#I know every interaction is in its own verse

[dxfiedfxte]

[{ 🦋 }] - "...People need to stop making Fuuka-Chan flustered, that's my job."

[{ 🦋 }] - "Go get your own future wife."

[ghostingcrows]

The transformers brain rot is slowly but surely returning and I've never been more relieved by something in my life

[lucyandthepen]

sweet cream, cold brew | lmh ( m )

something about mark lee keeps you up at night, and you’re pretty sure that it isn’t the lingering smell of espresso on his shirt.

alternatively: mark is shy until he isn’t.

read the second part here!

pairing: nerd!barista!mark x reader verse: college au rating: r ( minors, do not interact! ) warnings&tags: unprotected sex, oral (f!receiving), fingering, slightly possessive/jealous dialogue, mark has a thing for tummy bulges because why not, implicitly that also means he has a big dick, a slight???? exhibitionism kink (not actually something that happens, only talked about), johnny exists in this simply to trigger something vaguely feral in mark, reader is a little bit assertive and schemes to get mark's attention, jaehyun is a nosy lil eavesdropper, i think that should be it?? word count: 26.4k

a/n: hello so this was a mess and honestly not a fic i would say showcases my best plot-wise but… what can I say apart from booty wurk mark has me in a chokehold and I needed to release some thoughts and feelings !!! please do not expect too much from the development of the story; i fear it’s quite long and choppy because my ideas were all over the place and i was wringing my hands and brain constantly and i was eager to get to the spicy parts !! this is also not beta’d/proofread, it’s currently almost 1am, and i’ve been writing this on and off for a full week with very few breaks so it honestly felt like a fever dream for me LMAO please forgive any oversights and mistakes; i’ll try to go back on them another day and fix them little by little! finally and …most importantly belated happy birthday, my beloved morkly!

p.s. this will probably be flagged as ‘mature’ by tumblr, which means there’s a high likelihood it won’t appear in tags or searches. please consider reblogging to boost the fic, if you feel so inclined!

You’ve heard tell of how caffeine has inherently addictive properties. 

The more of it you have in your lifetime, the more likely you are to experience symptoms of withdrawal whenever you try to have orange juice for breakfast in its stead. It sounds bad, actually, considering most addictive substances are, but you suppose that its benefits somehow outweigh its milder drawbacks. You’re not much of a coffee connoisseur the way some people — see: your best friends, Yeji and Jisu — are, trying one cafe after the other in pursuit of being able to nominate the winning beans of 2023 (an annual heated debate they participate in for no better reason than their own slow and useless entertainment during their six-hour long breaks), but you do know you’ve only ever experienced good things from having a cup every so often: better energy, a more focused approach to mental activities, and the ability to drive through fifty percent of a road trip without needing pop punk music blasting out of your speakers to keep yourself alert. 

The three of you are generally particular about the coffee you drink, only in different ways. While your friends have a tendency to demand only the best from any establishment — lest the staff hear fiery commentary about the flatness of the brew or the evident coarseness of the grind — you, on the other hand, are a singular individual of rather simple tastes. All you need to survive long days is a glass of vanilla sweet cream cold brew. No modifications to the sugar level or fancy new milk types are necessary; you’ll drink it as it’s served in a grande cup (or a venti, when things prove particularly grueling). 

Of course, you’re strict about other things in the experience of consumption —  like where it’s served and, more importantly, who serves it to you. 

While Yeji and Jisu have rated the Liberal Arts building’s on-campus Starbucks branch as a five with the strict label of POEO — ‘passable on emergencies only’ — branding the menu as “nothing revolutionary” and criticizing most baristas for subpar brewery, you happen to be extremely drawn to the place. Initially, you may have argued that this has to do with the fact that it’s walking distance from most of your classes, confined to the same general compound on campus, so you can always grab a quick recharger whenever needed, no matter how short the timeframe to do so is. Sometime later on, you may have found yourself asserting that the layout of the cafe, albeit small, is very convenient, considering that every table is situated next to an electrical outlet, so you’re never out of battery (important to other students for their laptops and powerpoint presentations, important to you because you have an unhealthy obsession with passing time on TikTok, scrolling past video after video of ASMR girls clicking their twenty-inch long acrylics with their crazy candyland designs), and this makes you feel at ease. 

A month ago, you finally came clean to yourself and, soon after, to your friends, and they came to understand, albeit begrudgingly and with no small amount of amusement, what made this Starbucks unbeatable in your eyes; it had one thing no other coffee shop could lay claim to.

What you know of Mark Lee is accrued from two major sources: long, surreptitious glances in the Modern World History class you share, and irritatingly brief interactions when you place your order from the other side of the counter behind which he stands, long fingers always poised to punch in your order at the speed of light. Sometimes, those encounters get cut even shorter when irate upperclassmen start prattling their orders out before you can even say anything past your own, except even this has its own consolation prize — an apologetic smile at you that seems only for you, although you’re not sure how much of this assumption is true. You’ll just believe it as you feel it. 

And what you’ve learned about Mark Lee has funneled down into two key points for you: first, he is single, a fact you were clued into when a group of his friends came to the coffee shop and sat around the table next to you. You hadn’t been eavesdropping; they’d just been pretty loud, but you’d also perked your ears the moment the one everyone seemed to call “Hyuck” — you aren’t sure if it’s his full name or a nickname, and you don’t particularly care — had leaned in for a conspiratorial whisper about having a vague master plan to set Mark up with an old high school friend’s younger sister that he was just waiting to spring on said Mark, busy slaving away on their six impossible orders near the espresso machine. 

You don’t really know what became of that plan, nor if anyone had telepathically been on your side to outright call it crazy (someone should have had a better reason than you, anyway) since the next moment, Hyuck’s voice becomes significantly louder when it orders the one named Jisung to collect the completed coffee and snacks waiting for them on the counter. However, you feel safe in the assumption that even if it had happened, no repercussions had followed, seeing as Mark still presently comes and goes from his shifts alone and in no clear hurry to meet any cute girls that are sisters of high school friends of his friends. Or, maybe you’re just ignoring what could be truth, but that’s whatever. 

Second, you’ve learned that Mark Lee should not actually be your type — at least, in theory. 

Saying you’re out of his league would be a bit juvenile, but if you had only so many words to describe the situation, you’d say so under duress. It isn’t so much that he’s beneath you in any way, but your interests and general social circles run different routes. Yours tend to be more classically patterned after constantly changing trends, and the people you interact with all seem to have similar goals; you like to call it ‘vibe networking,’ which, from experience, involves connecting with both groups and individuals that are equally aware that they will benefit in some way from any resulting acquaintanceship — whether it be by climbing the social ladder a couple of rungs or being able to call in a quick, off-the-charts favor for something very important and/or very exclusive down the road. You and your friends spend a significant amount of time in a year watching your style and image, something quite a lot of kids in the first couple of years of college tend to do, which means that while you don’t particularly like to spend your time following your grade trajectory, you do have quite a lot of pseudo-friends that all seem to offer something entertaining or helpful to you. 

Mark, on the contrast, prefers to keep his circle very close to his heart, it seems — that which acts as a receptacle for all his interests. You can tell that he likes to be up to date less with trending movies and more with comic books, a separate beast of a world that’s rather unknown to you. More than once, you’ve overheard him chat with his friends about Spider-man Issue Number Whatever-It-Is or engage in somewhat lively (sometimes rowdy, thanks to the Hyuck fellow) discussions about some webtoon you’ve come to understand is called Solo Leveling, which seems to have to do with monsters and hunters — two things you know next to nothing about. You’ve also never seen Mark holding anything remotely close to a magazine; his hands are always filled with either a freshly opened comic or a beat-up textbook. Maybe once or twice, you’ve seen him on his phone, but when you peeked over (surreptitiously, of course) on those occasions, you were met only with brightly colored panels and a singular word: BAM. 

In conclusion — you and Mark Lee live very different lives, likely never truly meant to intersect. 

And yet, you want him — not even in a way that speaks only to your curiosity, but in a manner that feels slightly delusional. More than once, you’ve found yourself having to shut your jaw close after realizing you’ve been watching him steam milk with your mouth slightly agape. Maybe it’s his side profile, which gives you a great view of the way his jaw tenses every time he puts whipped cream on someone’s frappuccino. Maybe it’s his eyes, which always seem to twinkle like he’s harboring some special secret every time someone in line asks for his recommendation on how to spice their order up. Maybe it’s his hands, steady and agile, with just the right showing of veins through the skin to tell you they’ve probably got significant strength to them too. Or maybe it’s just his mind — that thing he always manages to show off in class, working faster than lightning even when the rest of you are in your natural eight-in-the-morning stupor.

Whatever the reason for your interest, Mark Lee makes sure the Liberal Arts building’s Starbucks has you as a regular customer. 

You’re fully aware that this is the twenty-first century, which is why you could, as Yeji and Jisu have so kindly made known, simply ask him out. Under normal circumstances, you would have.

Unfortunately, in this particular area of your life, separate from all others, you’re something of a traditionalist. 

Actually, you just want to know what Mark asking you out would look like. Curiosity has fully gotten the better of you — how can it not, with how he breaks eye contact with you the moment it happens by accident in class, or with how pleasantly and shyly he smiles when you say ‘hey’ to him once you’re about to order? You’d like to see, first-hand, as a recipient of the experience itself, what he would look like taking control of a particular situation like that — something someone like him, so mild-mannered and laid-back, never really seemed to do upfront. 

You’d like to think you’ve given him clear signs. There’s a reason you always come in during his shift times, and it’s the same reason for why you have the same damn drink from the menu over and over again despite not even caring too much about coffee in the first place (something he admittedly doesn’t know and probably wouldn’t puzzle out, given how often you’re in that Starbucks, anyway). It’s that you want him to remember you.

Selfishly, it’s that you want him to think just a little bit more about you every single day. 

But if he does, Mark has never made it very clearly known; apart from taking your order in his genial customer service demeanor or letting a look of brief recognition pass his face over when you cross paths in the hallways, he’s never really shown heightened inquisitiveness about you. For all your differences, only you seem to actually care.

Frankly, that frustrates you, because if you have to think about him unhealthily, it would only be right for him to do that for your sake too. Still, you’ll shrug that hit on your pride off for as long as you can get his attention one way or another.

All you really need is for your plan to pan out as well as you think — and hope — it will. 

The thing is, you’re not even that bad at math. You’ve never really excelled at it, of course, but you wouldn’t go so far as to say you’re in dire need of help from anyone — the kind of help that feels like babysitting, at least.

However, Mark Lee doesn’t know that, and you’re not compelled to make that fact known to him when you notice that he’s leaning on the counter with his elbows, shoulders rolled forward and head bent down. He’s twirling his ballpoint in hand, wrist hovering over a worksheet, and you’re briefly distracted by the rapidly moving shadow underneath it.

His head snaps up when you gently knock on the counter, and the rest of his body follows suit, straightening as he shoves the paper away, one edge crumpling in on itself as it meets resistance in the form of the pastry display glass.

“Hey — hi, _________.” He knows your name, says it easily, and while you’d like to believe it’s because of his unprecedented interest in you, you know that it’s just because you’re always here and always having him write your name on the side of your cup. “Can I get you the usual?”

There’s no particular reason you order what you do; maybe it’s just rooted in the fact that when you first asked Mark for a recommendation, he said that the Vanilla Sweet Cream Cold Brew was pretty good, and you were inclined to believe him (while pointedly ignoring the fact that it was, at the time, a new item all of the baristas were required to push to indecisive, slightly moony-eyed customers such as yourself). Whatever the case, you found the drink generally palatable, and you were also able to score the first of many smiles that fed into your two-semester-long infatuation with him, so it was basically a win-win scenario for all. He even got to do his job by getting some rube (see: you) into trying a new product.

“Hey, Mark.” You’ve long since given up pretending that you don’t know his name and have to check the tag on his cute green apron (why is it cute? You don’t know. It’s the same, standard, Starbucks green, but Mark makes it look homely and natural, somehow). You’ve been here way too many times over the last academic year for a nonchalant, were you talking to me? approach to work, anyway. “That, plus a lemon loaf, if you don’t mind. What’ve you got there?”

His eyes follow the trail of yours over to his wrinkled worksheet. “Oh — no, sorry. It’s nothing.”

“Is it secret?” Your bottom lip juts out, and you see his Adam’s apple bob dangerously, a small telltale sign of minute nervousness before he lets out a short laugh. “Didn’t know we kept stuff from each other.”

You don’t know what makes you say that so naturally. The both of you don’t do much beyond exchanging pleasantries.

“We — uh, well, it’s just a worksheet. For Park Hyosung’s class. College algebra?”

“I’m in Kim Junghwa’s. Can I have a look? I want to know if you’re suffering just as much as I am.”

He pauses, considering your request for a moment, likely wondering if there’s any harm in it before he smooths the paper out and turns it towards you. His handwriting’s a little messy, but his solutions are extremely neat. You see, like, one erasure, max. You also don’t see anything that interests you — except the name written at the top. Still, you can see at a general glance that more than half of his answers are correct; the logic of his organization is way too elegant and his writing’s too sure to be anything else. You whistle low, and his eyebrows shoot up.

“Something wrong?”

“Pretty much the opposite. How is it that you’re doing this without breaking a sweat?”

“Oh, well — it’s not…” He doesn’t even know how to brag. Yet another item in the perpetually growing list of things you find cute about Mark Lee. “I mean, anyone… can?”

“I must not be anyone then.” You meet his quizzical look with a wry smile. “Either you guys are leaps and bounds ahead, or I’m really not going to make it through this semester.”

Another silence passes, just for a fraction of a second — short enough to be passable to others, but long enough for you to wonder if your humor code isn’t up to par with the rest of the world’s — before Mark’s chuckling lowly. His large palm comes down, covering a majority of his answers in the process.

“You’re kidding. I’m sure you’re doing just fine.”

“Mark, look at this face.” You gesture to your evidently dumbfounded, blank expression. “Does this look like the face of someone that’s doing just fine?”

You’re pleased to hear another laugh from him; you don’t know if he really finds you funny or if he’s just the type to be easily amused. You don’t want to know, anyway; assuming is better than actually finding out.

“That bad, huh?” He slides the worksheet away again, like he’s afraid his correct answers are going to offend you into leaving the cafe. Instead, his hands start working on your order, grabbing a cup and scrawling the shorthand of the drink on one of the little boxes. “Ever think about getting a tutor, maybe? If you really feel like you’re drowning, that is.”

“A tutor? I guess that depends. Are you free on weeknights?”

The marker makes a soft screeching sound as he drags it down with too much force, ruining the penmanship of your name. Mark takes a moment to stare at the mistake on the plastic before he looks at you, pointing the rim of the cup towards himself. “Sorry — am I free—?”

“You said I should get a tutor, right?”

“I thought — no, sorry, I was thinking more like one of those department-assigned tutors you can ask the faculty for, or something.”

“Oh. Are you not one of them?” You sigh, albeit a little over dramatically. Thankfully, he doesn’t really cotton onto your acting, too caught up in befuddlement at the turn of the conversation. “That’s a bummer. I was kinda hoping that if I was going to ask for help, I’d get an actual genius. You know — someone like you?”

You can tell by Mark’s expression that he’s torn between denying your compliment again and responding to your actual question; he looks both relieved and miffed when the student behind you clears her throat.

“Sorry, but— you know that there’s a line, right?”

You both apologize, Mark’s much more sincere than your own, and you step aside. His gaze follows you for a moment before it snaps back to the next customer, his voice abandoning that bemused uncertainty it had taken up with you. You don’t really mind; as far as you’re concerned, any dent in his barista persona when he talks to you is a step in the right direction.

You hang around the pick-up area, receipt in hand, watching Mark clear the line before moving to the actual stations near the kitchen area. There’s a concentration on his face that you find all the more attractive; he has a habit of chewing on his bottom lip when he’s trying to focus on getting the drizzle just right inside the cup’s cylinder.

He tends to try his best at everything, you figure. Not an unattractive quality — not by a long shot.

Mark finishes your drink first; the milk’s still only seeping, cloudy, into the coffee when he brings it over. He doesn’t even have to call your queue number, opting to meet your eye — albeit slightly nervously — instead. You reach out to hold the cup, a calculated move that allows you to brush hands against his without him being able to pull back on instinct. He doesn’t, nor does he really seem to want to, but his jaw tightens as a flush creeps along the curve of his ears.

“You really won’t help me?”

Your question’s abrupt, almost a little demanding, even if your voice is sweet. You’re not above asking this much, anyway, even if you technically want him to make the first move. The redness sinks down to his earlobes.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t really say anything,” you tease. The cup’s on the counter now, so he can easily relinquish it to you at this point, but he still hesitates, only one hand slipping out from under the heat of your palm. He uses it to rub the back of his neck, chuckling softly, and you take this as a green light. “What time does your shift end?”

“Five-thirty. You sure you wouldn’t want someone better?”

You pull your cup slowly to yourself, and his hand, still lightly trapped by your own, follows for a few inches before he’s withdrawing, the counter between the two of you forcing the distance. A smile follows the shaking of your head, and you take a small sip of the drink before you respond simply.

“There’s no one better than you.”

Mark is a prompt kind of person; you learn this when, at five-thirty, he comes over to your table, tugging his apron off over his head. Of course, you might attribute that to his overall personality, but the fact that you spend the remaining two hours of his shift casting him glances from the left side of the coffee shop might have also been a contributing factor. The looks you give him aren’t even furtive; they’re deliberately long, so you never miss whenever he looks over to you from time to time.

He doesn’t hold eye contact for very long (he does it well enough when he’s talking to customers, but it’s not like you’re ordering another cold brew from across the room at that point), but you can read snippets of his thoughts through the fleeting gaze exchanges. He’s curious as to why you’re asking for help, now, of all times, when the semester’s more than halfway over. He’s surprised that you asked him, of all people, because he just can’t conceive of a world that isn’t within a television show where this kind of abrupt, overt request makes sense. He’s flattered that you even asked him out of the blue. He’s equal parts anxious and eager to know what’s meant to happen after his shift, once he starts fulfilling your request.

Most of all, he’s unsure if he’s reading you right — if what it feels like you’re doing is something he’s attaching too deep a meaning to. If he’s right in reading your signs.

You don’t really mind it; you like knowing that Mark somehow wears his heart on his sleeve, even if he tries to remain neutral for the sake of appearances. You also bask quietly in the fact that he’s looking at you twice as much as he ever has in the time you’ve loosely known each other. Still, his bubbling confusion and inquisitiveness seem to be interfering with the rest of his work, especially when you notice that he’s been wiping down the surface of a table two down from where you are for more than seven minutes.

In the hopes of easing whatever tension might be in his heart, you offer him a small smile, but that’s only met with his eyes immediately glazing over and inching a couple of centimeters above your forehead, where the story of Starbucks’ origins is drawn out in a faux-manga style. He pretends to find it interesting, as if he hasn’t seen it a million times from coming into this establishment day after day — you know it well enough, and you don’t even have to, considering you don’t work here — and you can’t do anything but hold back your laughter.

A small part of you says you should just give him the affirmative answer to his biggest question, but every other cell in your body says that it’s no fun if he doesn’t ascertain it for himself.

He has his school bag and textbook in tow when he approaches, taking the seat across from you. There’s a steely resolution on his face, like he’s been emotionally preparing himself for such a daunting task, but it eases up the moment you laugh lightly.

“You don’t have to act like I’m going to eat you.”

“I’m still not sure why you’re suddenly asking me to help you,” he admits. He’s also very honest, you note. Again, not an unattractive trait. “I’m not complaining. I just didn’t think you even had an opinion of me.”

“Why’s that?” You’re genuinely surprised. Mark drums his fingers on the front of his textbook, thoughtful — less for the sake of thinking what to say and more for the sake of considering how to say it. It’s clear he wants to avoid calling attention to the fact that before now, you two have had no reason to run the same track, let alone sit together and talk at a coffee shop, as if you’ve always been the best of friends.

“Genuinely just thought I was the guy who gave you your afternoon coffee every day,” he finally settles. Your eyes widen, and another laugh escapes you — a little louder this time, enough to call the attention of a couple of jumpy freshmen nearby.

“Well — let me put it this way.” You lean over slightly, cupping your chin in your palm. “Was I just the girl you made coffee for every day until now?”

There are clear cogs turning in his head; his eyes unfocus slightly as he thinks of the possibilities. His silence suddenly makes you somewhat nervous; your tone had been confident, and you’d only said that to prove a point, to push him in the right direction, but you realize that you hadn’t previously factored in the possibility that he might simply say yes — or, worse, say no just to avoid hurting your feelings.

You watch his lower lip curl in; he uses his tongue to smooth out the skin that’s slightly dried from work fatigue. You would much rather it peeked out, so you could imagine it against your own. His response is mumbled in a lower register, but you catch some key syllables — didn’t… not … stranger — pretty … you?

“Sorry?” You ask patiently, but the fact that he turns red and laughs again — something you realize is not only a trademark of his personality but also downright delicious of him to be doing — is all the answer you need to let the apprehension seep from your shoulders. “I didn’t catch that.”

Mark clears his throat. “No, I… didn’t think of you that way. I mean… you’re my classmate.”

“Sure,” your tone’s breezy, but the somewhat sloppy confirmation of interest in you makes your heart soar. He just needs more of a push. “And we’re basically friends, right?”

