table. “Do you feel how beautiful you are, Peter?” he asked, pressing lightly up against the laced pierced corset on his back. He reached around the front of the boy and massaged his erection through his briefs with deliberateness. He looked down Peter’s front over his shoulder. His come was splattered there. But on the left side was a smaller corset piercing in black and pink. With a finger under the boy’s chin, he leaned it back to rest on his shoulder and kissed the side of Peter’s neck as his massaging became stroking.

He ran his fingertips over the piercings on the side of the boy’s neck. Tony placed a kiss over them, and he reached into Peter’s underwear and began to jerk him off. “Look down, baby. Look at your foot. It’s so beautiful, just like the rest of you.”

“Oh,” he gasped out at both the sight and the movement of Tony’s hand. “Tony… it’s…”

“Perfect, darling, but not nearly as perfect as you are. You were so good for me, Pete.” He felt Peter’s cock jump at his praise. “No one has ever been so good for me.” The boy pulsed in his hand. Throbbed. Tensed. And came gently. Shuddering with it. Gasping softly, his lips parted, they and his cheeks flushed red. “My Peter. Such an absolutely perfect… model.” Tony hesitated at using the word sub. That was a discussion they hadn’t had yet. But with the way that Peter got a rush from the pain and the submission, the way he’d sub drop after he came and needed Tony so desperately — which was one of the things he loved most about the D/s scene. How needy his sub always became. How needy Peter became. How the boy clung to him. Whimpering against his chest, sometimes crying, clinging, shuddering, looking to Tony as the only solid, real thing in his world.

Peter was already seeking out the comfort of being held. “Shh, baby. I’m going to unlace your back first. Just a little while longer.”

“Do you have to?” Peter’s words were shaking. Tony could see the signs of the kid’s drop approaching. “They’ll fall out soon.”

“You’re right, Pete. If you’re comfortable with me holding you with them still in…”

“I like that,” Peter said quietly.

“Mmm,” Tony hummed low in his throat. He liked it too. But he was always careful not to assume anything when it came to Peter’s limits. He gathered his boy into his lap, pulling him close.

“You can just stay here. You don’t have to pose to get the pictures you want, sweetheart,” Tony murmured as he put soft little kisses on Peter’s temple. “FRIDAY has the pictures and video. We can sort through it later.”

Peter wasn’t quite ready to have the discussion that his desire brought up. Ever since he realized the reaction he had to the pain of piercing, he’d been reading. For some people it was only the endorphin rush of piercing that they sought out, nothing more. He knew that wasn’t all it was for him. The little marks of Tony’s possessiveness (ownership?) that he carried on each item of jewelry was an important part of it. The prominent marks etched into the peridot’s on his hands. The way that his friends in college, even those into piercings and tattoos, looked at his hand piercings with a little shock and even horror.

He’s been asked what he’s become to refer to as the question. And it’s answer is probably yes. But it scared him. What if Tony’s not into this in the same way as he is. What if he is and is into so much more than Peter’s ready to explore yet.

This part of it… what they called ‘aftercare’, it’s something that Tony always did for him. He held him close in his arms. He pressed soft kisses to the top of his head. Tony whispered quiet praise and appreciation. And he seemed to hesitate just before certain words might come out. Words that would put definition to things they weren’t ready to define yet.

But words that they were both becoming unable to deny for much longer. Especially after that night.

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#Starker #IronSpider #Peter Parker x Tony Stark #Tony Stark x Peter Parker #Von Writes Stuff #Sorry for so many posts in a row #trying to meet the deadline

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