“Yeah.” His voice is unsure at first, like he can’t seem to wrap his head around the concept. You can tell that Mark’s notion of friendship is likely based on shared interests, of which you admittedly have none. Technically, if you were his friend, you’d spend less time just telling him the exact same order every single day and more time sitting around a table trying to learn how to play Magic: The Gathering with him. Still, he takes one long look at your grin and suddenly gains confidence in his next words, as if it somehow convinces him that the briefness of your old conversations had been a mutually agreed-upon thing and not the product of social distance between the two of you. “Yeah. We’re friends.”

“Right. Friends help friends, don’t they? I’d definitely feel more comfortable having a friend teach me than some stuffy upperclassman I don’t know.”

You see Mark’s lips move slightly, in such small movements you could have imagined it as breathing if you didn’t care too much (which you do). He mouths, to himself — friends help friends. For some reason, that boosts his conviction even further, and he nods.

“Makes sense. Well — for as long as you don’t mind me, then.”

“Mind? I asked you, so I should be saying that.”

“I’d never mind — I mean, of course I don’t mind.” He’s quick to correct himself, and you have to stop your own hand from reaching out to try to satisfy your curiosity, the desire to know just how hot his cheeks get when he blushes. “More than happy to help, actually.”

“And I’m more than happy to be here.” You beam at him, and he mirrors your smile. You don’t know what it is about the look on his face — the brightness in his eyes, or the slight lift of his eyebrows, maybe — but it gives you the impression that he might be feeling at least a fraction of what you are: the feeling of your heart lifting off a few inches from your rib cage. “Since we’re on the same page, I hope — should we get to it?”

From the moment that Mark opens his textbook to a chapter on inverted parabolas, he assumes a personality you feel you haven’t seen from him before. You realize that you really do know him in only two limited capacities — his classroom persona that seems to really only view himself and the material, focused on the board and the professor’s words (even up until the useless anecdotes) to absorb as much information as possible, and his more genial customer service form, always happy to assist in the trained, easygoing way you’ve come to meet so often.

Right now, he’s a blend of both, yet somehow neither all at once. He’s quick to catch the parabolas you draw, either wrongly or downright poorly. Despite initial hesitation, he always manages to say something; there’s already a pattern to how he does it, from his slightly awkward, “Ah, sorry, actually —” to the way his finger traces over what you’ve written, outlining the right curve. You find his interruptions so endearing that you start drawing them wrong purposefully — not enough for him to realize your schemes in their entirety, but enough to cast you a few amused glances, like he can’t imagine why you’d map out such an absurd graph. You get the feeling he wants to actually laugh at how ridiculous you’re acting, but he can’t tell if you’re seriously struggling or not, so he settles for a smile he thinks he does well in keeping to himself, but that you catch anyway. He’s patient, even when you have to rip out pages from the back of his notebook because of your ‘mistakes,’ like he’s still catering to your request for an extra pump of syrup for your coffee on sleepy days.

But there’s also that side to him that comes out when he suddenly remembers the distance between you that, before today, had felt unlikely to be closed. It peaks at odd moments, like when you’re borrowing his pen because yours is currently holding your slowly unraveling bun up, and your fingers brush against his. It surfaces abruptly when you lean in to watch what he’s drawing until he realizes how close you are, arm lightly grazing his, and his pen freezes, ink blotting on the paper for a second. It’s in those times that you can almost hear his brain churning out questions — like he’s wondering if you’re just oblivious or if you’re doing something on purpose that he can’t quite believe. Like he wants to ask you what’s on your mind, but he just doesn’t know how.

If he asked, you would reply without missing a beat. The answer, after all, is simple (him). But Mark never raises the question, only does something without fully acknowledging what he’s doing — the adjustment of his glasses on the bridge of his nose, the ruffling of his hair as though to shake off his thoughts, the clearing of his throat to normalize his tone before he explains something you’ve just asked about. There’s always that light tinge of pink to his face that makes him look even more endearing, and it fades and returns every so often for the better part of two hours.

By the time he rubs oncoming fatigue out of his eyes, the sun has already set; there are far fewer people around you at this time, and for as much as you like spending time with him and breathing in the scent of his shirt — always a tinge of Downy, barely cutting through the much more overpowering scent of espresso and sugar — your back has begun hurting from your front-heavy posture and determination to have your face as close as rationally possible to Mark’s. Still, you don’t miss out on the fact that the act of him cracking his neck to relieve tension makes your lips curl inward, trying to stifle an inappropriate noise in reaction to the view.

“I feel like I talked your ear off,” he pipes up, sounding a bit sheepish. “Sometimes it’s hard to know when to stop once you’ve gotten started. I’m just hoping I didn’t bore you to death.”

“Meanwhile, I’m here hoping you aren’t sick of my questions already.” You smile, closing your notebook and hanging the clip of your pen on the spiral. Your arms stretch up first, followed by your back, a light twist to relax your posture into normalcy again. Mark’s breathing falls quiet, like he’d been preparing to say something in response but had let it die in the back of his throat instead. You let your eyes drop, expecting to see him looking at you, as he mostly has been — on and off — since his shift ended, but his eyes are far lower than yours, the telltale redness now growing in evident splotches across his cheeks.

The hem of your shirt has ridden up; while there’s nothing outrageous about it, there’s a short expanse of skin that it reveals, for a brief moment. His eyes are slightly glossy, brow furrowed like he’s trying to find a solution to something he can’t fully understand. You’re not even sure about what he could really be looking at, or if there’s something he’s just thinking of that caught his attention while his eyes focused on a rather unfortunate spot. To test your theory, you suck in your stomach slightly alongside an inhale.

It should be objectively funny to watch Mark blink unevenly, left eye going first before his right tries to catch up, but you manage to stifle your laughter — poorly, though, because you end up coughing a little and breaking him out of his strange trance. You avert your eyes quickly enough for him to look vaguely relieved that you hadn’t caught him looking. So he thinks, at least.

“Anyway.” You feel bad that you have to tear his mind away from whatever faraway land it must be trying to burrow a hole in; the dazed expression on his face dims into hastily hidden embarrassment. You don’t want him to feel awkward, so you just busy yourself with packing up, making an unnecessary show of stuffing your notebook back into your bag as if it isn’t half-empty at this point. “I really appreciate you taking the time to help me.”

“Any time.” His first attempt is a little raspy, maybe from overuse of his voice today, so he clears his throat and tries again. A slow smile builds on your lips. “Any time, really. I’m glad that this is actually helping you; you pick things up surprisingly fast.”

“Wait, really?”

“Yeah. Give it a couple of weeks, and you’ll probably be ready to tackle it on your own again, I’m sure.”

He smiles reassuringly, but all you can think about is how that’s not good. You should pretend to be a little dumber next time, or this will end much too prematurely.

The next five minutes pass in silence; you don’t expect to be knee-deep in conversation anyway since, as much as you try to convince him, you aren’t actually anywhere close to being those kinds of friends yet. There’s an unspoken rule to the give and take of things, where he pauses for you to get an item off the table and push it into your bag before he does the same with his own belongings. Neither of you really intersect paths, save for the moment you both grab your phones and stand at the same time.

His jaw falls open like he’s preparing to say something, then shuts as if he’s better decided against it. You decide to take the initiative to say what you’re assuming he wants to. “Same time, same table?”

“Oh — uh, yeah, for sure.”

You want to ask him to walk out with you. You want to lace your fingers with his, tug him out, and kiss him under the green and white glow of the sign outside. You want to know if kissing his collarbone means you’ll taste a hint of coffee. You think about doing it all somehow, especially since he’s fighting back a slight smile at the promise of tomorrow.

But it just isn’t the right time.

Instead, you place a hand on his shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. The slow movement of his throat — yet another hard swallow — isn’t lost on you, and his eyes land on where the two of you connect. With a grateful smile, you bid him a soft goodbye, taking your leave first.

You don’t look back — at least, not until you’re fully in the cover of the darkness outside. On the gravel path, just out of reach of the lamplight, you chance one last glance back into the store. Mark is still rooted to the same spot, his backpack slung over one shoulder, staring at the table like he’s dissociating from what just happened — like he can’t believe the last couple of hours.

Your smile grows when you see his own, and his hand comes around to the back of his neck, rubbing it lightly like it gives him small comfort to let him know that it was real.

Baby steps, you remind yourself. You’ve already got one foot in the door, after all.

As the days trickle by, you fall into a more comfortable standing with Mark; there’s a routine to your meetings that seems to eliminate the initial and abrupt awkwardness of that first day. You come into that Starbucks at four, greet Mark, who doesn’t ever have to ask for your order, and spend the next hour and a half slowly sipping on it until the ice has thinned and watered down your drink substantially. In that time, you allow yourself to do whatever you want (as if you’ve ever done otherwise anyway), and what you usually want the most is a good view of him. You therefore use most of the minutes you have on hand to regard him from different angles — from the side when he’s frothing milk, upfront when he turns to leave cups on the pick-up counter, from the back when he’s clearing tables — interspersed with moments of checking your TikTok feed, clearing group chat messages, and sometimes re-curling your bangs with a portable iron from the school’s co-op center, a relatively new purchase you tote around these days. You do essentially anything in between to avoid acting too suspicious while he works.

Sometimes, you catch Mark’s eye too; the more your meetings increase in number over the course of a few weeks, the more deliberately he looks over at you, and the longer it lasts. You feel like you’ve made significant progress when your gazes lock and he smiles slightly, albeit a bit unsurely, instead of turning away like he used to. The other day, he’d even passed by while apologizing for how long you always waited for him — not that you ever minded, something you made a point to clarify with him before he walked away, carrying a couple of chairs from the back room with him to replace rickety ones.

That he’s able to transport them easily, as if he’s lugging a bag of apples from the grocery, does not escape your watchful eye.

What you like the most is that you start to learn more about him in a way that isn’t fueled only by your expectations and, therefore, limited by your imagination. You find out that he’s from a close-knit family with a rather cushy background, and this barista job is just for interest funding and experience, in that exact order. Most of his earnings are funneled into the things he collects, which apparently isn’t limited to comic books and special edition blu-rays with director’s cut but also a rather stupendous amount of PopMart blind box figurines. Apparently, he particularly likes the Skullpanda series even if he hasn’t completed it yet; your last session together had adjourned thirty minutes earlier than usual so that he could catch a pre-rush hour inner circle train to Hongdae, where the flagship store was set to open on that day. He’d promised to show you his pulls (as long as they weren’t embarrassing dupes). You learn that he likes to listen to loud music when he studies to stimulate his mind, and he has a playlist that’s just a jumble of songs from Punk Goes Pop volumes that makes him feel empowered for some absurd reason, like he’s going against the grain. You don’t really get it, but you do like that spiced-up rendition of Ariana Grande’s Problem that he let you listen to once.

Of course, there are things that you find out not through conversation but through continued, closer observation. You notice that he likes to put on chapstick even if his lips aren’t particularly dry, but he does worry on them often, most especially when he’s thinking hard about something. He has a habit of saying honestly… at the start of every other sentence, as if he’s concerned you won’t take his word on anything, even though he’s just talking about how unnaturally hot it was at noon despite it still being spring. He has long eyelashes that you’re equal parts attracted to and jealous of, and he bites the inside of his cheek whenever he wants to pep himself up after grueling shifts. He plays beats you’re not even sure he knows he’s creating against his knee with his fingers, so enthusiastic and consistent in this habit that you want to offer your thigh instead. His shoulders always go first before he laughs, and he does this thing where he raises his hand to cover his mouth at the start of it, which is a shame, because you’d do anything to keep seeing him smile like that — or, better yet, to be the reason for it.

Then there are those things you notice he tries to hide. He always turns his face halfway to the side when he blushes, something he seems to do without fail every time you smile at him. He has to temper the intensity of his grin when you take the time to compliment him on how cool his shirt is, or how nice his hair looks today, or how smart he is, like he doesn’t want you to know how good it makes him feel even if you want him to feel good about it, around you, because of you. Sometimes he denies it for the sake of responding, and his voice always lilts on the first syllable in his refusal to accept what you say, even though he knows you won’t take it for an answer.

And after a couple more careful experiments, you notice that Mark, out of the many things he’s interested in, seems to have a particular thing for your stomach.

You don’t know if it has anything to do with him not really seeing much of it in real life in his own time or if he just has his own kind of fixation on it, but you start to cotton on by the fourth time you meet. An hour of being hunched over a table that’s not at the greatest height in relation to your neck and torso has you stiff, and you’d leaned back in your chair, arms pulling to the air, hoping your spine might feel like realigning if you exerted enough tension pressure that way. Your shirt hadn’t ridden up this time, considering it had been tucked into your jeans, and it was because of this that you’d caught a flicker of something new in his face that you hadn’t seen before.

You could have sworn it looked like disappointment.

Of course, he hides it quickly, as he does with most of his emotional candor, but it’s enough to make you suspicious — enough to make you wonder if Mark is also just keeping something to himself. Or maybe you’re just projecting your own presently secretive nature onto him. Regardless, you think it’s odd that whenever you stand up or stretch, his eyes almost immediately fall to your midriff, like he wants to challenge your clothing into a staring contest before he thinks better of it.

You don’t mind, anyway. He can look as much as he likes. Maybe when the weather’s warmer, you’ll even cater to that interest and wear a crop top. Hopefully, that’ll be the push he needs to act on human instinct and ask you out or, like… bend you over. Maybe.

You’re often plagued with these kinds of thoughts in between the ones you try to keep as family-friendly as possible — now, more so than ever.

Sometimes, it’s easier, especially when you’re caught up in talks with him; despite the fact that he doesn’t seem like much of a conversationalist when it comes to generic matters, when either he or you are enthusiastic about a particular topic, he has a tendency to get carried away. There’s nothing impure about how his eyes light up when you remember to ask him about the movie he saw with his friends over the weekend or the way he hums old Nickelodeon cartoon theme songs under his breath whenever he’s looking for a page in the textbook. It’s more of a situation where you’ll observe something and immediately run with it despite it being an objectively normal action.

Like right now, as you’re watching him turn his pen between his fingers. Now, while he’s shaking his knee in mild impatience, as if he’s trying to will the answer to the worksheets you’ve both been trying to get through for the better part of the day faster. You’d made copies of the problems your professors had assigned and exchanged them under the premise of being able to practice more intensely.

However, whereas Mark is actually focused on solving, you’re just watching him out of the corner of your eye, wondering if he’s ever been told that his fingers are fuck-worthy on a singular, unique level or if it’d feel good for you to ride the thigh he’s currently moving, jeans and all. You consider the feeling of his warm palms on your bare waist as you do it, and you end up wondering if that’s what crosses his mind whenever he sneaks glances at you, too.

You’d know the answer to all those things if he’d fucking ask you out. Maybe you could do it after all. Maybe you should, instead of relying on slowly increasing the probability over such a long period of time. Maybe if you asked nicely, Mark might pull the shades down on the storefront windows and rail you against the glass.

You’re so lost in thought that it genuinely startles you when he plops his textbook over the worksheet, rattling your eraser dangerously close to the edge of the table. You’re still clutching your heart while he rubs his eyes a little too violently.

“Can’t,” he groans, and his neck gives into the weight of his head, allowing it to loll backward. “I feel like the numbers are just melting into each other. I swear, I thought I could read words out of them.”

“Maybe we were a little too ambitious with the double worksheet agenda,” you admit, even though you’ve barely gotten past half of yours and certainly haven’t touched a single item on his. “Should we call it a day for now?”

“Yeah,” he agrees, although he still takes the time to encircle his final answers before clapping his palms to his cheeks (an act that has your mind dangerously close to wandering off inappropriately again) to wake himself up. “Woah. I didn’t even notice how dark it is already. I’d say time flies when you’re having fun, but I’m not too sure about the ‘fun’ part of it…”

You trace his gaze towards the glass; the moon’s already out, surrounded by a smattering of low-light stars. You hadn’t realized how late it had gotten, probably because your mind had been on R-18 mode for most of the afternoon. Also, the days are getting generally shorter, but that fact doesn’t make you feel as embarrassed, at least.

“You got a ride?”

The question once again shocks you out of your small trance, and you turn back to him with wide eyes. “Well — no. Wait, I didn’t know you had a car. Why’d you take the subway, then?”

“Oh — no, sorry, I… don’t.” He looks suddenly sheepish, eyes dropping to the shiny surface of the table for a moment before they snap back up, as if he’s actually actively reminding himself to look at you. “I was wondering if you wanted me to — actually, more than that, are you going home already? Not that you need to stay; it’s not that important, but…”

You try to gloss over the fact that he had just been about to initiate another huge step in the right direction (i.e. offering to walk you home) by beaming at him, maybe a little too widely, if only to mask your disappointment at the sudden shift in conversation. “I have nothing waiting at home for me but a sandwich dinner and Singles Inferno, so hit me with whatever it is.”

“Oh, cool.” His lips turn up, and the corners shake, this show of happiness once again tamped down by his own inexplicable desire to maintain a safe distance. How are you supposed to tell him you’re desperate to bridge that gap without using those exact words? “I came from the flagship store yesterday — the one in Hongdae that I told you about?” He allows the smile to widen slightly when you nod in genuine understanding. “Got the last six boxes of the collection I’ve been trying to finish.”

You whistle appreciatively. “Can I ask you for a loan on my next phone bill? You know, once I’ve upgraded to something pricier.”

“Nah — just itching to complete the set,” he laughs. You wonder if he’s been doing that more often because he knows its crippling effect on you, though you doubt he’s that sly. Again, maybe you’re just projecting too much of your own motivations onto him. “This was probably about two months of saving up combined.”

“No new Iron Man issues to look out for, then?” Your voice is warm even though it takes on a teasing tone; Mark’s hand rubs the back of his neck, and his expression is a little sheepish, but you’re happy that the times he used to go completely quiet, opting only to blush at your attempts to act more familiar with him are pretty much gone now.

“Maybe next month.” You also like that he doesn’t really treat his hobbies as secrets, neither out of shame nor snobbishness. He explains these things to you the same way he does the topics you study — with an air of contentedness, like he’s happy someone listens to him without interrupting. On your end, you have no qualms with listening to his voice for hours, wondering when he’ll stop using it to greet you when you come through the door and when he’ll start saying your name in a way that makes you feel like you’re the only one he sees whenever you’re near. It’s a win-win situation (sort of). “I was actually debating between this collection and a really rare copy of Spi— well, never mind that. I just thought — since you were asking me a bit about blind boxes last time. You know, if you wanted to. With… me.”

As much as he’s become comfortable talking to you about things that don’t involve coffee orders and school, you can’t say that you aren’t doing your fair share of the work in connecting the dots; the demand for your efforts is exponentially higher in moments like this, when you think he’s trying to ask you something but can’t seem to find less-than-eager words to avoid what he thinks might spook you.

Luckily, he augments his fragments with action; reaching into his backpack — which you notice seems to be bulkier than usual — he starts extracting small brown boxes, all with the same design; it seems, for lack of better words, aesthetically gothic, and you reach out to pick one up, turning it over and examining the print on each side with vague interest. Mark starts laying them out on top of each other until there’s a small, somewhat unstable pyramid in front of him, then shifts his attention fully to you, just as you’re putting the box in your hand atop all the rest.

“I’d love to.” You beam as he does, and there’s a wondrous relief in his eyes that tells you he’s glad you manage to catch onto his words — or lack, thereof — surprisingly well. “For as long as you don’t blame me for any bad draws.”

“The contents have already been decided by my own hand — sort of,” he chuckles. “Point is, I would never do that to you. But I won’t lie; I kind of want to rely on your luck a little more.”

“What makes you think I’d have any of that running through my system?”

“Not sure — beginner’s luck, maybe? You just kind of look like one of those kinds of people to me — like… you’re just made of good things.”

You don’t know how to take this compliment; on the one hand, it’s easily one of the sweetest things Mark has ever said to you that doesn’t involve anything with actual sugar content. On the other, you know you’re not as lucky as he makes it sound, considering you’re still striking out on getting past the borderline of friendship with him. All you can do is smile, nodding and making to move closer to him by sliding into the next seat.

It’s hard to ignore the sight of him stiffening; something like surprise mingled with both fear and interest flashes strong across his face, but you don’t do anything to acknowledge the slight change in atmosphere, choosing to settle down comfortably and clap your hands. “So. What are the rules? What can I do, and what can’t I?”

“Uh.” His throat constricts at the right moment, the syllable getting caught and causing him to clear his throat. You know that this is the nearest you’ve ever been to him, the sleeve of your shirt tickling his arm. Upon closer, albeit brief inspection, you note that he’s also rather veiny. That doesn’t do your impurity any favors. “Not… really rules, or anything like that. Just — these are the ones I’ve been looking for. Not that you can really control it, but in case you were curious about that.”

You squint intently at the scaled-down images he points out. There’s one that looks like a penguin caught in an oil spill; another that seems to be in a polar bear costume, dozing; and — “What’s… halo? Halo…bios?”

“It just means marine life,” he answers quickly, like the thought means close to nothing to him to know something that obscure. Whoever said that smart is the new sexy wasn’t joking. “Like… all things that live in the ocean, that kind of thing.”

“And you know this because?”

He pauses, looking thoughtful. “I’m not sure. I guess I must have just learned it when I was curious about what it meant some time ago. Isn’t that how we all learn things?”

You shake your head incredulously, and he smiles a little apologetically. “You never cease to amaze me.” Your nail drums against the silhouette of one with a question mark on it. “What’s this supposed to be? Can you draw your own figurine, or something?”

“No.” He’s clearly amused, but his expression’s still patronizing enough for you to not feel too bad about saying something idiotic. “It’s a secret design — a money drainer, basically. You could buy a full set of this and still not get it. Some people will open hundreds without any luck, so it’s really rare.”

“You don’t want it?”

“I try not to get too caught up in the secret thing,” he admits. “Otherwise…”

“No rare print comic books for the rest of your life, basically?”

He taps his nose, and you both share another laugh. It’s nice, you think, to have come this far — to be someone Mark can share his interests and thoughts with. You may have been stretching the word to its limit when you first punched your way into his social life and called yourself his friend, but it feels more real now, more natural to think about and say. Even if he still sometimes seems to be hyperaware of the gap between the both of you, there’s no denying, at least, that it’s been significantly reduced, and this much is a testament to that.

“Well, leave it up to me. I’ll let all of this beginner’s luck rub off on you,” you announce with overflowing albeit unfounded confidence.

You both decide to open a box each at the same time; Mark suddenly panics and asks you not to unseal the foil bag right away without looking at the card inside first, earning him one slightly alarmed look followed by a burst of laughter at his pained expression when you pretend to rip open the packaging. Comparing pulls, you identify them using the set chart — your luck doesn’t seem to be operating at full capacity yet because you can only offer him the card of one that looks like a floppy pigeon, which he responds to with a slightly apologetic grimace before saying he’s already pulled that thrice in the past. He, on the other hand, is turning the card of the polar bear over in his palm, trying not to make you feel bad for your duplicate pull by slipping it under his textbook when your eyes land on it.

The second round isn’t much better; both of you manage to pull something he’s already added to his collection, and as you’re ripping the seal to your third box, he pauses and watches you. You think it’s because he’s concerned about the obvious shit luck you’ve had thus far and wants to snatch it from you before your negative energy transfigures whatever’s inside into something he doesn’t want, and you’re just about to offer the half-opened package to him before he pushes the one on his end to you.

“No way, Mark.” Your eyes are wide, a palm up to reject it. “If that turns out to be another dupe by my hand, I’m literally going to walk into oncoming traffic.”

He has to control his amusement at your words so that it doesn’t completely shake his voice into incoherence. “I picked all of these while I was there, so if anything, you’re only riding off my bad luck. Besides, this is your first time doing this. I want you to have fun.”

“But,” your voice is pained. “Your money.”

“It’s not a big deal. With how few I need to complete them, I was definitely bound to run into more repeats than new ones.” He taps the front of the textbook — or, at least, the part of it not buried under the figurines and sealing tapes yet. “Probability mathematics.”

“I thought we already ended the study part of the day,” you grumble but concede, putting aside the one you half-opened to tear the top of his. You’re careful when you shake out the foil packaging, making sure to place it upright on the table before extracting the card. Both of your faces fall — yours more than his — when you see it’s a repeat of the polar bear.

“Almost. It would’ve been a pretty lucky pull earlier, so it’s technically not bad,” he tries to reassure you, but you childishly feel like you’ve been the sole source of his disappointment thus far. “Try the last one.”

It’s irrational, but you’re suddenly anxious about it. For some reason, you’re worried that this will topple the carefully constructed ladder you’ve propped up against Mark’s tower of social defense. Even if he’s being genial about your rotten pulls, you don’t know how much of it is just resignation to dismay on his part.

You say a small prayer, then fully rip off the seal; you don’t even take out the packaged figuring anymore. You just shimmy the card out of the box, turning it over when you notice it’s upside down.

For a moment, your shoulders deflate. It’s closest to this pastel purple figurine in the middle of the line-up, its stupid puckered lips almost taunting you. He hadn’t even mentioned it as something he’s looking for, so you almost feel like this has come to a horrible full circle. But then he grabs the box, checks the list, and looks back at your card again. He looks shell-shocked, and you’re not sure if it’s the strong air conditioning directed towards the two of you or if it’s just his hands, but the image he’s holding is shivering slightly.

You look more closely at it, and something just doesn’t feel right. Color palette aside, there are notable differences — different colored lips, a more intricate ear design, and closed eyes. It’s…

“Dream eater,” Mark’s voice is hushed, almost reverent, and very, very close to your ear. “It’s the secret one. You’re… incredible.”

“What are you talking about,” your words are just as raspy; you’re not sure if you’re actually choked up with emotion or something — over a figurine, you have to remind yourself. “You picked all of this. I just ripped open the box.”

The hush that falls over the both of you feels very concrete, weighty on your shoulders. His fingers creep towards the foil packet — the only one he actually opens because there’s no way he’s not keeping it. The shiny purple head gleams under the fluorescent, the glitter around the star and moon designs catching the light as he turns it left to right, like he’s worried it’s a fake. You can tell why people want these things so much; there’s a thrill in you that lingers, makes you feel warm and alert. It’s anticipation, despair, excitement, and triumph all in one sitting.

You’re stroking the smooth curve of the design by the ears lightly when Mark speaks up again and says the most outrageous thing.

“I want you to have it.”

“What?” You actually have to pop your ear canal in front of him with your pinky to make sure he knows how ludicrous he sounds. “This is… you said it was crazy rare.”

“Yeah. And you pulled it, with your magic. That’s like… unimaginable luck. Even more than beginner’s luck.”

“Like I said, I literally just opened the box.”

“No — you have like… the golden touch.”

“Please,” you hiss, a genuine testiness to your voice. “Do not. I was just here for the ride — the experience, and all.”

“Seriously, take it.”

“Absolutely not—”

It’s a chaotic moment of him trying to hand you the figurine and you outright rejecting it, with both your palms working hard to push it back to him. Instead of nudging the plastic back, though, you end up placing the full force of your hands against his fingers.

There’s no actual spark when you touch, but your reactions make it feel like there might as well have been; you even lock eyes in startled unison, like you can’t believe that just happened, before you pull away quickly, Mark drawing the figuring back to his torso while looking away towards the counter, where a lowerclassman is wiping down the stains. You want to scream at your warped reflection in the window. You barely initiate contact with him, but you imagine that if you ever did, you would prefer to not be saying something as abjectly negative as absolutely not while doing so.

Your mind flails in an attempt to mitigate the issue and water down the embarrassment, and clearly he’s struggling to figure it out too, because he pipes up before you can piece your thoughts together.

“No, really.” His tone is a lot milder and, consequently, a lot more persuasive this way. “You should take it. I want you to.”

“It’s not mine. This is your thing — your hobby.”

“That’s why I’m giving it to you. I swear — I want you to keep it.”

“Why?”

He lapses into silence again, but his face is much redder than earlier. His mouth opens in an attempt to say something, but he just manages to uh his way back into a state of quiet, which gives you a chance to speak instead.

“We can… share it,” you suggest. “Shared custody…. ish.”

His eyebrow cocks involuntarily, and his jaw falls again, but all he does in actual response is nod — slowly at first, then with more sureness to the act.

“Yeah. We can share it. I’d… like that.”

You’re glad that the bulk of the awkwardness has fizzled out fairly easily, and when you think about it, this feels like a pretty good course of action; you like that it’s this little link between the two of you now — something you share that no one else can touch.

Mark, you notice, is smiling as well — more to himself than towards you, it seems. His thumb grazes across the face of the figurine, slow across the lips, and you’re once again falling into a pit of nonsense by wondering when he’d do that to you.

“Thanks for staying with me, _________,” he finally says, and your heart jolts and melts all at once. “And for… doing this. For chatting with me. And giving me your luck, and all that. Great way to end the day… with you.”

You say no problem, but you instantly regret it when you realize you could have just said it didn’t have to end just yet.

“__________? Hello? Come back down to Earth?”

“Shut up,” you sigh at the guy seated across you — Seo Youngho, an upperclassman, your Gender Studies classmate, and current project partner, waves in front of your face. You shoo his hand away, which only joins his other one as he throws them in defeat above his head. “Stop moving. Be quiet. Don’t talk.”

“That’s the same thing as shut up and be quiet. What’s up with you?” He demands. “Fifteen minutes ago, you were full of ideas. Now I feel like I’m talking to a wax figure.”

You’d been engrossed in your report for the last hour and a half, and the subject matter is admittedly something you enjoy — the role of gender in Twenty-First Century Korean marketing and advertisement, a title Youngho had taken more than ten minutes to type into the Google Docs header because he was pissed off at how the numbers looked like in the fonts he chose. He’s an enthusiastic classmate and someone you’ve come to be friendly with, not only because he’s genuinely approachable but also because he has fits of nosiness and talkativeness at the strangest moments, so a chunk of your relationship is mostly based on social terrorism on his part. You like him well enough most of the time — save for the last fifteen minutes of this hour.

Because Mark had just come in for his shift fifteen minutes ago, and suddenly Youngho is much too noisy for your taste, and his head is honestly way too big to the point that it gets in the way of your opportunities to see Mark behind the counter. You even resent him for choosing a booth instead of your usual table all of a sudden, because your view of the central barista’s area is much more limited from this angle, especially since the huge espresso machine is in the of your field of vision.

You’re also (currently and abruptly) mad at Youngho because you remember that he’s the reason you’ve had to skip out on a couple of sessions with Mark. Like, it technically isn’t his fault that you have a lot of research to do for the literature review section of the paper, nor is it his fault that this is your final requirement that comprises a whopping forty percent of your grade, but like… you’ll blame him anyway. So you’re much more irritable, and you’ve definitely been missing Mark’s presence. In fact, you kind of just want to shove Youngho’s balloon head away and call Mark over to sit with you, but you’re not that much of an animal to actually do that.

Probably.

There had been inquisitiveness across Mark’s face when he’d come in; his eyes had trailed to the table at which you usually sat, surprised to find two guys hunched over a single phone there instead of the usual you, waiting for him with your eyes bright and your smile wide. You’d like to think it’s because he’s gotten as used to seeing you as you’re used to waiting to see him — like he just expects you to be there.

You hadn’t really known how to call his attention to where you were, especially since Youngho was prattling very matter-of-factly about the academic journal he’d unearthed yesterday and how he thought it would be useful in reshaping the methodology of your paper (whatever). There was a moment in which you briefly considered ordering another cup of coffee just to get in line to talk to him, but your hands were already shaking from the venti you’d had to keep yourself from passing out in front of your partner.

So you’re more than relieved when, half an hour into his shift, Mark finally steps out from behind the huge machine, a mug of water for himself in hand, and turns away from the front of the store to drink it — only for your eyes to lock as he twists his torso in your general direction.

The mug stops just inches from his lips, but you could swear he smiles at you briefly when he recognizes you, so you return the favor. Youngho’s face contorts into abject befuddlement, turning around to see what you’re grinning at.

“Oh, you poor sap,” he snorts, finally letting the puzzle pieces fall into place.

“What?” You’re still distracted even if Mark has taken a gulp of water and is now attending to a gaggle of girls still in the throes of discussing what to order.

“What what? You gonna spend the rest of the day eyefucking Mark Lee from over here? At least let me get a different table.”

“Shut up,” you repeat sullenly, coming back down to his level and finally — albeit reluctantly — meeting his eye (just because Mark isn’t looking your way). “What were you saying about the sample size?”

“That it’s much too large to be feasible, a point we closed twenty fucking minutes ago,” he says pointedly. “Is it a thing for baristas or a thing for smart guys?”

“It’s a thing for Mark Lee,” you sigh, following Youngho’s suit and shutting your laptop close. You’re at least glad he’s not annoyed that you’re delaying work for a crush, or maybe he’s also just equally lazy at this point. “You ever look at someone and think you would give it all up for a chance to hit that?”

“No, because this isn’t a porn movie, and I’m clearly not the main character in whatever’s going on in there.” He jabs at your forehead; you swat his hand away again.

“Well, I would.”

He rolls his eyes. “So do it, dumbass.” He says this so simply, like he can’t imagine why you’d be holding yourself back, which is a valid thing to feel, except it’s not really any of his business.

“Can’t.”

“Because?”

“Because it doesn’t fit into my elegant master plan. Also because I want him to ask me out. I just want that victory.”

“Oh yeah, there it is.” Youngho leans over, wiggling his fingers at your ears like he’s greeting a next-door neighbor. “Hey, delusion. Good to see you. Do you even understand how crazy it is that you’re taking a Gender Studies class while waiting for your dick-in-shining-armor like a damsel in distress?”

“Asshole,” you grumble, violently opening your laptop monitor again. “Get back on Google Drive.”

Thankfully, Youngho complies, and the next two hours pass in relative silence and productivity, with you hammering out a vague references list that he promises to format in your stead so you can ‘spend more time dreaming about Mark Lee between your legs.’ You want to strangle him, but there are far too many people in the cafe for you to get away with it. Also, aforementioned Mark Lee would only be a witness to your criminal record, and while you think there’s something romantic in killing for love, or whatever, you’re not sure it’d make the best impression on him.

“Next week’s my birthday,” Youngho announces as he stands to tug on his jacket.

“Congratulations,” you say wryly, peeking over his bulletin board torso to see Mark tugging off his apron and picking up his school bag. Your heart hammers in your chest as he looks over at you briefly, and something like embarrassment passes over his face before he busies himself with neatly folding the fabric. “Go away.”

“Usually people look uncomfortable for not knowing and then start thinking about what gifts to get the celebrant, but I always felt you were kind of a revolutionary.” He snaps his fingers right in front of your eyes, and you look up at him, a little offended. “I’m having a get-together — and by get-together, I mean it’s gonna be a rager. You should come.”

“When?”

“Next Thursday.”

“Can’t,” you chew on your lip, wondering if Mark is leaving. His movements seem particularly slow, but you wonder if he’s just taking his sweet time because he has nothing better to do. Of course, he would have something better to do if Youngho stopped fucking obscuring you from him and vice versa. “Busy. School… whatever.” Not completely untrue. Most of what you do with Mark has to do with school.

“This moony-eyed thing is just not for you, I fear.”

“Are you going to be here all day?”

“Are you? Why don’t you just fucking ask him out, you lunatic?” You can’t imagine why he sounds so exasperated. It’s not like this is his problem — or his business, for that matter. “Maybe if you did, you could fuck him and move on with your life and be an actual contributor to society’s development.”

“Has anyone ever told you how nosy you are?”

“Constantly.” He brings his palms down on the table, the thud shaking you out of another oncoming stupor. “Think about it. Maybe it’ll make you stop making that stupid face.”

“You’ve got a stupid face,” you mumble, sulking as he pinches your cheek as a goodbye before heading out of the shop.

At least you finally get to see Mark in full, glorious view — and you get to watch him come closer, although his stride is somewhat cautious.

“Hey.” Even his voice sounds unsure — almost like the way he used to sound earlier in your friendship. “I didn’t want to interrupt you and… your friend?”

“Oh. Well, you wouldn’t have been interrupting,” you inform him, completely genuine. “He was spouting a lot of nonsense.”

“You guys seemed pretty close.”

“I guess it’s a proximity thing,” you sigh, and Mark raises his eyebrows slightly in question. “We’re partners.”

“Oh.” The way he draws out the syllable is slow. “That definitely makes sense.”

The silence stretches out between the two of you again, with Mark checking his shoelaces. You almost grab your head; it hadn’t occurred to you until now how damaging missing meetings with him would be to your friendship. You feel like you’re slowly being dragged back to square one, and you want to give him an explanation.

“He’s actually… I haven’t been able to see you because I’ve been working on something with him.” you offer, trying to answer a question he didn’t even ask. “Sorry about that. I swear I’ll be back on track tomorrow.”

“No, no — I completely understand.” He pauses thoughtfully. “Thank you… for telling me, though. I— uh, appreciate that.”

“I’d love to see you tomorrow, though.” You try injecting more pep into your voice. “I’ve really been behind on my algebra. I’ve definitely been drowning without you.”

“Oh, yeah.” A small smile graces his lips, but you can’t tell if the reluctance behind it is from fatigue or something that looks oddly like sadness. “I’m down for tomorrow. Same time, same table, right?”

“Yeah, for sure.”

“Cool. See you, _________.”

You watch him turn on his heel, walking to the front door, and something like fear mingled with desperation clutches your heart. Fuck the traditional route, you think. You don’t know what it is about how he’s acting now, but it’s making you feel like he’s slipping through your fingers. All that hard work — there’s no way you’re letting him go.

“Mark, wait.”

You’re at his side, fingers curled into the sleeve of his jacket before you can figure out exactly what you want to say. You feel as surprised as he looks at your sudden liveliness in action, and his gaze trails from your clenched fist to your face slowly, like he’s trying to memorize this whole position.

Your exhale’s shaky, but even still, you try not to sound overtly self-conscious when you ask, “Do you like Chinese food?”

Something in the furrowing of his brows tells you he can’t seem to see where this conversation is headed, and that slightly bothers him. “I like it well enough. Why?”

“There’s this really good dim sum buffet near my mom’s office. We tried it before — the Xiaolongbao is awesome.”

“Hey, that sounds pretty cool. I love Xiaolongbao. I’ll definitely have to check it out then.”

You want to tear your hair out. “How about — you know, checking it out with me? Tonight? You know… together. With me.” You already fucking said that.

You’ve never seen Mark blink this rapidly; he looks like he’s trying to crunch large numbers in his head. A small part of you actually worries that he’s malfunctioning, but just when you think he’s going to glitch out completely, he clears his throat. It bothers you how uncomfortable he looks. “Tonight? Oh man… it’s my cousin’s birthday tonight. I can’t… reschedule. Well, obviously. Maybe some other… time?”

Your ‘oh, yeah’ is small, and so is the ghost of Mark’s smile. You can’t help but feel like he’s pitying you a little, although he doesn’t seem like the type, but the thought of it alone makes you want to puke. He makes no motion to move, and you think he’s extending this awkward moment out on purpose until you realize you’re still hanging onto him and he has no way of telling you to let go nicely.

Fingers unfurling from his sleeve, you take a careful step back, but when he walks away, it feels like you’ve gone much, much further away.

The worst part is that you can’t even figure out why.

Luckily, the next few times you see Mark, you manage to rebuild a rather shaky bridge back to where you had been. You even manage to strong-arm him into sharing an apple fritter one afternoon, and you know it’s a bit sad to think about it a particular, untrue way, but you can’t help but pattern what you’re doing into some kind of pseudo-date. Pathetic isn’t a word you normally associate yourself with, but you’ve been borderline desperate for progress where there seems to be none, so you take small victories where you can get them.

Unfortunately, you haven’t been able to revisit your stupid dim sum plan; sometimes, he says he has somewhere important to be, but most of the time, it’s actually your fault. No — it’s Youngho’s fault, because he keeps bothering you to finish the project. You’re aware that he can’t do it himself, but since he’s informed of your current plight, he could at least stand to be more sympathetic.

And you hate the way Mark looks every time you splutter out that you have to take a rain check for that reason; it’s not even disappointment, or something, which would be much more understandable. It’s this mysterious kind of faraway look, where his eyes glaze over a bit and he seems suddenly very lost in thought — or completely dissociated. He never strays away from his normal response of “next time, then,” but that ‘next time’ fades into the weekend and into the start of next week, and you have to spend every other evening with an annoying Seo fucking Youngho on a Google Meets call instead of eating soup dumplings loveshot style with Mark Lee.

Thursday night rolls around, and the former performs the most irritating stunt yet: blowing up your phone with so many KakaoTalk messages that it almost buzzes off the table during your session with Mark. Luckily, he seems to have learned a thing or two from his comic books, catching it before it hits the floor.

“You sure you don’t want to answer it?” He asks, gingerly handing the phone to you like he’s afraid it’s going to explode from all the pinging.

“Without the shadow of a doubt,” you sigh, flipping the screen downwards. Buzz.

“It kind of seems important. Or, like… urgent.”

“He’ll live. Unfortunately.”

Mark falls silent, fiddling with the page he’s on. He’s neatly highlighted the formulas on the page with blue ink, and his finger keeps scratching at the slightly wet paper. Buzz.

“Didn’t you say you two were partners?”

“Yes. Also unfortunately.” Youngho is actually a great person, but you kind of hate how Mark’s paying more attention to his texts than to you right now. “What did you get for number ten?” Buzz.

“A hundred and twe— are you really just going to let it keep ringing like that? What if he’s… I don’t know. In trouble? Like, he needs you?”

You smack your phone on its back, hoping that the punishment reaches Youngho because he absolutely is in trouble — only with you. “He’s just making a racket because it’s his birthday and he probably wants a bunch of people to trash his parents’ house, or something.”

“Sounds like fun.” The dubious tone in Mark’s voice indicates that his idea of fun definitely isn’t that. Buzz.

“Not really, but I assume he’ll only pipe down if he manages to get his way.”

“He must really want you there.”

There it is again — that weird, distant expression that makes you feel like he’s trying to free himself from the tethers of the earth. You close your textbook in defeat; it wasn’t even like you got the answer to number ten correct anyway. Buzz.

“He just wants everyone there, I bet. But I probably should show up so he shuts up.”

“Oh — yeah, okay. We’ll call it a day, then?” He’s avoiding your eye as he starts packing his things, which is actually impressive because you have practically nothing but your book to keep in comparison to his pencils and protractor, so you just stare, willing him to look at you.

You want to know what’s going on in his head. You want to know what’s going on in his heart — what he thinks of you, why he seems warm one second then almost like a stranger the next. You want to know if he knows you like him and if him not doing anything even if he knows is a sign that he doesn’t like you back. You want to know if he’d let you kiss him, if he’d kiss you first, if you can meet not because of sweet cream cold brews or algebra but because you just want to be together.

You just don’t know how to ask. For as much as you like him, for as much as you want him, you haven’t figured out the most basic part of this — if you mean anything more than a two hour talk to him at all.

“Mark.” This feels awfully like the dim sum conversation, only somehow ten times more disastrous. “Come with me.”

“Sorry?” The appalled look on his face makes you squirm in your seat.

“I don’t really want to go, but maybe if we go together… we can just hang out a bit and leave once it’s boring… I think it’d be fun,” you explain lamely, deciding at the last second to drop the with you that had originally come with your sentiment.

“I don’t think your… partner will like someone uninvited showing up.”

“I’m inviting you.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not how it works.”

“You’d be, like, my saving grace or something — my excuse to scram. We’ll say we came right from a study session; we only popped in halfway through for the sake of greeting him a happy birthday. Then we can just go. We can say — uh, we’ve got more work to do.” You’re practically begging him at this point, and you don’t even get why. You just don’t want him to leave looking the way he does — confused and a little detached. You want the Mark that had smiled at you while giving you your coffee — the one that had kindly pointed out an arithmetic mistake in the most gentle way possible. You want to open blind boxes with him, whine about your rotten luck, and part ways with his warmth still against your coat sleeve.

You don’t know what comes over you then, but you pluck up the courage and initiative to slip your hand in his. He stiffens a little, but you don’t care; your fingers squeeze his in urging.

Something in his expression breaks — cracks first, then falls away, before he’s nodding, still looking vaguely thoughtful.

“If you think it’ll help you, then… okay.”

The bus ride to Youngho’s neighborhood is uneventful because it’s quiet. You stand close to Mark at all times, but you barely touch, save for the times your knuckles accidentally brush his when you lurch forward slightly as the vehicle comes to a dangerously abrupt stop. He doesn’t ask anything about the party or the company that’ll populate it, which is just as well, because you don’t have a clue.

You know it’s the right house because the door’s wide open and there’s music coming from inside; you can’t make out much more than the deep bass pumping through the concrete, but you’re pretty sure it’s making your heart jump in your chest even more than it already is. There are quite a few people you vaguely recognize on the lawn, and even more that you absolutely don’t; a good number of them glance at you and Mark as you step through the threshold then look away, probably deciding you’re of no real consequence or harm to their moods.

Youngho’s easily spottable because of his massive height; he towers over the rest of his guests, and the red plastic cup in his hand calls even more attention because he’s lifted it over everyone else’s heads. You throw Mark an apologetic glance that he responds to with a short nod before you dive into the crowd alone, trying to weave your way to where you’d last seen Youngho.

“Bro, finally!” Youngho greets you, pretty much shouting over the music. “Where’s the gift? Did you leave it on the table?”

“Happy birthday, Youngho. Do you know how close you were to being blocked?”

“I see you brought mister espresso with you,” he ignores your comment completely, nodding to Mark. When you turn back to see him, you notice he’s squishing his arms closer to his sides, trying to minimize the space he takes up. “So what? Y’all get to hook up already?”

“No. I brought him here because we were in the middle of something and someone,” you stop, offering him a pointed look that’s also ignored. “Wouldn’t stop texting.”

“Cockblock,” the guy next to Youngho, who you now realize has been eavesdropping, singsongs. “Oh, sorry. You looked angry when you stomped through the crowd, so I wanted the juicy details. Name’s Jaehyun.”

You take the hand he offers you briefly, introducing yourself. When you say your name, realization dawns on his face, and he jabs his forefinger at you.

“Oh, dude. You’re that girl — the Starbucks Showstopper.”

“The what?”

“That’s what his friends call you.” He scratches his ear, seemingly racking his brain for more information. “I’m with Mark and a couple of his friends — Lee Donghyuck and Na Jaemin — in College Algebra.”

You completely gloss over the fact that you’ve finally found out the real government identity of the mysterious figure named ‘Hyuck.’ “They… talk about me?”

“From time to time. Not really. Once or twice. Donghyuck only calls you that because Mark apparently keeps blowing them off to hang out with you.”

“How do you know this?”

“I have ears. It’s not hard when they talk like no one’s around.”

You shush Youngho’s exclamation of and you’re saying I’m nosy?, your heart hammering hard in your ears, practically drowning out the music. “What… what else did they talk about?”

“Not sure. Something about not seeing you that often these days. Jaemin teasing Mark about getting dropped now that you don’t need his help anymore. Donghyuck piling on and saying you’ve got a boyfriend.”

“What?”

“Don’t shoot the messenger.” Jaehyun still inches away from you when your voice rises in pitch and decibel. Some people around you start, then move away as well, as if scared you’re going to incinerate them. “They were just teasing him that you probably ditched him after you started dating someone. Your partner in some project, or what.”

“Oh gross.” The realization hits you like a speeding truck. Youngho’s expression is affronted.

“First of all, you bitch. Second of all, as if I would date someone who didn’t even buy me a gift. Or want to come. Or yelled at me after coming. Wow — now that I think about it, you’re terrible, _________.”

“Oh, shit; that someone was you?” The only person that isn’t tense in this conversation is Jaehyun, who laughs point blank at Youngho’s sour face. “I think they were offering to put you into one of their Death Note notebooks. Sucks for you, hotshot.”

“What a smudge on my good name,” Youngho sighs mournfully. “On my special day, too.”

“I desperately need you two to be quiet for one second. I have to — where’s Mark?”

Even when you stand on your tiptoes, you’re not nearly as tall as the two of them; it’s Youngho, with his freakish height, who manages to spot Mark by the bowl of nachos, looking as though he’s trying to decide if they’re safe for consumption. You hardly excuse yourself; actually, all you say is a distracted “later” that dismisses Jaehyun’s cooing that something’s going down and you should clue him into all the mess later as a thank you. Your appreciation of his sudden and somewhat short-lived presence in your life is still up in the air.

Mark’s busy making a sour face at the sip of punch he’d just taken; he only straightens up when you’re right in front of him, putting his cup down next to the nachos. “Hey. Did you get to find… um…”

“That’s not important.” Your hand bunches the fabric of his jacket in a death grip, something he barely has time to register, let alone question, before you’re tugging him through the throng of people. You want somewhere quiet, somewhere private, and you initially consider the lawn, except you know it’s strewn with cups and has stragglers debating whether to go home or not. You can’t risk any of them being expert eavesdroppers like Jaehyun, so you make a beeline for the stairs instead.

“We’re not leaving yet?” He has to shout over the music, but there’s no resistance in his stride; he follows you up and waits patiently, although a little perplexed, as you check the doors on the second floor. Two are locked, one is a bathroom, and the other is a messy, musk aftershave-scented place you can only presume is Youngho’s room. Talking in front of a sink and a toilet doesn’t feel like it’ll be very productive, so you just drag Mark into the bedroom, kicking aside the crumpled shirt on the floor — which you could’ve sworn you’d seen Youngho wear for class yesterday. “_________, what’s going on?”

“Mark Lee,” you burst out, ignoring the fact that his eyes widen slightly at your tone. “What’s your fucking deal?”

You don’t think you’ve ever sworn in front of him before; that much is evident when he continues to gawk silently, unable to find words to respond to your question. Or maybe it’s just the volume and force with which you demand an answer. The problem is that you don’t even know what kind of reply you want. A small part of you nags that this is uncalled for, especially at this level, with you practically caging him into an unknown room. In fact, even now, you’re still embarrassed at your behavior, wondering if you’ve gone too far and stepped over a line between you.

But the source of all your frustrations is, in fact, that line — one so strangely drawn, clear at some points and almost invisible at others. Sometimes, he seems simply content with the barest minimum of friendship: talking to you, helping you, politely laughing at your (terrible) jokes. But there are also times he blushes too hard for it to not mean anything, times that he makes you feel like you could mean a little something more to him too.

Yet, from there, he wavers, stepping back so as not to get entangled in something you don’t understand — like when he grows distant every time you mention Youngho to him. You don’t understand why he would unless he echoed, even just a little, the longing in you. But you also don’t get why he stays and builds more walls around himself, like he’s determined to ignore all the other signs — like he doesn’t want to know if it’s really true and will just accept the assumption that it is. You hate not knowing where you stand with him, and while you could easily ask, you know you don’t want to.

And for a long time, you’ve convinced yourself that it’s because you want to see Mark step out of his comfort zone and initiate something, but the ugly truth is staring at you: it’s simply just that you can’t stand the idea of seeing him come to the conclusion that you can’t be anything more to him than someone he makes a sweet cream cold brew for every so often.

There’s a moment of tense silence between you two, where you’re just staring at each other — him, perplexed, and you, agitated — and the only sound that passes is the faint but unmistakable voice of Youngho going who has the cake cutting knife? from somewhere down below. You try not to get caught up in the fact that Mark still looks cute when he’s dumbfounded.

“Sorry?”

“What,” you repeat pointedly. “Is your deal? Why have you been acting so weirdly around me these days? I thought — I thought we were… getting closer. I thought… we…”

You’ve confirmed it now; you’re the epitome of cowardliness. You can’t even say I thought we liked each other — because you know that you do, but you still can’t honestly, assuredly tell if he does. Maybe you just read too deeply into the smallest things — smiles before he asks for your order, glances at you when he thinks you’re not looking, sharing the dream eater figurine — to fuel your own emotions without really checking the depth of his.

“I thought we were cool,” you reroute your words, and they come out flat and lame. “But just when I think you’re warming up to me, you suddenly pull away. Like… you’re afraid of me. Or you don’t like me. I don’t know.”

“It’s not — I don’t — I’m not afraid of you,” he stumbles over his words, and even in the darkness of this space, you see his face turn bright red, very quickly. His feet shuffle, not because he’s lost his balance but because he seems to want to get rid of a sudden restlessness. “I do like you. We are — we were getting — we’re close. We — we’re friends. You said that, and we are.”

“Is it only because I say we are that you agree?”

“What? No, I—” His hand passes over his face, slowing at the curve of his chin. “I really like being friends with you. I like being around you.”

“Then why do you act so weird these days? Like — you’ll be fine one moment, then you’ll back off, like you suddenly remembered you don’t want to be around me.”

“It’s not like that. I’m — I don’t get…” He takes a deep inhale, recalibrating himself for a moment before his voice comes out again, less strained this time. “I just don’t want you to feel uncomfortable around me.”

“How could I?” There’s something more than confusion coloring your voice; there’s hurt, too, and he looks as surprised as you feel at hearing it. “I wanted to be your friend. I was the one that asked you to hang out. I was the one who wanted you to talk to me, to help me, to go to a goddamn dim sum place with me. Why would I feel uncomfortable? Or are you just using this as some roundabout way to say you feel uncomfortable?”

Mark falls silent, and you don’t know why this speaks volumes all of a sudden. His eyes are trained to the tips of his sneakers, which are rising in soft bumps every few seconds; he’s curling his toes inside them. You feel like you’ve gotten the worst answer possible, and something grows cold in your chest.

“You feel uncomfortable around me.” You rehash, but it’s no longer a question. “You don’t know how to get rid of me.”

“No, it’s not that.”

“You think I’m only using you.”

“No.”

“Then what?” Your voice breaks, no longer out of anger, but a desperate sadness. The moment your eyes feel hot and prickly, you decide you want to end the conversation. It’s embarrassing, you think, for someone like Mark Lee — whom you like, who only ever sees you as a friend — to see you get choked up at a fucking birthday party at someone else’s house.

A beat later, you’re mumbling a half-hearted forget it, and you detest overdramatics, but you hate the idea of being in a room with someone who’ll never return your feelings even more right now; you push past him, already on the thought of calling a cab home instead of taking the bus so that no half-drunk businessmen coming from their company dinners see you crying.

But something warm wraps around your wrist, then closes over your hand, and you’re unable to move, Mark’s palm pressed against the back of yours. When you look back, you notice he’s still not looking at you, but his ears are practically on fire with how red they are, and you feel his fingers tighten slightly, tremble slightly against yours.

“It’s not that. I didn’t ever want you to think — I heard about you two. That you were dating someone. Seo Youngho.”

“What does that matter?” Your words come out a little more bitterly than you expect, and you have to remind yourself to reel it in. “That doesn’t explain your discomfort.”

“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he repeats, still evidently careful in choosing his words. “Because you wanted to be friends.”

“I don’t understand,” you state bluntly. In the back of your mind, you note that Mark’s grip keeps tightening and loosening, unsure of whether to keep holding on or let go. But there’s something else, too — the soft graze of skin against yours, his thumb gliding over your knuckles.

“That was all you said you wanted to be, right?” He waits for a response, but when you don’t give him one, he lets out a shaky breath and continues. “You kept saying — we were friends. You wanted us to be close like that. I just wanted to respect it, even if…”

“Respect what?”

“That you didn’t want… anything else.”

The music downstairs is a bit tamer now; you hear the door opening and closing every so often, signaling guests leaving here and there, but there are still enough footsteps downstairs for you to know that there’s a crowd Youngho hasn’t gotten rid of and therefore has to attend to. That much is good; you’d get slapped with a homicide charge if he came up here all of a sudden.

“You were jealous.”

Mark’s fingers pinch the bridge of his nose for a moment. “I tried to stop. I don’t have a lot of practice with — well, I didn’t know how to approach the situation. I thought I was still acting normally; I didn’t think… I didn’t want you to feel weird and stop hanging out with me just because… I couldn’t fix it.”

“Your friends are assholes,” you mumble, and he finally meets your eye, equal parts startled and amused. “We aren’t. Weren’t. We never were dating.”

“Even without that, I thought… it was a bit embarrassing. Liking someone like you — someone as pretty as you, as nice as you — I thought it would make you feel weird. Then you’d start avoiding me too. Or, worse, you’d keep doing it just because… you… felt bad for me.”

You don’t know what you find more ridiculous — that you hadn’t seen figured it out or that you could have avoided all of this if you’d just been a little more honest with him too. Mark’s hand starts loosening around yours, a little too much, and you turn your palm and grip his hand before he can escape. He stiffens again, just like earlier, but you now understand better why he does.

“I just wanted to keep hanging out with you as much as I could. I thought… It’d be fine, just spending time with you, and I’d be able to like you for a while, on my own, then…” He looks a little pained. “Then just let you go. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry you couldn’t let go?” You sigh softly, your palm guiding his until they connect, face to face, and you can finally lace your fingers into his. There’s no resistance, but his hand trembles slightly in yours still. “If there’s anything you should be apologizing for, it’s that you ever thought of doing it.”

Something clears in the air, lightens in his expression, and he chuckles, albeit a little shyly still. “It’s because I never thought someone like you would like someone like me.”

“I like you.” And it feels right to say it now, not at all out of the blue, never in fear of an answer he’s already given. “I like you when you smile at me every time you ask for my order. I like that you never get impatient when I’m getting my answers wrong. I like seeing you excited when you talk about a new series you’re looking forward to — something new you really want to collect. When you blush, when you laugh loudly, when you spin your pen in your hand — I like you in all those times.”

“Even when I’m jealous?”

“Especially when you are.” Your free hand comes up to cup his jaw, and you’re reminded of the fact that you’ve wanted to feel the strength of the angle under your palm for ages now. It’s not at all a disappointment, and your heart flutters irregularly in knowing you could’ve done this a long time ago, but it doesn’t matter because you’re doing it now, and fuck if Mark Lee doesn’t look good this close to you. “So be jealous — because now, you know you can be.”

Kissing him is better than you imagined, and you’ve imagined a little too much to be embarrassed at this point; there’s a heat to his lips that matches the one across his face, an upturn to them that makes you smile too. The setting’s not at all an expected one, but you’ll take it, not because it’s dark or because it’s private but because Mark’s in here with you, and you would have kissed him in a brightly lit football field full of people for as long as he’d let you.

You’d like to think he’s flushed for a reason other than shyness when you pull away, even if his laugh is quiet and breathy. In fact, when you murmur not enough, he’s the one that closes the gap this time, offering freely what you ask for with such little eloquence. The natural trepidation in his mouth relaxes, gives way to a curiosity that keeps you locked for so long that you forget you need to breathe, much more intent on finding out if Mark’s tongue tastes as good as you’ve imagined for so long.

It doesn’t; it tastes even better.

It’s still not enough, not by a long shot, but you have to resurface before you pass out like this, and even he looks a little dazed when you pull away — not in a bad way, with a grin on his face that you can only classify as endearingly goofy: slightly lopsided and a little shy, but with an unmistakable air of satisfaction.

“Months,” he mumbles, his lips still dangerously close to yours. Your eyebrows rise in questioning, and he laughs in that infectious way that makes you want to join in without even knowing what the punchline is. “I’ve been thinking of kissing you for months.”

And you do share the laughter this time, not out of amusement but of a happiness that spills without restraint. “But you’re suddenly holding back now?”

“Just letting myself bask in the moment, I guess. Letting it sink in so I remember everything.”

The two of you stand there quietly, still trying to fully parse the progression of events, and a small part of your mind registers that Mark’s thumb is still drawing circles on your skin. It’s also not enough — this touch, this closeness. You know now that he’s been thinking of you for months, and it reminds you that you spent that time dreaming of him too. And you remember you’ve always wanted to be even more familiar with him, and suddenly the desire is overwhelming; he’s right here, and you don’t ever want him out of your grasp again.

“Where are you going?” He’s only curious for the sake of it; there’s no alarm in the question because you keep your fingers tightly woven in his, tugging him along as you walk past him to the door. He’s still staring in wonder after the lock clicks shut. “What’s… happening now?”

“You waited months to kiss me, right?” He nods in response at your question. “I’ve been waiting just as long to have you too.”

His mouth falls open, but he doesn’t manage to say anything; his jaw tightens just as quickly when he feels your free hand trail down his chest, feather-light and asking for a green light. Your index finger stops just above his navel and draws back slowly, but not before you feel the shiver that runs down his torso.

“We don’t have to if you don’t want to,” you murmur, giving his hand a little squeeze. “But I just want you to know — I want to. I want you.”

A thoughtfulness settles on his face, and his eyes graze over yours, trying to read your seriousness. You don’t know how honest you look, but your words hold enough truth in them. A silence stretches over the next minute, but to you, it feels like an eternity, and you lose the test of patience somewhat, smiling softly at him.

“You don’t want to?”

“I—” His tongue peeks out, running over his bottom lip. “I do. It’s not that I don’t want to, but…”

“You seem worried.”

A hesitant nod. “I’ve never — well, no, I have, but not — with someone like you.”

“What’s someone like me?” You laugh airily.

“Someone pretty like you — I don’t know. Someone who seems to know exactly what they want. Someone who seems like… they could do better than me.”

“Mark.” You can’t keep the incredulity out of your voice. “I do know exactly what I want. I want you. The rest — I don’t care about. As long as it’s you, I want it.”

He cracks a smile, half of relief, half of disbelief. You don’t miss his hand coming up to press, warm, against your waist. “For real?”

Your fingers curl into the front of his shirt — an anchor to bring you closer, until the tips of your noses are brushing. “For real.”

The third time you kiss is slow, almost careful; there’s lingering worry in the line of his mouth that your lips try to ease until his slightly part under the movements of yours. You feel the tension leave his form in waves — first in his shoulders, then in his arms, until you’re able to press yourself closer and feel the slight give of his frame against your smaller one. He’s radiating an immense amount of body heat that’s pricking your skin and keeping you alert, and you’re hyperaware of the smallest things — the weak tremble in his mouth, the slight roughness of his teeth under your tongue, the ridges of his palate above it.

He tastes nothing like what he smells, you learn. Instead of the air of earthy coffee stuck to clean linen, you inhale a combination of spearmint and mild saltiness that’s made slightly sharper by the lingering splash of alcohol from his accidental sip of punch earlier. You decide then and there that this disparity is important to you; it makes you feel like you’re the only one who can have this experience — that everyone else can know his scent, but now, only you can know what Mark Lee tastes like.

You have to keep your wits about you to avoid this addictive stimulation of your senses; you let go of his hand only to lock your fingers around his neck, and there’s a show of trust in how he lets you lead him backwards, until his knees are hitting the edge of the unmade bed. The kiss breaks as he’s forced to settle on the mattress, and he looks up at you in what can only be described as a quiet kind of awe. He doesn’t complain when you place your hands, heavy, on his shoulders, using his sturdy form to keep you stable as you move to straddle his lap.

“I feel like,” his voice is hoarse as he speaks up. “We should have picked a different location. Someone… could walk in.”

“I locked the door,” you remind him, a light reassurance in your voice. He doesn’t say anything immediately, but it’s clear there are cogs turning in his head, and you think it’s unfair that he’s thinking way too hard about something else that isn’t you, right now, in this position. In a bid to rectify this, your face presses into the side of his neck, breathing in that familiar scent and leaving a light kiss on his skin right after. Your lips mark the moment he swallows hard at the contact. “Besides, would you really be that unhappy if someone did?”

His hands tighten against your waist, prompting you to leave another kiss against his collarbone. “What — what do you mean?”

“You wouldn’t like it if someone — say, Youngho — walked in to see me on your lap like this?”

The silence that follows your words is tense, and you can tell that Mark’s breathing has become shallower. Again, you can feel his throat constricting slightly, and you can’t help but laugh breathily as you nip at his skin, just under his Adam’s apple. He’s surprisingly easy to tease, you realize — quick to turn speechless and prone to hanging onto your words.

To say that you wouldn’t want to use that to your advantage would be a downright lie.

“Tell me,” you urge, your tone deceptively gentle. “You wouldn’t want him to see you kissing me like this? To see me wrapped around you, begging for more, saying your name over and over? You don’t want him to watch you take me — so he knows you’re the only one that can?”

A strangled groan punctuates your words, but it comes from him; his fingers dig hard into your side with barely constructed restraint. “What do you want from me, _________?”

“I want to know if kissing me was the only thing you wanted for months.”

You pull your head away, nudging his chin with the tip of your nose. Another groan escapes him, and his head tilts back slightly, almost like he’s praying. But when his gaze comes down to meet yours at your level again, you see a firm resolution in his eyes that stirs your heart — which takes off the moment he shakes his head, slowly but surely.

“Then,” you whisper. “What do you want from me?”

He doesn’t say so much as shows; he takes from you your breath, steals another kiss that’s now firmer and more openly demanding. Suddenly, his mouth can’t seem to stay still, trapping your lower lip in between his, drawing out your taste until it mixes with his against his teeth. You feel your head growing light again, and you’re pleasantly surprised that it’s suddenly become difficult to keep up with his lips, asking more from you without restraint. A hum of need sounds in the back of his throat, vaguely dissatisfied, and he’s telling you wordlessly that it isn’t enough right before he attaches his lips to the base of your neck, just above your collar. You think he’s just about to return the favor, but a laugh leaves you when you realize he’s taken it a step further, his teeth grazing your skin lightly, soft nips signaling how eager he is to sink his teeth in with only his slowly weakening self-control stopping him from doing it. Mark’s breathing is slightly labored when he pulls his lips away, warm breath fanning over your chest.

“It’s crazy — and stupid,” he croaks out, voice slightly raspy. “But I want it, and I don’t.”

“What do you mean?” Your fingers drag into his hair, combing it upward messily from his nape. He leans in for a quick kiss that’s somewhat misplaced, landing on the corner of your mouth instead of squarely atop it.

“I want them — him to see us. To see me with you, kissing you — fucking you, too. I want everyone to know we’re like this.”

You’ve never heard Mark say anything so forwardly before; a sweet, warm flush builds in your face, pleased at how comfortably he manages to say it — pleased that he’s saying it to you. “Then what’s the problem?”

“I don’t want him to see you.” There’s a bluntness to his words, but hiding behind them is an undertone of pleading — a serious request. “I don’t want him to see how pretty you look. I don’t want him to see you when you’re bare, or how you look when I’m inside you. I don’t want him to see—”

His voice wavers and dies, and you wonder if he’s embarrassed, but when you read his expression, you see an unyielding longing. A smile tugs at your lips, and your hand comes around to cup his chin, thumb extending upwards to drag his lower lip down.

“You don’t want him to see what’s only yours.”

He swallows hard again, but he doesn’t wait long to nod. Understanding passes between the both of you, silently but completely, and Mark presses his face to your throat, feeling the hum resonate as he places another long, firm kiss there.

“You’re mine,” he whispers, in a way that almost feels like he wants to convince himself of something impossible to believe. He doesn’t even wait for your affirmation, prefers to read it in the way you shiver lightly once his lips travel further down. His kisses trail past the collar of your shirt, and his hands are unabashed in how they seek skin, pushing the fabric upward so he can settle the palms of his hands, warm against your waist. Oddly, they don’t travel upwards; they only brush against the dip, down slightly over the upward rise of your hips, then upwards again, almost soothingly. It’s almost like he wants his mouth to meet them, but he stops halfway, sidetracked by the curve of your breasts.

He barely pulls away, only does for a moment, enough to meet your eyes.

“You’re only mine,” he repeats, his voice softer now. You realize he’s still waiting for some confirmation, and when you do, you’re quick to give it to him — quick to erase any doubt.

“I’m yours,” you affirm in the same tone, in the same careful volume. “Only yours, Mark.”

Whatever else he wanted to ask for, he knows you’ve given assent; that much is clear when he buries his face between your tits, inhaling your scent. You briefly wonder if he might feel just as intoxicated around you as you do around him, if your pleasant dizziness in being this close to him, in tasting and smelling him is something he experiences too, but you don’t get much time to dwell on it the moment you feel his lips part, a slight wetness seeping through the fabric. He’s kissing your chest, teeth grazing just above the cup of your bra, nipping without any real objective other than to feel the pad’s slight resistance to his mouth.

You almost miss what he says as he shifts his head, lips brushing over the curve of your breast — another breathless ‘mine’ that isn’t ever punctuated; his lips still stay parted, mouthing at the cloth, like he’s desperate to feel what’s underneath through it. There’s pressure where his tongue presses flush against the shape of your tit, tightness whenever he chooses to nip, attempting to take the flesh and all that’s between you and him between his teeth.

Not enough, you think, even when a whimper of need bubbles out of you; you want to be closer, your thighs pressing against the sides of his. You’re close in almost every way, but you still inch yourself further forward, enough to feel the taut hardness in his jeans. Your hips settle right there, letting fabric ride against fabric as you center yourself.

No sooner do you press yourself flush against him do you gasp; the light sting sends a jolt up your spine when his teeth close around your nipple through your bra, and when you look down at him, you see the corners of his mouth pulled up in evident satisfaction. He’s quick to atone, his tongue dragging your shirt slightly upwards in his attempt to soothe, and for some reason, the push of fabric and the barely-there feeling of motion leaves you tingling.

“Mark.” Your voice comes out in a whine, but in the haze you’re in, you don’t really have a clear idea of what you’re asking for. All you know is that you want more of him, and for as much as he’s already given you in kisses and words, you aren’t even halfway down the list of everything else you wish you could demand from him. You say the only thing that comes to mind — the only thing that really encompasses what you feel. “Mark, I want you. I want more of you.”

His hands on your waist are replaced by the significant tightness of his arms, locked around your torso; you don’t even have the time to take in your awe at the fact that he can easily carry you, turn you over until you’re on your back, until he’s already eased one knee between your legs.

The way he looks down at you is a mixture of hesitation and desire, but the former’s erased when you reach out for him, murmuring another ‘more’ so you can pull him in. With one palm pressed against the mattress, he lets his free hand graze against your side again, bolder in its movements, and his fingers trace a path up to your breast, squeezing the soft flesh through layers. Your back arches upwards in response, eager for more contact, for touch that’s almost there but not quite, and he smiles when you make a noise of frustration from his fingers tweaking the soft nub of your nipple.

“Mark, please—”

“Would you really let him see you like this?” His thumb’s still idly grazing over your breast, following the rise and fall of its curve. You swallow hard, trying to keep your voice level despite the growing want that threatens to break through it. “Would you really let him watch you… get fucked?”

You shake your head, and his brow furrows.

“I’d let him watch you fuck me,” you correct him, and the confusion in his face gives way to pure satisfaction the moment you make this nuance clear. “It has to be only you.”

His grip tightens briefly against your breast again, and he leans down, pressing a surprisingly chaste and brief kiss to your lips.

“Then I’ll unlock the door next time and give him a show.”

You don’t know if it’s what he says or what he does after — his hands bunching your shirt upward until the hem’s just below your neckline — that makes your breath hitch, but you decide it doesn’t matter when you realize you’d much rather be focusing on the journey his lips take, slick against your stomach as he presses languid kisses down to your navel. His fingers hook into the waistband of your jeans, the weight naturally pulling them down, and you see his muscles tighten for a moment as he stops himself from tugging them off completely.

Mark’s mouth is unparalleled in its attentiveness, seemingly intent on making sure he’s covered every inch of your stomach in warm kisses, but you only realize he’s somehow stalling when he starts the cycle again, his nails digging into the taut elastic of your jeans as though to remind himself to curb his desire.

You take the initiative instead, raising your hips slightly to signal your want, acutely aware of the fact that you brush lightly against his thigh when you do so. His eyes lift first, followed by the rest of his face, and he’s watching you quietly. You might have thought he was unsure of what to do all of a sudden again, but his knee pressing closer, an unmistakable pressure against you, is enough to tell you that he’s only curious to know what else you’ll do.

The second time you grind against his thigh, his hands catch your hips, keeping them aloft just long enough for him to tug the band of your jeans downward; he peels them off you with surprising ease, returning to the same position between your legs, hands still firm on your waist. With that done, he only has the thin garter of your panties left to curl his fingers into, bunching it into his fists when you roll your hips up one more time. You manage a shaky noise when you feel the stark difference — the roughness of the denim against you, the stick and drag of flimsy cloth. Mark lets out a low but unmistakable hiss.

“I can’t believe—” his idea is cut short by the movement of your hips again, and his grip tightens, knuckles pressing into your skin. “Can’t believe you’re here. I can’t believe we’re doing this.”

“What am I supposed to do,” you breathe out, the sound momentarily getting stuck in your throat. “So that you know it’s real?”

His fingers relax their hold, palms now pressed against your thighs; they travel between your hips and your knees, a soothing and thoughtful motion. “God — I don’t know. I just want — I just want you so badly. Like… I’m going to go crazy if I don’t have you now.”

You lean up, your weight resting on your elbow, and your other hand reaches out; Mark meets you halfway, bending just a little lower to press his cheek against your palm. There’s something intimate, something so giving about the way he turns his face to your fingers, pressing a fluttering kiss just under your thumb. The tips of your fingers trace the shape of his lips, even when they pucker again under your digits.

“Take me,” you murmur quietly. “Right now — from now on, every part of me is all for you.”

His exhale is shaky, but his fingers have a sureness to them; they slip under your thighs, cradling the backs of your knees, and lifting until they’re folded over your chest. You don’t even have the time to wonder if you should feel exposed all of a sudden; his breath warms the inside of your thigh as he presses his lips there — not a kiss, just a touch as he speaks.

“I want to taste you,” he mumbles, partly distracted with the act of inhaling the mild scent off of your skin. “Every inch of you — I want to know just how sweet you are.”

He lets his hold on your thighs relax, letting them fall apart; he busies his hands with your panties instead, hooking a finger into the strip of cloth just covering you. It’s clear you’re both aware that the fabric sticks light to your skin, poorly masking your wetness, and interest mingled with hunger flashes across his face as he pulls it aside.

“You’re so pretty,” he says, sounding like it’s a comment more for himself than anything else. His gaze flickers to you for a moment before it moves back to your pussy. “The prettiest fucking girl in the world.”

The pressure of his thumb between your folds causes you to forget what you wanted to say, and you know Mark had been nervous, but you realize that it doesn’t mean he’s supremely inexperienced by any means; there’s a quiet, understated confidence in the way he rubs slow, thorough circles, moving upward towards your clit. Your face, your neck, your whole torso feels flushed, but you power through the instinct to tilt your head back so that you can keep watching him — the minute changes in his expression, the slowly building strength in his touch.

“I want to taste you,” he repeats, looking up at you. “I want to know what you taste like when you cum against my mouth.”

You’re not sure if you’re gawking because you can hardly believe Mark Lee — your eternally blushing, mild mannered campus crush — had said all those words strung together into such a lewd sentence, but you’re sure as hell not going to deny him. Your hand travels down your torso, and he watches, curious at first, then awestruck when your index and forefinger settle against either side of your folds, pulling them apart in offering.

His eyes end up transfixed on your pussy again, observing how your fingers ease your folds further apart the more he massages his thumb against your slit. His mouth is slightly agape, intent on drinking in the sight, unaware that you’re trying to memorize this view of him too — Mark Lee, touching you, wanting you, eager to take you fully.

“I’ve always wanted to see what it’d look like with your face between my legs,” you say in a hushed tone, but he catches it anyway, briefly looking up at you again. “I’ve always wanted to know what your tongue would feel like against my pussy.”

Your index finger bumps against the tip of his thumb, and he stops its motions, allowing you to move his digit down until the pad of it hovers just in front of your tiny hole. You can see one cheek tucked between his teeth, bitten to muffle the groan you wish you’d heard louder.

“Won’t you show me?”

You think you hear him rasp out a ‘fuck yes’ before he bends down, pressing his half-open mouth against your pussy. The squeal of delight that leaves you is half-strangled as his thumb curls, hooking into your entrance. It starts a shallow, distracted motion, with his attention funneled much more clearly into keeping his tongue working. Flush against your slit, it drags up, and he releases a guttural noise at your taste, lips pursing slightly on the way back down — like he can’t stand not trapping every drop of wetness with his mouth.

The intensity of his tongue, the idle thrusting of his thumb — you’re not sure what you want to focus on more, and the result is you whimpering incoherently at the starkly contrasting combination of the two. Mark moves his mouth like he’s never tasted anything as good in his life; the sounds between your thighs are wet, sloppy — almost embarrassingly so — but you don’t have the presence of mind to dwell on that because Mark Lee is eating you out and that’s really all that you can think of.

The tip of his tongue suddenly flicks upwards; you keen, long and low, when it starts to circle your clit in that same intense, circular movement his thumb had gotten you used to. Your sensitivity skyrockets, and you’re completely unable to control the upward bucking of your hips, but Mark stays supremely unperturbed, his free arm winding under your thigh to keep the both of you steady. Your noises are growing embarrassingly loud, and you realize just how needy you’ve become when you vaguely notice that there’s a pattern in what you’re saying — his name, over and over again.

“Did you do that too?” He asks softly, his words slightly muffled against you. “Say my name, I mean — when you thought of me.”

“God, yes.” Your voice comes out strained, teetering on the edge of slurring. “So many times — every single fucking time.”

“Promise me something.” He lifts his head, and you see a fieriness in his gaze.

You nod — at this rate, whatever he’d ask you to do, you would without question. “Anything.”

His thumb presses in deeper, up to his knuckle and you reflexively tighten around his digit, but he keeps it anchored there, pushing down against your walls. He drinks in your gasp, the widening of your eyes, the way you chew on your lip with a singular kind of contentment on his face.

“Promise me — from now on, you’ll make sure I’m always there to hear it.”

The only kind of assent you’re able to make is a moan as he dives down again, mouth buried in your warmth, his nose pressed tight against your clit. His tongue moves in strong strokes, broad swipes that push your folds apart further, and his thumb, while not moving, increases in pressure to the point that you feel a heaviness adding to the growing pleasure. Your hands fly down, seeking some kind of sense and reason, and you thread your fingers into his hair, grip tightening as your climax builds in stride.

“Mark, I’m—” close, you want to say, embarrassingly so, but the moment he hears his name, his lips attach to your clit, and there’s suddenly so much more pressure as he sucks, almost like he’s desperate to draw out your orgasm. He chooses this of all time to start moving his thumb again, and this time, his movements are anything but slow and idle; they’re filled with the intent to drive you over the edge. “Fuck me, oh my god—”

“I want to,” he murmurs, pausing for just a moment to drag the tip of his tongue around the nub. “God, I want to. Let me see you cum first; let me taste how sweet you are.”

His thumb stops, buries deep into your pussy, and you’re not sure why this, of all things, is what pushes you beyond control; you’re only half-sure you say his name when your orgasm hits, the rest of your consciousness much too clouded by pleasure. He doesn’t stop, revels in the way you squirm under him as he hums low and keeps his tongue working against your clit. His licks become longer, more thorough as you come down from your high, your cries softening into whimpers as his tongue both attempts to clean you up and makes you messier in the process. His arm is still curled around your thigh, keeping you from inching away from him, even if instinct and stimulation are telling you to.

You’re barely lucid when you sit up, and Mark inches back, somewhat startled; you grab the front of his shirt, and the sight of his mouth, slick and glistening from your wetness, only makes you more curious to know what you taste like on him. You find out how tangy it is, how rich the two of you are together on his lips, and you’re able to fully appreciate the skill of the mouth that kisses you deeply, leaving traces of you against your tongue and teeth.

“Please — fuck me.” It’s the only thing you can say at this rate, only half-coherent and still trembling with desire, but Mark doesn’t seem to care that you’re stuttering over such a simple request. His thumb wipes traces of saliva off the corner of your mouth, kisses it clean for good measure, then straightens up, his hands working at his belt. You almost miss the fact that his hands are shaking slightly as he undoes the buckle and tugs it out from the loops.

You want to help — it’s the least you can do, after all, and your fingers push the button of his jeans out through the hole, his hands working in tandem to tug the zipper down. However, your movements falter when you hear a noise from just outside the room — the sound of the doorknob being jangled, the thud of a body gently hitting the door, as though worried it’s stuck. You glance up at Mark, ready to reassure him, but he either hadn’t heard or doesn’t care because he’s too busy stepping out from the pool of denim at his ankles, and you get completely sidetracked by the bulge straining against his boxers.

You almost ignore Youngho’s voice grumbling ‘Jesus Christ, now of all times? from behind the door, but you leverage it instead.

“Should we let him in?” You ask, tone innocent despite the evident deviousness in your words. It pays off, though; Mark’s cock twitches unmistakably under thin fabric, and he actually looks like he’s considering it. “You’re just about to fuck me, after all. Weren’t we going to — what did you say? Put on a show?”

He worries on his bottom lip, like he’s unsure if you’re serious, but in the end, he shakes his head, reaching out to smooth your hair away from your face and ushering you to lay back down. The lips that meet your forehead are gentle, almost apologetic.

“Not now,” he murmurs against your skin. “Right now, you’re all mine.”

You laugh lightly, nodding, and he chuckles too, but the sound of it slowly dies down when your finger hooks into the garter of his boxers. You can feel his breathing hitch as you tug it down, the elastic catching when it meets the shape of his cock, but you don’t make any move to free it just yet — for some reason, you want to see him do it.

“Show me.”

He complies without hesitation, one hand dragging the elastic down over his thighs, the other curling around the base of his length, and your face flushes as satisfaction works through your system at the bare sight of him.

Mark Lee is big — not monstrously so, but enough for you to make a pleased noise as your hand joins his, fingers barely wrapping around his girth. You give his shaft a gentle squeeze, and his exhale stutters, watching you stroke him, long and thorough in your movements. Your palm swipes over the tip, leaking precum, allowing it to slick up your hand enough to keep your movements smooth. You’re fixated on the tension in his lips, the throb of his cock against your palm, and the way his gaze never leaves your face, like a small, amazed part of him still can’t believe what you’re doing, even if you’re both half-naked already.

“I want to suck you off,” you plead, grip tightening slightly. He grits his teeth, stifling another groan, but he shakes his head clearly enough for you to slow your movements in mild surprise.

“Can’t — not now. I need to be in you so badly.” His breathing’s sharp and heavy, like he’s trying to keep himself in check. “You don’t even know — how long I’ve wanted to feel you.”

Your hold relaxes, and you let him maneuver you, his renewed hold on your hips dragging you closer to the edge of the bed. In this position, he can spread your thighs further, and you angle yourself optimally — enough for him to get a full view of your pussy, wet and still aching from your last orgasm.

“You don’t know how badly I’ve wanted to know how tight you are,” he continues, and there’s a faraway look in his eyes that makes you think he might be entrenched in fantasy. “How much I would have killed to see you — have you like this. I’m not gonna be able to wait anymore.”

His fingers dig into your sides, thumbs stroking your stomach in a weak pattern. The underside of his shaft presses against your folds, still half obscured by your panties, in a way that’s heavy enough to make you mewl, your hips reacting before your mind can, and he hisses softly as he feels his length glide along your slit before you relax your stance again.

“I can’t wait,” he reiterates, a breaking in his voice that sounds almost tortured. You don’t want him to either, want to see him buried to the hilt inside you, and you raise your hips again in need. “I want you so much it’s driving me crazy.”

“Then take me.”

And you’re not sure if it’s a demand or a plea, but he no longer stops himself; his hand fists his cock a few times, coating the slick of precum along his length before he lines the tip up with your entrance. His other hand’s flush against the inside of your thigh, a light pressure ensuring he always has enough space to fit himself between your legs — enough space to bottom out completely.

Mark’s considerate in his pace — maybe he knows he’s big, or maybe he’s just naturally careful, but he allows you the time to adjust to the stretch. Your nails almost puncture holes into the sheets, your grip so tight you wonder if it’s just to brace yourself or to hang onto the last threads of your sanity. He’s only halfway in, but you’re pushing fullness already, and he stops when his cock meets slight resistance, looking up at you in concern.

“You’re not—?”

“It doesn’t hurt,” you reassure him softly, and it’s true; the adjustment brings about slight discomfort, but it’s almost nothing to you — not compared to how much more you want. “Give me everything; I want all of you inside me.”

He pauses still, trying to read your expression for any lies, but when he can’t find any, he nods, his jaw tensing as he presses both palms against your thighs, keeping you open as much as possible to accommodate him. He doesn’t even stop when you whimper, feeling a tightening twitch in your pussy that also causes him to groan, until inch by inch, you’ve taken him, his hips flush against yours.

He doesn’t move — not yet, his eyes trained to where you’re connected like he’s once again unable to believe what he’s doing. You hear him mumble something to himself that you want to hear too; you squirm slightly, and he hisses through his teeth, looking up at you and finding the questioning in your face. He offers you a small smile, albeit somewhat strained.

“You’re tighter than I thought.”

“You’re bigger than I thought,” you hum, and neither of you is really to blame; the tight fit, the slight breathlessness it leaves you with, is perfect, you think — just what the both of you need. “Did you often think about fucking me?”

“Probably just as often as you’re making it sound like you thought about having me fuck you, I think.”

“Don’t get cocky,” you warn, but there’s no real heat in your voice.

“I won’t. But it makes me feel good — knowing you wanted me just as bad.”

“I still do.” Your gaze is lazy, a little hazy, even if you’re anticipating so much. Even just the feeling of Mark, throbbing inside you, is already slowly building the pleasure in your stomach again; you wonder if you could cum like this, given enough time, given enough patience. “I’m still waiting for you to fuck me. God, Mark— please.”

He chuckles good-naturedly, but even that’s drowned out by the long moan that leaves you once he draws his hips back; your body’s mildly shocked into a new adjustment, feeling a sudden emptiness that’s quickly mitigated by him filling you back up again. The pace is slow, almost torturous, although you know he isn’t doing it to get a rise out of you. He wants to ease you into speed, careful to help you adjust fully; his restraint in his movements is all the more evident on his face, in the furrowing of his brow and the determination in his gaze. Even with that, he can’t help what he says, so intent on controlling everything else he does that he lets his words spill out over your noises.

“Pretty,” he grunts out, and when your walls twitch around him, he accidentally thrusts sharper — just enough for you to whimper a little more loudly, and he has to reel his strength back again. “God, you’re beautiful. I should’ve told you sooner how much I wanted you. All those times I had to imagine you wrapped around me like this, wondering how much tighter you’d get once you came on my cock. All those times you drove me crazy while I was alone, when I could have been in you— I could have found out how good you felt. How pretty you’d look under me. And you’re still even prettier, even better than I ever dreamed.”

There’s an erratic melody of moans under his words, spilling from your mouth, and the fact that he riles himself up enough to increase his speed slightly doesn’t escape you. He’s a little less careful now, seemingly entranced by the view he gets, watching his shaft disappear into you only to come out glistening, and a part of you hates the idea of snapping out of his reverie, but the majority of your thoughts now lean towards wondering how much more you can get him to break free of his own self-imposed restrictions.

“I wanted to ask you so many times.” His eyes snap up, coming back into focus as he takes in the sight of you, flushed, hair tousled, gaze darkened. “Almost every day — I sat there, thinking about how all I could do was go home and fuck myself, frustrated you weren’t doing it for me. I should have taken you home with me right then and there — should have let you watch me touch myself thinking of you, should have let you touch me into cumming on your fingers.”

His breathing staggers as he leans in, eager to see you clearer, to hear your words, slowly becoming airier as they come out. For a moment, his gaze falls, torn between watching him move into you and meeting your eyes, but he ultimately chooses the latter once you speak up again, your tone even more hushed than before — like it’s meant to be a secret between just you and him.

“But there were times I wanted you even more than that, to the point that I almost felt like I couldn’t wait.” His eyes widen slightly, a few precious seconds of wondering if he understands what you mean, right before you confirm what he thinks. “I thought about making a move right then — I should have kissed you. I should have asked you.”

“Asked me what?” His voice is gruff with the effort to keep himself in check despite the fact that it’s clear to the both of you that it won’t last.

Your lazy smile’s illusionary; it hides the triumph swelling in your chest at knowing that he asked exactly what you hoped him to.

“I should have asked you to fuck me in front of everyone there.”

“God,” his eyes squeeze shut, his grip tightening. “Please. I can’t—”

“I should have bent over for you there, begged you to stretch me out right after our session,” you continue, bordering on merciless. “Mark, you don’t know — how badly I wanted to be on your lap, your cock in me, with everyone watching. How much I wanted you to fold me over that table, have people watch you pound me, have them listen to how good you make me feel. No one would ever even wonder; everyone would know I’m yours.”

You pause, allowing his eyes to fly open once again, and there’s a pleading in them that’s begging for release. Your eyes soften along with your voice, but you’re this far gone; you should at least see it through.

“And everyone would know you’re mine too.”

“Fuck,” he growls, and his hips stutter before new resolve fills him, his hips driving into you with the force of a strength you didn’t even know he had in him; your thighs tremble at the intensity, at the renewed impact, and feeling him drive his cock deeper into you has you crying out somewhere between a moan and a sob. “Fuck, _________. If I had known you’d thought about me like that — God.”

It’s your turn to shut your eyes for a while, allowing yourself to focus on his movements, breaching your tightness even faster now. You feel his hands skim up your sides again, fingers digging into the fabric of your bra and pulling them down until your bare tits are cupped in his hands. You shiver as his thumbs pass over your nipples, toying them into firm nubs.

“One day,” he hums out, his voice giving way to a slight hoarseness again. “I’ll do it. I’ll fuck you in front of him — in front of Youngho, in front of everyone. I’ll let them wonder how tight you are, how fucking warm you are, and I’ll let them leave knowing no one can know but me.”

It’ll never happen, you both know, but something about agreeing to something so absurd is what has your body almost shaking in longing, and it’s what causes him to press in deeper, folding your legs closer to your torso. Your hands do what little they can to help, keeping your thighs apart so as not to obstruct his view. You can tell it’s somehow not enough, not really all of what he wants when his brow furrows, and he shifts his weight, pushing into you at a new angle.

The stark difference has you gasping before you can control it. Immediately, Mark stops, and you’re already shaking your head before you even hear him say anything, presuming he’s paused out of concern. But before you can say you’re fine, his hushed voice cuts through the silence.

“Do that again.”

“What?”

“Do it again,” he mumbles, sounding distant. “Breathe in. Suck in your stomach.”

You’re not one to complain at such a simple request, albeit a little odd, so you comply, inhaling enough to tighten your torso. You’re surprised when you feel his cock twitch inside you, and you blow out the air alongside your question. “Mark, what are you—”

“I can see it,” he says in utter disbelief. “When you’re like this, I can — I can see my cock inside you. Just a bit.”

Your eyes follow his gaze, fixed just below your navel. From this angle, without any movement, you can’t see a thing, but you assume he’s not one to abandon fucking you so intently without good reason, so you press your palm against your stomach, just above your pelvis. Nothing really feels significantly out of place — up until the point when Mark draws his hips back again, and you feel the backward slide of his cock.

Your throat tightens, and you don’t really understand the feeling that spreads in you — a unique kind of arousal, knowing how deep he is inside you and how you’re taking all of him in despite the fit, because of the fit. Your hand falls away, allowing Mark’s to take its place, and he exerts just a little more pressure against your stomach in an attempt to get the most out of the experience when he thrusts back in. He groans, feeling the bulge push back up, and he quickly picks up the same pace, renewed in intensity so he can experience the rapid rise and fall he creates under his palm.

The faster he goes, the harder he presses, and you’re not sure if he knows it, but the onslaught of friction is what’s making you whine and squirm even more; you’re trapped, in the best way possible, in his hold, your hands back to clinging to the backs of your knees like a lifeline. Pressure from the outside builds on the slowly growing pressure inside, a knot in your pelvis that’s coiling so tightly you feel like you can’t breathe. If Mark notices how close you are, he doesn’t make it known; he’s busy feeling the outline of his cock against your stomach, and when he looks up at you again, his eyes are hazy.

“I would fuck you every single day, every single hour if I could feel this every time,” he whispers in a way that’s almost reverent. “Let me — I want to keep seeing you like this. I want to feel how deep I am inside you, too. Let me fuck you all the time.”

You nod, and your first attempt to say something is just another choked sob. When you do manage to get something out, it’s broken in tearful stutters. “M-Mark, I’m s— I’m so close… I’m — fuck—”

“Do it.” It’s not a harsh command but an urging made on short breath; through your misty vision, you see tension in Mark’s face and shoulders, like he’s bracing himself for something too. You barely register the ping in the back of your mind, too focused on the way he’s pressing his palm harder on your stomach, the way his hips quicken their pace — he’s close too. “Let me feel you — want to feel you cum all over my cock.”

You inhale, not to speak but to let out a loud whimper; your teeth dig into your lower lip as you try to stifle the moans that threaten to follow, but in the end, you whine out his name. Your thighs threaten to close, trembling as you finally reach your climax, an impossible explosion of pleasure, and you have to squeeze your eyes shut so that you don’t get dizzy from the stars that burst around your vision.

“Fuck.” Mark’s voice is strained, his one hand still firm against your stomach, the other sliding against the inside of your thigh. “You get even tighter — you feel even better when you cum.”

“Mark,” you hiccup, unable to do anything but flutter around him as he pistons harder into you. You don’t even know what you’re asking for when you say ‘please,’ but he somehow seems to, and you trust that your body’s saying something you can’t fully detect in this state, with your mind floating in the aftermath of ecstasy.

“I know,” his tone is soothing in contrast to the intensity of his thrusts. “I’ve got you. Just a little more — where do you want—?”

You blink slowly, his words sinking in at too leisurely a pace; his hips stutter dangerously before you’re able to respond. You barely even do that, your hand gently brushing over the one against your stomach, but he catches onto the meaning quickly enough.

You’ve never heard your name said in such a beautiful way; hearing him moaning it lowly is enough to make you whine again, and that noise is drawn out when he shifts and slips out of you fully. Your brain’s fuzzy, but your senses are at least sharp enough to drink in the perfect sight of him cumming — the way he leans his head back, jaw taut and eyes shut, as he pumps his cock and the heat of his release against your skin, pooling against your stomach once he finally cums. You see a shiver run through him, and then he’s still for a while in this position, the both of you basking in the afterglow of your highs.

You’re still weak and sensitive when Mark finally comes back down, a lucidity you don’t have right now coming back into his gaze. All you can do is smile when he leans in, catching your lips in another kiss — one that’s surprisingly soft and slow in comparison to everything else, but still leaves you breathless when he pulls away.

“Let me clean you up,” he murmurs, and you hum in agreement, your body limp as you watch him move off the bed and pull a handful of tissues from a box on the desk on the opposite wall. Even his hands are gentle when he scoops you up, shifting you until your head can lean against the pillows. They carry a scent you’re not used to, and your nose scrunches, rejecting the change, but that’s quickly overpowered by Mark’s familiar coffee-and-linen one when he presses next to you, careful as he wipes his cum off your stomach and thoroughly cleans between your thighs. From somewhere down below, you still hear hushed voices, and the front door slams shut again. People are still in the middle of leaving, but you know Youngho will likely run out of guests soon, and this makes you feel like the timing’s suddenly become urgent.

“I want to date you properly,” you start, slightly slurred but unmistakably blunt. Mark’s gaze snaps to yours, slightly amused, as he balls the tissues up in his fist. “You never asked me, so I’m asking you.”

He looks perplexed. “I just never thought you wanted me to, so I didn’t try.”

You reach up, locking your fingers into his hair and using your grip to pull him down. Your kiss is a little demanding, with a tinge of excess frustration, and he pulls away laughing lightly.

“Do you still think I don’t want you to?”

Mark hums thoughtfully. “I think you made a lot of things clear tonight. On my end, I was happy enough to be near you.” He smiles down at you, and in the faint light, you can see the flush slowly return to his cheeks. “Having you like this — dating you… there’s no way I’d say no.”

Your shoulders relax, satisfied with his answer, and you beam up at him — an act he easily returns, breathtaking and endearing all at once.

Moments later, you feel his arm wind around your waist; he allows you to lean into his side, his other hand crossing over his lap to stroke your thigh. His face turns, pressing a kiss to your hair, and you feel his lips move, hear the quick rush of a whisper. You tilt your head, eyes slightly wide in questioning. “What was that?”

He shakes his head at first, trying to pass it off as nothing. But when it’s clear your curiosity won’t abate, he chuckles softly, his hand gently cupping your chin so that you can only look at him. His thumb strokes your bottom lip gently, as if trying to coax the same words out of your mouth before he murmurs them to you one more time — and this time, he sounds fully convinced of them.

“You’re all mine.”

[bitchlessdino]

demon's play 2 : devil's intervention (m) TEASER

coming May 31st 7pm cst Original - Demon's play Pairing: devil!wonwoo x demon!seungcheol x demon!chan x afab human!reader Genre: smut tags: plot heavy, some fluffish moments, perpetual fear, ikea employee!reader, dom!wonwoo, sub!reader, verse!chan, verse!seungcheol, cum drunk!demons, violent graphic imagery (death, lashing, sacrifices), mentions of blood, voyeurism, biting to the point of blood, MLM themes that is not based off of any implications of reality, hair pulling, choking, spitting, double fem head, biting, [+so many more] Summary: it's some time since Chan and Seungcheol abandoned the underworld for you, a simple human. The ruler of the underworld does not too kindly to distractions, even ones so prettily packaged such as yourself. It was time he took matters into his own hands. If you want to be tagged please let me know by interacting

“You’re starving aren't you,” Seungcheol growled. “I could smell your arousal for me before you even entered the apartment.”

“Tell me about it,” Chan joined, immersed in the air around you wafting in his nose. “There’s lust in these veins of yours,” his tongue swiped over the blood on his lips. “Don’t tell me you’ve been thinking about this all day…We fuck you every waking day of your life, and that’s still not enough. Isn’t that right?”

A “No,” barely made it past your lips before they were crushed under the weight of Seungcheol’s, and then you were the one starting to taste iron. Its aroma was as strong as they claimed, and Wonwoo fell under the same impression.

Chan tucked your hair behind your head, tugging you in his direction as his teeth skins into the base of your neck, his cock exposed in an instant and hugged between the plush felt of your ass. Your eyes retreated to your skull, trembling as Seungcheol’s cock pressed against your stomach. A shatter sigh broke out from your throat and you let them take over control of your feeble body.

“What is our…arrangement?”

You exhaled, sipping your drinking and hearing the obnoxious slurp of your now empty cup, and somehow your throat was still dry. “I think its pretty obvious.”

“Obvious? You give me too much credit.”

“Well, you’re here for furniture but have yet bought any.”

“Does that culminate a dispute between you and I?”

“Not exactly, but–”

“And aren’t you paid regardless if you spend time with me?”

“Yes, but–”

His laughter was light, a hint of mischief lingering. “Then I don’t see the issue. You enjoy my company, you get paid to do your job. Win-win.”

He reunited with your lips, exploring you deeper as his hand wrapped around the stands of your hair and gripped, and you swallowed his grunts. “How many times have you released in their presence? A hundred? A thousand? A million? It’s never enough for you either, is it?”

You shook your head weakly, eyes begging for more as you were already addicted, feeling him awaken something in you that can’t be sated.

“I’m an all immortal being, so I know. Just like I know you wonder what I look like beneath my clothes…what I taste like…how I’d fuck you.”

OUT NOW!

[prof-peach]

It's me again, I'm throwing my two cents in and asking. What are your thoughts on the competitive side of Pokémon caring. or more accurately, Pokémon battles? Especially the gym challenge and the champions themselves? Have you ever tried the gym challange before prof?

While in my youth I did the gym challenges, it all seemed rather staged for me, and i quickly figured out that the gym circuit is built for children, by adults to instil some form of confidence and independance in the youngsters who partake. I swiftly lost interest before completing any of them, but I think my old badges are somewhere, probably rusty by now. The whole organised gym system region to region is a well funded training scheme. Youngsters travel around with pokemon to get to grips with their teams, their independence, and their skills. Gyms offer a challenge to those who never much dipped their toes into the battling world, and many don't partake or bother with it for a whole host of reasons that are all equally valid. It is not a necessity to be a great trainer, nor is it required if you simply dont wish to do it. For most, its a fun challenge, but it does hold relative weight when applying for some job types as an adult, as it proves you can independently shift around and complete a set of tasks of your own volition, using critical problem solving skills on the fly. It has a whole host of benefits, and if you enjoy it and your pokemon enjoy it, then its a great way to earn some cash and blow off some steam!

BUT, that being said, the gym circuit is a tame version of reality. It is a low level set of tasks built to help those not as confident or well versed in battles. Even the more difficult leaders and gyms are playing a role, and while they may have their pokemon trained to a skilled, practiced adults capacity, for the most part they dumb down the fights and make sure they arent impossible for opponents to face. It is meant to be a challenge, not a slaughter, so to speak.

In the real world, people dont always get this safe space to learn how to handle a battle, there is blood, there are injuries, there can be deaths, but in a gym trial, that is harshly reduced, and fatalities are rarely encountered thankfully. With this in mind, I do believe the gym trials are a vital part of some peoples journey, but once you get past them and interact with the real world, where bad guys arent pulling punches like gym leaders do, you realise that you partook in a system that was all soft edges.

the champions and various elietes you encounter are HEAVILY trained guides for peoples journeys, and while some have been dubious, perhaps they slipped through the net, or paid their way into the position, most do the job of training new generations well, and with great precision. It takes a lot to train pokemon to the level they do, and teach with every move. It's a good job, much like any educator, and provides ample reward to see trainers come and go all the more confident and prepared for the real world. The skills it takes to be a gym leader are quite high, as your pokemon have to know when to stop, and how to hit hard, but not TOO hard that you injure opponents. Its a fine line and they walk it well for the most part.

As for the higher tiers of the gym circuits, well, they prove somewhat challenging to anyone on this path, but they too are simply adults hired to do a job, should they show the right aptitude. they get paid, they go home, and most of the time it is simply another form of the education sector.

I personally dont care for it much, but i have a bias others do not, and if i step away from it, its very clear to see that the gyms and the challenges they pose have great benefits for many people and pokemon, and often they offer help and support during times of disaster, such as fires or influx of pests on crops, and the likes. It goes to show they teach people more than how to fight, Alola in particular has a very harmonious balance within its practices, encouraging trainers to do what they can to help the community, without harming too many mons in the process, and to think outside the box when problem solving. Some of the finest trainers come from alola, thanks to their highly adaptive teaching methods.

overall i'd say if you want to partake, go for it! its certainly a safe way to train, but it does not mean you wont be great with pokemon or in a battle if you dont. I certainly never finished them, i know many who never did a single one, and are fantastic trainers. It's a great aid, but not the only way to succeed. So long as you treat your team with care, you research before you get new partners, and you take into consideration their wants FIRST, as their guardians, then youre on the right track. I could go on, but overall everythin gi ever preach comes back to mutual consent and being honest and open with pokemon. They put their faith in us to help them and be their trainers, so we can only try to do our best. If they dont want to fight, pushing them is immoral.

[axel-ambassador]

So someone made an hour long video (that I didn't watch) about why Whatever It Takes is the worst song in Hazbin Hotel

So I'm gonna talk about why it's one of the best.

Disclaimer

Again, I haven't watched the video, so I don't know what their points are. But I'm not here to argue with their opinion. I'm here to get my own contrary opinion out there. Whoever they are is entitled to like and dislike whatever song they desire, even if I personally disagree. I have nothing against them and this is not made to antagonize them in any way shape or form.

Alright let's get into it

So let's start with Carmilla since there's a bit less to talk about compared to Vaggie.

The song starts as a soft ballad. As it progresses, we get to see more insight into who she is as a person, and not just as an overlord.

I always thought

That I would keep blood off my face

But when that thing attacked

I had to act

To cross that line and keep them safe

She is not a violent person. She never meant to kill the exorcist that attacked her and her daughters. She never wanted to, but she had to, because family is what's most important to her. Not money, not power, not souls, but family.

To further highlight this we get

But if anyone knew

Then all of Hell would rise to war

And who's to say who'd survive the fray?

I might lose the ones that I was killing for

As much as she's willing to fight for those that she loves, it scares her. She doesn't want to fight, because any possible gain that could come from it pales in comparison to the mere thought of putting Clara, Odette, and even Zestial in danger.

It's agonizing.

It's a rare moment of vulnerability from her. All the cards are on the table and her heart is on her sleeve. All in front of the people she cares most about. She may be vulnerable, but she's still secure about herself and is willing to share her deepest fears with them.

She will do whatever it takes to keep them safe, even if it means going to war and fighting until they no longer can. She will make every mistake if it means keeping them free from harm.

This is where we begin to draw the parallel to Vaggie, who we'll get to soon enough. They both make promises to protect their loved ones even if it means putting themselves on the line.

Carmilla is loyal as a fault to the people she cares about. A trait that can be dangerous if you don't have enough self preservation when the time comes to fight tooth and nail for your life.

Which is why she ends up doing something that goes against her morals: Killing.

And this is why Vaggie benefits so much from having her as a mentor, but more on that later.

So from a few verses we clearly understand who Carmilla is as a character. She's fierce, loyal, protective, and not afraid to put her morals aside if it means protecting her loved ones. Her parallel to Vaggie sets up for an interaction later down the line, where their similar yet different mentalities meet.

Speaking of everybody's favorite fallen exorcist...

If you ask me, Vaggie's part in this song hits so much harder for a multitude of reasons.

Let's start with the abundance of wonderful foreshadowing.

When I saw your face

You made me feel like a stranger in a brand new place

And it felt so good to be understood

But there's so much I wished that I could say

On its own, it makes you question what's below the surface. What is she talking about? What is she hiding? There's certainly more context that we're yet to see.

And then once we learn who Vaggie really is and how she met Charlie...

Suddenly it has so much more weight.

Charlie is an understanding person, she said so herself. In that moment, it didn't matter who Vaggie was or where she came from. All that mattered was getting her the help she needed.

So I

I'll be your armor

Do whatever it takes

I'll make the mistakes

I'll spend my life being your partner

Vaggie is eternally grateful for this. Because Charlie both literally and metaphorically saved her. Charlie becomes her rock, her world, and she does the only thing she knows how to in order to repay that kindness.

Serve and protect.

And I will try to make your dreams come true

Whatever we go through

Many call Chaggie's dynamic toxic because of this, which is not the case. Their relationship is not toxic. Vaggie has a toxic mentality that the only reason worth living is to be of service, but that does not make their relationship toxic.

Charlie never exploits this trait. She never takes advantage of Vaggie's giving nature, because she is also a giving person and treats Vaggie with the same love and adoration that Vaggie does. Yes, she can be dismissive, yes, she can be lightly oblivious to people's feelings, but never is there any intention of malice behind it. And when Charlie oversteps any boundaries, they talk things out.

Chaggie is not toxic. Vaggie is toxic towards herself.

Vaggie, unlike Carmilla, is insecure. She is alone. She's hiding things.

She can't possibly tell Charlie how she feels, because that would involve explaining everything she had been hiding, and in turn losing everything she had. She's scared.

She, like Carmilla, is willing to put everything on the line if it means keeping Charlie safe. The difference is that Vaggie was made to fight. It's the only thing she knows. She doesn't cast her morals aside, because fighting is her morals.

Carmilla and Vaggie are 2 sides of the same coin. Both are willing to put their life on the line to fight for their loved ones.

Carmilla doesn't want to fight, but is willing to put that aside for the sake of her family.

Vaggie only wants to fight, and thinks that's the only thing she can do for her family.

So when they finally meet, their ideals clash, and they make a compromise.

And this was all established through one incredible song.

Character moments aside, there are some other things that cement this song as a Top 3 Hazbin song for me.

Up until this point in watching the show, I wasn't fully onboard with the musical aspect. My friends and I would groan and complain every time a song came on and disrupted the plot. Up until this one.

This was the first song that really piqued my interest. This was the first song I watched and said "I'm gonna listen to this later."

This was the first song that I listened to for hours on loop on Spotify as I did my homework in my dorm. This was the first song that made me say, "wait a minute, these guys know what they're doing."

This song made me fall in love with Hazbin Hotel.

Maybe I'm biased because I love Vaggie and Stephanie Beatriz but frankly, I don't care.

Whatever it Takes is a wonderfully underrated song and I'm happy to share why I personally love it.

Thanks for reading ^⁠_⁠^

[earlgreytea68]

I am reading a Regency romance novel. It was on a list of recommended romance novels and it's supposed to be good, I guess, and I thought it would be fun to read one while I was in the middle of writing the sequel sequel. (My reading is kind of all over the place, I have a very long list of books that have been recommended to me and I honestly end up reading whatever my library has available at any given time, and right now it's this book.)

I read a lot of Regency romance novels when I was growing up so I am well-versed in their tropes, but it's been a while since I read romance novels of any kind (I've just been reading fic for romantic stories for a long time now) and it is so jarring to me reading them as the grown-up person I am now. Like, these characters do that thing where they're always being condescending to the hero/heroine by telling them how much they don't realize how their lives are incomplete until they settle down and get married and I'm just like, ugh, MAYBE THEIR LIVES ARE FINE, OKAY? LEAVE THEM ALONE. STOP GIVING THEM SAD-EYED LOOKS BECAUSE THEY LIKE THEIR COMFORTABLE STUDY WITH ITS COZY BOOKS, THAT SOUNDS LIKE HEAVEN. I know that's not the ~~vibe of the Regency era lol, but it's the vibe of *my* era lol. Also the hero's brother and sister-in-law are always trying to tell him how great their sex life is and he doesn't want to hear this AND I DON'T BLAME HIM. I know it's another trope of Regency romance novels that the happy couples have to let the hero/heroine know how great sex is at every given opportunity but it just strikes me as so weird and contrived now, Idk, I think it's weird to take EVERY OPPORTUNITY to tell your brother when you just had sex?????? Like, it's so weird to get asked, "Is my sister well?" and be like, "She is VERY WELL, IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN," and waggle your eyebrows, like, no? Don't? Why would you do this???? I don't think this is charming????

But I was reading this and just being so bewildered by how well reviewed the book was and I was thinking that some people probably *do* find these people and their interactions super-charming and sweet and to each their own, ymmv! All of you leave me lovely comments about the people in my own romantic stories but I bet some people read them and are like, "God, these people are so annoying, who treats other people this way!!!" lol

[anxiousnerdwritings]

okay but Wayne!sibling!Reader being a villain?? one day she steals Wayne Enterprises from Bruce when he gets too caught up in Batman stuffs hoping it would garner his attention but he happily signs off on it and it irritates her cause she just wants his attention she won’t admit it but she feels Bruce put her on the back burner in favour of Batman and that burner only got colder with every child he adopted so she becomes a straight up villain just to spend time with him. not doing anything super illegal that the company couldn’t shell out some money to fix but enough to garner his attention. and he has absolutely no idea it’s his baby sister beating his ass on a weekly basis. all the Bat Kids know though and are just grinning like madmen in the background.

I love the idea of Wayne!Sister!Reader taking up being a villain but she’s a baddie who does good. Like she steals from bigger more corporate businesses only to give to smaller and harder working businesses, especially local family owned ones. Or she goes after people and places that are pretty terrible themselves whether it be a testing facility that does its testing strictly on animals or an abusive parent/foster home/orphanage.

It would also be kind of funny if the Reader fully divulged themself into villainy only to just mildly inconvenience Batman/her brother. Like she doesn’t really mean to do good, it’s not their #1 intention, she just wants to put a damper in Bruce being Batman but instead they inadvertently do really good and beneficial things in the process. Like, oops she accidentally destroyed an entire apartment complex, luckily no one was harmed in the process but fortunately it was also not up to living standards to begin with and is now being completely rebuilt with everything being like and working how it should have from the start.

Bruce actually finds this new up and coming villain quite amusing and dare he say that he enjoys their interactions with each other. At first he wouldn’t be any the wiser to his new foe being his sister because of course that would be in no way, shape, or form a thought in his mind that his own beloved baby sister would be out causing ‘havoc’ on the city, on their home. Hell, he probably doesn’t even think his sister has any idea about him being Batman. He didn’t even think twice when they took Wayne Enterprises right from under him, he didn’t see it like that at all. I could even see Bruce being delusional unsuspecting enough to believe that the Reader was only taking up the company as to give him a break and allow him to do more of his own thing (i.e be able to protect the city and do his Batman responsibilities without much more to hold him back or take up his attention). So of course he wouldn’t think much about his own baby sister taking on the company from him, if anything he kinda thought it was cute. Especially seeing his precious baby sister taking on the role of CEO. He’d totally have Lucius take discreet photos or videos of the Reader being a girlboss in meetings and whatever business dealings, all just to see his sister be a strong businesswoman and run the company all on her own.

I also really love the idea that even though the Reader felt left out on the back burner she was still a prominent figure in the kids lives and adored them to no end. Of course she loved seeing her brother be as much of a father to the kids as he could be, putting much necessary time and attention into them that was taken away from her. Like, she didn’t resent them or anything like that for coming into the picture and ‘stealing’ her brother from her but instead helped be something the kids needed and could trust when they felt they couldn’t go to Bruce. But as much as she loves and cares for her nieces and nephew and vice verse that did that keep her from still feeling abandoned by Bruce.

I could definitely see after becoming Batman that Bruce and the Reader’s relationship changed. The Reader certainly felt the change, the two used to be inseparable and so close but now it felt like there was a void between them. At least that’s how the Reader felt. Bruce doesn’t think anything is any different, he hasn’t picked up on any change. When the Reader does try to spend time with him and he turns them down in favor of crime fighting or something else, he always promises to make it up but he never does, probably due to forgetting but the Reader remembers and it weighs them down each and every time he turns them away for something or someone else. She’s kept her hurt to herself but it only got worse until she decided to move out of the manor, away from the kids and away from Bruce. She didn’t even tell Bruce, she just up and left without breathing a word of it to him. Hell, she may not have told anyone except Alfred that she was moving out. Alfred was only told because the Reader didn’t want to worry him, out of everyone in the family he was the one she didn’t want to be concerned about her. I also don’t doubt that Alfred is very well aware of the Reader’s feelings of being unwanted or uncared for regarding Bruce and he’s tried to help the Reader in his own way to get Bruce to spend some kind of time with his sister only for him too to end up waved off or turned away.

I could also see the kids having started paying less attention to the Reader once they took up fighting crime with Bruce, especially the older ones who moved out and were doing their own thing now. It would only add to the Reader’s feeling of being abandoned and left behind leading them to just leaving the manor and everyone else altogether.

If things weren’t so serious and this whole thing wasn’t a detrimental way to try and save/rekindle the Reader and Bruce’s brother-sister relationship in itself own way, then I could see the kids finding some amusement in it. But they would all still be very worried about the Reader, sure Bruce as Batman isn’t going off on her like he does with his rogue gallery or other criminals but that doesn’t mean that the Reader still can’t end up hurt or in real peril. The kids would try their best to help the Reader in their own ways but I think eventually someone would just crack and tell Bruce that he’s been fighting his own sister this whole time and giving her reason for it too. Bruce needs some time to process it but then he puts thing together himself and it all makes sense. He feels awful knowing that his baby sister felt like this was the only way she could spend time with him or have more of an interaction with him then he’s given her outside of this. He honestly feels like complete shit and a terrible brother, especially when he’s reminded of a promise he made her when they were younger after their parents died about always being there for each other and that she could count on him over anyone else. And he’s gone and fucked it all up.

I can’t help but have the idea that Bruce was slowly pulling back from his sister because he caught on to his obsessive tendencies and he didn’t want to turn into something much darker when it came to his beloved baby sister. He wanted her to be able to exist and thrive in the world without him holding her back, but now that he knows his baby sister went to these lengths for his time and attention he feels justified in indulging in his yandere behavior. And leave it to the kids to follow suit, especially after finding out the Reader felt abandoned by them too.

[emberunderscore]

ive been looking back at my old quixis thoughts, so im here to share my old thoughts of "We will stand for everfree" from my little pony but its all a little paraphrased because im somewhat better at words now

I have waited for the day To send this greedy wolf away

Wants to get rid of Fable, Quixis knows what he can do, they know he will keep their powers at bay and they don't like it

Now the magic is my salvation

The wack, their power. The only way they can interact with the world

Gather close in my protection

"protection", Quixis' power hurts people. They don't have full control of it and will hurt people even when they might not intend to

We will stand for Everfree

"We won't stand for Fable's free" is how i always imagine this line being, also could be talking about the town itself

We hold the beauty of nature and all its glory

nature = change, while I don't think Quixis is a god in the same sense as Fable or like Len, i think they embody change in at least some amount

No need to fear the vultures at the door

Fable and all the gods that have tries to fuck with the grove, theyre the vultures

Right here you have me to protect you Within these walls of thorns Forever free, forevermore

Forever free to change things, without Fable around their power isn't restrained

They have come into our domain

"He has come into my domain" Quixis views Sherbert's life as their domain at this point, with how long they've been a part of it atp

Here to seal our camp in chains

our camp = quixis' power. Fable just being there puts chains around Quixis' power

But we have held it for generations

Quixis has been uncontained for all three resets that we've seen, and it seems like they've only grown stronger.

This is just a complication We will stand for Everfree

Trust in me, this is for your own good

We don't know if we CAN trust Quixis, if we can then Fable is bad but if we can't then Quixis is bad, which tbh seems to be the most likely at this current point. I think if they get to be the big villain for the rest of the season they'll be really cool but they also seem to feel bad about hurting Sherb so we'll see

Don't be afraid, nature is our friend

nature = change again

All of this beauty that surrounds us Every lovely bloom designed to defend

Imagine Quixis holding a flower, on defend the flower glitches into sharp jagged gems much like Sherbert's wings did. I have a vision okay, see my vision

Let them come, just let them try I'm not about to say goodbye This camp will be here throughout the ages Written into the history pages We will stand for Everfree

I did a whole edit on this verse, a lot of the lyrics are changed to fit better so i'll just re write it all below: Let him come, just let him try I'm not about to say goodbye I will be here throughout the ages Written out of the history pages I won't stand for "Fable's free"

[also-fours]

the hi-fi rush situation really bums me out.

we had this game that looked super unique, everybody loved it, it won tons of awards

and then it barely got any marketing, feels like it only got as popular as it did thanks to word of mouth and the initial shadow drop, was deemed a "failure" despite selling what many companies would consider a success back in the day, (because it didnt sell call of duty numbers, probably.) and then its studio got shut down

the studio was just starting to spread its wings, start making shit that could inspire their peers, other devs, to start making different things and experiment

and they fucking killed them

it's gone

i mean, maybe they'll make their own studio, i've heard something like that's happened a couple times with the yooka-laylee devs and sonic mania's dev team

but i dunno

as much as i love games like spider-man and god of war (and i mean literally just those two, like, anything else sony does aside from ratchet and clank im not into) i wish they didnt worry so much about modelling photorealism

the obsession with stuff like that is what's made game development so expensive and unsustainable at this rate

i know this is tumblr so the first reaction im gonna get to saying something like "i like spider-man and god of war" at least in my circle is "GOOD GLAD THAT IT'S BECOMING UNSUSTAINABLE FUCK THEM" but like. i actually like what these games had to say and what they brought to the table.

"spider-man had nothing to say it's just a stupid marvel game cash grab and god of war is a generic over the shoulder game"

if you're going to tell me something like that, kindly, please don't interact with this post

like, please?

thank you

anyway, i want games like that that...don't have to upgrade their graphics every time and. waste everyone's time.

genuinely with how they both looked in 2018 i'd be happy with them just. not changing the graphics at all

but uh. sadly sony knows their audience, haha

there'd be hell to pay if they did that

(i hate mainstream gamers)

and as for everything else that xbox and playstation are doing right now, i still want them to do something different

and microsoft killed off the developer that could've inspired others to do that

soooooooo fuck. what now. are we just gonna be stuck in this position forever.

probably not, i mean, again, with how expensive games like spider-man 2 have gotten to produce and the amount of people in and out of the industry screaming that you gotta CHILL THE FUCK OUT, we won't stay like this forever

it might get better

maybe when we get a new series of spider-man games they can have a visual style similar to spider-verse, wouldn't that be rad?

...i mean. judging by the leaks, they might already be experimenting with that...

or something like shattered dimensions have y'all seen that game? looks fantastic, go look it up, they made four different dimensions of spidey and all of 'em have their own unique visual style inspired by their books

sorry im getting off topic

im juat rambling at this point

i just hope people learn the right lessons from hi-fi rush.

and that the people who made it find a way through and can still make great things

thats what i hope for at least

...anyway at least we still have fortnite and its really fun art style--

[maxmoffs]

WANDA ‘ THE SCARLET WITCH ’ IN THE COMICS , is my main portrayal & vibe —unless obviously otherwise plotted & placed in verses stated otherwise— but heavily headcanoned with notable events and impactful character development that i want to keep and grab , kind of like ‘stems’ of a tree that i will take and build from different variations of SCARLET WITCH COMIC ISSUES that i will always either connect and reference to and will just adhere and depend on every interaction i have with different scenarios , plotted , and marvel timeline ft. writer + their vibe .

PS. ( bc I just got random anon hate lmao, that clearly didn’t read my rules that I post these headcanons and infos over time. read my rules. ) I am still in the process of building and writing her background and literal dossier + profile . you won’t find it here as a post straight away because I will share these AS I GO. and her literal BACKGROUND DESCRIPTION has its own page that I want to create where she’s from, her identity , EARTH - 616 , and much more will be in a separate post AND doc, I am physically still writing it in a doc with a full body of writing, and also grandly tbh ? , I will just forward personally to plotting , please chill and wait lmao , honey I know she’s from romani background and that is a part of my portrayal, I was just explaining that i will grab EVENTS ( meaning things that happen in the marvel timelines ) and about my style of writing.

FACE CLAIM: Gratiela Brancusi.

Elizabeth Olsen. media/image reblogs is of visual reference ONLY. i know she’s still a good actress but I don’t really follow her strongly anyways so I don’t have any knowledge of her irl . but any media reblog are mainly for very MCU related references and notable events images that I may like to ref back to from the films . ( i just really am a film nerd so i look at the visuals and effects of what they have in the mcu cinematography ) so if i ever “ REBLOG ” “gifs” and media sets from mcu for wanda , its a lot more to refer to her powers , relationships with other mcu characters like billy etc etc and visuals when im reblogging. but my portrayal is completely very heavily headcanoned and again, will be tagged.

my portrayal of her focuses on her VOICE WHEN WRITING * ( don’t worry, i will have more on this/her voice sometime later so that you guys can get to know more on it and what i mean, —this is just actually more directed for my wanda and some of my other characters when i find the need to— bc this concept comes from my acting training irl ( ‘ finding a character’s voice. ’ ) which to cut it short mostly focuses a lot on getting into a character’s shoes, mind body and soul and really portraying it truthfully . and so when i write, I then realised my writing style is quite visual and really delves into their character , then the story comes later + more connected. & but don’t worry, again i will always expand or explain these whenever i post more headcanons towards everything in her verses that connect and reference her back from the comics.

BUT TO SUM IT UP , ( my portrayal of her voice ), just means her dialogue &. her characteristics + what makes her , HER , and what she represents . events that happen in the comics is flexible for me but still hold its importance , because im not very fussy about it when it comes to writing with other marvel muses . —unless of course otherwise stated or depending on WHAT we’re writing about , and know that this will most likely be just with and directed to MARVEL RP . a lot other fandoms will be dependent on the writer / setting of the interaction itself. ) because i love to see everyone’s interpretation likewise and i just also love to explore the idea of building a character then create MY INTERPRETATION , BUILD HEADCANONS &. ORIGINALITY TOWARDS IT .

the reason simply why im very specific about this especially towards wanda , is because they dulled her portrayal in the MCU but at the same time im not too bothered because i also understand as an actor , that they were running on budget and focusing too much on a character is far less important than making a film . HOWEVER , when it does come to storytelling and building a character , we all know that through writing and if it has its origin source , there is something to compare . so i did find it difficult bc there were moments of the MCU films that just LACKED HER VOICE &. HER CHARACTER. they literally just threw in her powers, but didn’t bother to give her more importance in the AVENGERS much like her importance in the comics in the avengers team . ( with the exception of WANDAVISION but still definitely deserved sliiiiiiighty more. literally all of the female characters in the MCU needed more . ngl the men had more love , we all know it. ) I just also love the comics , and so i hold and respect those of you as well that do base their marvel muse towards comic storyline . because i get it, hence why my portrayal is heavily headcanon driven . BUT , that doesn’t go to say that I don’t like the MCU , it’s quite the opposite , I liked it , and really as an actor + someone that has a bit of a view in the film industry , I’ve have to legit SEPERATE MY LENS from that world VS the comics . so , honestly to sum it up ( lmao I yap a lot but I just want you guys to know in more detail haha ) , that im not super fussy on the events of comics & the mcu . BUT MORESO THAT I WILL HAVE some notable ‘ tweaks ’ and changes that I may not like or agree with for BOTH THE COMICS &. THE MCU . ( more towards the MCU , because it’s very clear where I drive my muse voice from lmao )

——the majority of this post is basically me defending her and and justifying that she’s so fkn important in marvel and the x-men AND the avengers unit. AND the future , AND SHES LITERALLY ONE OF THE MOST POWERFUL IN THE COMICS : ) WE DIDNT REALLY FEEL THAT IN THE MCU , literally just in wandavision and multiverse of madness… they’re literally only starting now . . . when the opportunity could’ve been already back then , *in this essay I will*.

—— anyways . . . as always ! send me anything you’d like to know or questions you have for headcanons 🙂‍↕️🫶🏼 ).

[oftenderweapons]

Like Crazy | PJM

Pairing: Jimin x reader (nicknamed Princess)

Wordcount: 2.1 k

Genre: fluff, slight angst, light smut, established relationship

Rating: 18+, minors, do not interact

Warnings: unprotected sex, mentions of grinding, mentions of handjob (male receiving). Angst involving military service and taking a break from the relationship.

A/N: To the nonnie who requested this draft -- I'm sorry, but I went off plot with your request, mostly because I can't imagine them being out to the public, but I'll add to this so I can imagine how the *good* fans might react. Also, since I imagined this song interpreted a certain way between them, I don't think this particular take they have in this fic would be recorded and published. I'll reply more pertinently to your ask in a separate post, don't worry. But I wanted you to have *this* fic because I want you to know some stuff that happened in their storyline, and I want you to know how I imagined them interpreting this song together. Sorry again, feel free to send me an ask to shame me LOL

As usual, here's my masterlist and the fic is below the cut.

ILY and enjoy 💜✨

Jimin was moving smoothly in front of you, every muscle of his body hitting every stress and release of the music. He was hypnotic. You could have spent hours watching him move. 

It was only partially a physical experience, and conversely, it was mostly a mental, emotional experience. You could feel him move. 

You mirrored his steps clumsily once the chorus hit. He was cute, giggling, fooling around with you. You touched each other carelessly in some sort of childlike game. And once the second verse came on, he switched. 

He was dancing for you.

His movements turned lustful, lazy. He was touching himself the way you touch him, taking more time in a tempo rubato. Slow paced, sultry, prolonging movements past their beat, letting them melt into spaces they shouldn’t. The choreography you’d seen plenty of times, with its sharp accents and crisp lines, was turning into a breathy harmony of blurred lines, of sultry curves. 

While he seemed frustrated and torn on stage, playful and embarrassed on his several tiktoks, and dark, somehow greedy on the Studio Choom final cut, here before your eyes, he was lusty and indulging. He seemed to really give in to every movement, as if allowing himself to be touched, to be moved, to be seduced by his own hands. 

When his hand moved across his ribs on the second chorus, it looked as if he was really caressing himself. He was giving, and giving, blooming under his own palms. 

You wished you could touch him that way, you’d missed him so much. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” you told him, watching him, and watching. You couldn’t stop tracing every line of him with your eyes. The song was ending, and you wanted more. 

He looked in your eyes as silence finally settled in.

“Come,” he said, reaching to you with his hand and dragging you close to him. He made the song restart. 

He took slow steps as he danced close to you, leading you with a hand around your waist, hooking you close to him. 

“Remember our first dance?” you asked him as he leaned close to your mouth. 

He nodded. “Sometimes I think about it, when I struggle finding myself.” 

Longing was like electricity between your lips and his. “Does it… This song…”

“What about it?” he asked.

“No, later…” you said, avoidant. 

“Okay. Later.” He parted from you just to let you hit the chorus. Staring at each other in the mirror, you noticed his hand, moving from his belt loop to his pelvis, suggestive, an innuendo matched by the lowering of his eyelids, his pupils getting darker. 

You were moving, looking at the mirror, but you weren’t looking at yourself. You were rather making eye contact with him, your bodies getting closer once the second verse started, his solo with the dancer — which had felt so wrong when you looked at it on video — changed entirely once he was dancing with you. His hands were all over you, pushing, pulling, desperate. A hand on your thigh, the other carrying your knee closer to his hip, his waist, your pelvis colliding with his in a way that stole your breath and made your torso snap forward, in his hold. Then, he was pushing you back, making you dip low behind you, lowering you to the ground before his body was climbing over yours in wicked seduction. 

And then he stood, moving on with the choreography, leaving you breathless to pick up after yourself. 

The second chorus had no pretense of sobriety, it was loose and lusty and desperate, your hands moving freely over your body in a way that translated much better in your own vocabulary of desire. 

He could read it effortlessly. 

You ditched the plans for the outro just to keep dancing with each other, going back to that night, when breathing the same air, and feeling each other’s skin and looking at the way your bodies moved together never felt enough. 

Your nose was touching his, his hands were spread over your ribs, your legs were complicatedly tangled together and when the music ended this time, neither of you wanted to start again. 

You were both breathing heavily and both your hands felt criminally free, so you grabbed his face and kissed the hell out of him. 

Neither of you was lying when you met passionately, your mouths devouring each other, wet and hungry, his body, electric and strong against yours pushed you towards the mirror, and you wanted, you wanted him so much. 

Words were failing you as you asked, “Gimmie— Please—”

You didn’t know what you wanted, you didn’t know what to beg for. You were only grateful that he wasn’t mocking you for your desperation; infact, apparently he had this renewed purpose ever since he got you back. Since that night, everything was fair game. 

He ruled over you, and he knew it, and he had no other request but having everything he’d missed so dearly. 

“What did you want to say, earlier?” he asked, panting, his voice angelic, aethereal like he’d been while singing. 

“What?” you asked back, confused, dizzy with excitement and need. 

“Earlier. Don’t act like you don’t remember,” he teased you. 

You bit your lip, your body pinned by his own, and mostly by his gaze. 

“There’s something I wanted to ask you. About this song.”

He nodded. The days without you had been delirious. Like some great lie he’d told himself as an excuse to be afraid to stand by your side, to continue staying by your side. He’d tried to rip the band-aid off before you would do it on him. He was about to enlist, and it felt easier, to let you go instead of keeping the both of you chained to a promise that was going to have more downsides than perks. 

But was it worth it?

He’d just caused the both of you the darkest despair, and then the enlistment had been postponed due to the pandemic. And he’d lost you, over nothing. 

“Go ahead, ask me.”

Your eyes were turned down, to the floor. “Did you write this song about someone you saw while we were off?”

He froze in your arms, then caught your chin. Made you look him in the eye. “No, Princess.”

You nodded. 

He hated himself for making you this insecure. How could he? How could he deserve you, after what he’d put you both through? “It’s about the night we met again.”

You found the courage to hold his gaze. 

“At the club. Our eyes met across the room. I kept celebrating with my friend, but— I didn’t last long.” He kissed your chin. “I went home, by myself.” His hand caressed the length of your thigh, the side of it, down to your knee, and picked it up. He wanted you glued to his body permanently. He thought he’d never spent this much time between your legs before, not sexually, nor romantically, and now he craved it continuously. He wanted to take a day off and just lay the closest he can on top of you. “I went home by myself, and I fantasised about what could have happened. If I had had the nerves and if I hadn’t let go of you. Touching you, being inside you, kissing you. Having you all night long. Being yours still, endlessly.”

You traced the lines of his face. You’d had sex in this room before — his small dance room at home — and it had been hot, but now you just wanted the closeness of his bedroom — your shared bedroom, where you had slept together in the past, and now again, found in each other once more. 

“You sure we’re doing this right?” you asked him, combing his hair back while he kissed his way down your neck. Missing you had helped him appreciate some small details of you more, especially the ones he feared forgetting. Little beauty marks, moles, scars; places where your skin felt softer, places where he could touch you innocently and still cause waves of goosebumps over your entire body. Places where the ruthlessness of your body gave way to luscious forests of pleasures, endless deserts of scorching want, rich oceans of admiration, and devotion, and love. 

He liked you rough and reckless and harsh, and he liked where he could find exceptions to that shark character of yours. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I can’t stop wanting you,” he confessed with a giggle, teasing the waistband of your joggers with his eager fingertips. 

You grabbed him sternly by his own waistband, and started pulling him in, twisting the two of you around as you began to walk backward towards the bedroom. 

“Jimin,” you moaned, almost with a hiccup at the way he stole your breath with tiny nips at your throat. 

“Love,” he moaned back at you, and your knees went weak. “Are you gonna give me the night we could have had?”

You purred and bit at the base of his neck. “One day, I will give you all the nights we missed. But tonight we have just tonight, and I’m gonna make the best of it.”

There was a certain power in love refound. It soared in your veins as you undressed him, and it sang in his heartbeat as he did the same to you. 

It was tender and liquid as his fingers caressed your chest with devotion, his eyes caught as if it was the first time still. 

His hips went wild as your hands reached for him, touching him lovingly, unrushed, precise and skilled. He stopped you with a grip around your wrist, just in time to convince you to grind against him, like that first magical, perfect night, when he’d taken and given, and you’d met him, again and again, flowing inside him just as you allowed him inside you. 

Your bodies seemed to perfectly sing to each other, until you couldn’t stand the distance any longer. 

“Can I? Inside?” he asked, so, so gentle. He touched your face as he asked, cupping your cheek, kissing you deep, deeper, his lips sinfully plush, his teeth a harsh and pleasant contrast. 

“Yes, please,” you replied with a breathy, light tone, your words barely loud enough. 

He let himself kiss you deeper — impossibly so — as he grabbed his sex and placed the tip to your entrance, the movement so smooth as he slipped inside you. 

A guttural gasp caught you, but he smoothed it out with a fond galaxy of kisses spread all over your face and chest. 

“I’m so sorry I let you go,” he confessed, catching you in his arms, holding you as tight as he could. He rolled you over so that he was on top, so he could give you a break from all the effort as you’d been grinding on top of him for a solid ten minutes, and your legs had to be tired. 

He could take over, and he wanted to. He needed to make it up to you. 

“I’m so sorry,” he repeated. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t call you out on your bullshit. I’m sorry I didn’t hold you back.” You wanted to keep talking, but he was working you good, and it was hard to find words that made sense. 

“We’re good now,” he hummed. “You’re good now. Am I good to you?”

“You’re just, so good,” you confirmed, adding to it. “You’re fine. You’re perfect. I missed you. This. Us. Sex with you,” it was like you were an avalanche, coming apart with words first, and then your body, gradually getting sloppy, losing control. 

Your hand moved in between your bodies, to the apex of your slit, teasing the sensitive skin there.

He looked at your hand, at your bodies joining. “I missed it too. I missed your body. God, I missed this so much,” he groaned. “I’m gonna—”

“Go,” you reassured him. 

He went wild and there, you followed, your voice hoarse as you cried out his name, your lips parched from the panting, the gasping over every sensation he caused inside your body. 

Once he collapsed on top of you, you just held him there, letting him catch his breath, soothing him with tender strokes of your hand over his body, over his dirty blond hair.

You let him rest inside you, close to you, and confessed. “You know I love you,” you whispered. 

And after some seconds during which you thought he was already asleep, he replied “I love you, too, you know.” And then he added, “Like crazy.”

It made you chuckle, just barely. You nodded to yourself. “Like crazy.”

If you liked how this fic made you feel, remember to tell the writer -- yeah, we get a huge sugar rush from that 🥹✨

[n--n]

So can you elaborate on the lyrics of Poison being uninspired? I think a big problem with them is that there’s supposed to be a dramatic switch up in tone at the end, but it’s not actually big because the song has no dark subtext, the darkness is pure text. You can’t have a character say “My stories gonna end with me dead from your poison” then expect us to be shocked when the song gets sad in the end.

Addict was something people could have actually comfortably danced to in the club, which makes it hit when the concept is flipped to the dark side of itself, and it fits thematically, because it’s him coming down from his high, and he’s taking in what’s become of his life. Angel wasn’t happy before the ending of Poison so why is the song suddenly sad now like anything has changed?

But to me the lyrics seem unique enough. Like I can’t say any of them are cliches or platitudes. Though it kind of annoys me that the second verse like a regular pop song, but a real pop song has eight lines in verse one, this one has six and the Yeah yeah yeahs don’t count, so the second verse has an odd number of lines and just feels incomplete. That could be an example of it being uninspired.

Thank you for this ask it gives me an excuse to surgically open this song and really understand why it bothers me so much. Also it's 12 and I haven't rewatched it in a while so I might come back tomorrow and rewrite this so take it w a grain of salt sorry abt that.

In a nutshell- it's uninspired to me bc its such a nothingburger of a song. Like what do we get from it that we don't already know about Angel- either from the show itself, side content like the Addict video, or even from posts about him? Nothing. And lyrics aside, although the beat is good it's just a generic pop tune like Addict was a generic Kesha tune ya'know? Nothing about the melody particularly stood out to me as unique on its own or helping the storytelling. Even the fact that it's so upbeat in spite of the lyrics and visuals works against it when it gets towards the end and fails at trying to surprise you that it's sad.

"...so the second verse has an odd number of lines and just feels incomplete"

^^See thank you for articulating this bc I don't actually know much about how to articulate my thoughts on music, but this does help me make sense of why the actual tune just didn't grab me/felt off.

Also, going w/ the comparison to All You Wanna Do again- it's uninspired in that it also tries to do the thing where it makes a character use sexual innuendo to cope/describe the sa but falls so flat. Like,

"So far beyond difficult to resist another gulp

Yeah, I know it's poison You're feedin' me poison I'm chokin' from the taste and I can't help but swallow Up your poison I made my choice and Every night I'm wasted like there's no tomorrow"

Angel Dust does his dance as he sings this-and the images of him in his fetish gear/parts of the assault appear on screen, and he even poses in the positions it's implied he's being assaulted in. Like, was ALL of that necessary when the lyrics are already telling us directly what's happening to him??? Katherine made sex jokes abt her sa too, but we get to see her as her own character outside of the assaults and we learn so much about her pov, how it affected her entire life, etc. I feel like I wouldn't find it even that egregious if we had gotten to have scenes where the audience gets to see Angel be himself outside of the performative mask he wears+his suffering, but he was only used for cheap sex jokes when interacting w the others at the hotel. And now in his song, he redundantly sings abt his situation which we have already been shown:

"I got so good at bein' untrue I got so good at tellin' you what you wanna hear I disassociate, disappear Yeah, yeah, yeah"

We saw his conflict w Husk over how fake he is, saw him placate Val over the phone, and I can't recall if we saw him disassociate but regardless. The point is we know all this, it didn't need to be a song let alone a whole music video. If we left the scene after Val abused Angel in the backroom and made Charlie leave it would have been waaayyyyy more weighty and foreboding than this song/MV.

ALSO:

"You can’t have a character say “My stories gonna end with me dead from your poison” then expect us to be shocked when the song gets sad in the end." + "...and it fits thematically, because it’s him coming down from his high, and he’s taking in what’s become of his life."

^^^^THIS!! They really tried leaning into the tragedy of his situation but really just ended up making him a tool for whump instead. Addict was put together wayyy better musically, thematically and visually- it actually felt impactful when we're left with Angel Dust crying on the bed w his pet comforting him, whereas Poison leaving him on the ground left me feeling nothing but annoyance.

[kingwuko]

I saw a Wu post you reblogged and it mentioned that on supplemental content it's revealed that Wu was in republic city for a degree and me being me couldn't shake the idea of that degree being in musical theater. Am I projecting my own wants amd desires on my favorite blorbo? Yes a little bit, but also look at him. Come on. So this idea is in the back of my mind for the past few days and then just now I'm listening to a song from that fan project of atla as a musical (I'm honestly not sure how many more songs they've made) and I'm like. Heh, what if Wu wrote that musical. Then i go no. No this is just as a silly thing, I'm not serious about it... but then I imagine him actually singing this, and singing it well, while playing it at a piano and.

Gods DAMN I want it so bad. I mean can you imagine him asking former fire lord zuko himself about what his sister was like so he can WRITE about it?

Insane.

Idk, I feel like it has the potential of being the anti Ember Island play, something genuinely good with all its sources thoroughly checked and vetted and every living person featured in the story consulted and given explicit permission to use their likeness.

I also just generally like the idea of Wu being a composer? I recall the joke about his singing being that its awful and I wish that weren't true but if it is then I think he should be a good composer at least. Just has a terrible singing voice lol.

Anyway that's all, let me know if I'm sending too many of these btw I just enjoy your responses a lot!

AAAAAH Wu being in a music theater program in RCU is actually a great idea. Being a composer or writer totally tracks for me. His lil rhymes he came up with while singing on the spot were actually delightful and clever!!! I love his silly badgermole songs and I don't think his singing voice is too shabby either!

Oh my god to that song though what a fun fan project. Wu is well versed in history (citation ruins of the empire) so yeah! He could make the anti-ember island musical retelling of Aangs adventures why not!

You are not sending me too many asks. I feel like I'm annoying begging people to interact with me lol but seriously please send me all your Wuko thoughts I love talking about these guys!!!

(for anyone wondering the supplemental content referenced is from the Avatar Legends TTRPG Republic City book idk if you guys have noticed but I'm kind of obsessed with Avatar Legends lol)

[sexhaver]

one of my favorite parts about MTG is how much wording matters, like you're making a deal with the fae folk. for example, look at this old-ass card:

the official Oracle text of this card reads as follows:

"Counter target instant spell if it's blue. Draw a card at the beginning of the next turn's upkeep."

those of you not well-versed in the intricacies of MTG rules jargon (i.e. normal people) might think of this as unnecessarily wordy. after all, wouldn't the following wording be shorter while keeping the same functionality?

"Counter target blue instant spell and draw a card at the beginning of the next turn's upkeep."

Wrong. You idiot. You absolute fucking oaf. You have just made the card objectively worse.

the first half has to stay the same because the actual wording allows you to target any instant spell (even nonblue ones), whereas the revised wording requires the spell to be blue as you cast Burnout. this means two things, one of which is pretty much irrelevant:

the wordings interact differently with spells/effects that change the color of a spell on the stack. with the actual wording, you could target a nonblue spell, then hold priority and respond to yourself by making the spell blue. with the revised wording, you would need to cast and resolve the effect turning the spell-to-be-countered blue before casting Burnout. this is completely and totally irrelevant because there are maybe 15 cards ever printed that change the color of a spell being cast, and the only one of them that doesn't suck ass is only usable as half of a two-card instant-win combo (Painter's Servant + Grinding Wheel)

you can cast the current wording targeting a spell that is not blue, it just won't be countered when Burnout resolves. the revised wording would make Burnout literally unplayable until your opponent casts a blue spell, which theyre not even guaranteed to have in their deck in the first place. i know this is kind of a subset of the last point but it bears repeating independent of the color-changing shit: the current wording lets you cast Burnout in response to ANY instant, not just blue ones

the second half has to remain as its own separate sentence because if it didn't, you wouldn't draw a card if the first half of the spell doesn't do anything (i.e. you targeted a nonblue instant). this one is kind of annoying to explain with counterspells so i'll use creature/damage spells for example

Sorin's Thirst says "deal 2 damage to target creature and you gain 2 life." with this wording, if the creature you target has become an illegal target by the time the spell resolves (usually by being sacrificed, bounced, or given hexproof), the entire effect is countered and you don't gain 2 life.

the Explosion half of Expansion//Explosion reads "deal X damage to any target. Target player draws X cards." in this case, if the target of the damage is illegal/gone by the time the spell resolves, the card draw part of the effect doesn't give a shit because it's separated by a period. by God you paid good mana for that card draw and with God as your witness you're drawing those X cards whether you hit something for X damage or not.

with Burnout, this means that if the "draw a card" part was lumped into the same sentence as "counter target instant spell if it's blue", you wouldn't draw a card if the spell you target isn't blue. which sounds stupid until you remember that not every deck plays blue* and it's possible for this to be a completely dead card. the current wording allows you to effectively cycle it for something more useful by targeting any spell (even your own!) with Burnout, letting it resolve without countering anything and still getting the "draw on next upkeep" effect. if the rules text was all one sentence, all this would accomplish is wasting 2 mana and a card. this has been your morning MTG Autism Post, thank you for tuning in

*in practice, since this card is only legal in Vintage, Legacy, and Commander, you are actually 100% guaranteed to have someone playing blue at the table. the problem then becomes that this card kind of just sucks even with the lenient wording letting you cycle it with the slowtrip

EDIT: as pointed out in the replies, if you somehow manage to actually fizzle Burnout by removing the targeted instant from the stack entirely before Burnout resolves, you will not draw the card since the card draw is not targeted, and spells fizzle when ALL of their targets are illegal upon resolution. the examples above still hold true, though: since the card draw of Explosion requires you to target a player (usually yourself), the cards still get drawn regardless of whether or not the damage goes through

[autisticempathydaemon]

Hiya!! This is for the Redacted matchups! ^-^

What song are you fixated on at the moment? What lyric or verse, and why?

- I'm on a The Crane Wives kick, listening to "How to Rest" and "Arcturus Beaming" on repeat. It gave me the name of my redacted demon OC actually lol. But How to Rest means a lot to me. I could quote the whole song, but I'll just put:

"Here's the truest thing I've ever know / The heart is just a muscle with a rhythm all its own / It doesn't stop when you decide not to move on / The heart knows nothing of your love or of your loss / So life just keeps on ticking by, compelled by instinct to survive / And love's the only thing worth being alive for"

What is your Enneagram type?

- I had to search a bit to find where to take this but I got Type 9? Sleeping At Last has songs based on each type and I relate to two and nine too much.

Do you love gargantuan Youtube video essays, and if so, which is your favorite and why?

- Oh god, yeah I do! I have so many favorites but I can give an older one and a newer one. Ladyknightthebrave's whole channel has my heart, but her "Dead Doesn't Mean Gone - A Haunting of Bly Manor Video Essay" has been engrained in my memory. The new favorite is Skyehopper's "Why Bastion Lies to You" because I do love that game, and its unreliable narrator. I mostly watch media summaries and analyses, and it's comforting to listen to people talk about the media that touches them.

Tell me about your childhood imaginary friend.

- So... I didn't have one? I felt so weird, like I was supposed to have one, but never did. May be the aphantasia in me, but my imagination hit after I found fanfic and went all in with OCs.

What is your go-to way to fall asleep?

- Video essays and videogame playthroughs! Curl up in blankets and put on an old favorite.

If you had to change your name, what would it be, and why? (In tandem, if you have changed your name, why did you pick that one?)

- Oh, I'm too indecisive for this, but maybe Ari? I like shorter names. I have more issue with my surname than my first name.

What is your favorite of Redacted's audios, and why?

- “Trying to Help Your Moody Vampire Sleep"(Porter) and "Time Is A Song. It's Also Water. He's Half Asleep."(Morgan). Both pairs are going closer in these!! Both set late at night and during the rain help too. After the craziness of the summit, it was so nice to hear Porter so gentle with Treasure. And Morgan being so open about how much he wants to know Seer was just so great~

What Redacted boy holds no appeal to you, and why? Like, not the one you hate but the one who you don't get the hype for.

- So I enjoy Flyboi. I've listened to Flyboi's epilogue multiple times. I have not touched Yandere Ivan's playlist. I don't think I will. I do enjoy the trope sometimes, but this one just isnt for me.

Tell me about that one book/movie/tv show you know all the words to.

- I get down on one knee, and hold up a little box. I open it. It has a slip of paper that says "Will you watch A Haunting of Bly Manor with me?" More seriously, I love what it says about grief, and our own personal ghosts that we carry with us.

Which Redacted boy are you platonically attracted to? Like- forget dating, which dude do you want to be your best friend?

- SO ABOUT MILO GREER— lol, mostly I just want that man to teach me how to dress. I want to watch him play horror games while we freak tf out and his mate laughs. Also Guy! Please gimme free pizza and ramble at me for 30+ minutes.

Do you have a go-to thing you ramble about when you're tired, and if so, what is it?

- That... is currently Redacted for me lol. Or Hades. Mostly though, I enjoy listening to the rambles of my friends, rather than being the one rambling.

Tell me your go-to gas station and drink combo.

- 7-Eleven was mine first, Gavin-- But yeah, Cherry Coke Slurpee, that's it.

Tell me about your favorite playlist at the moment.

- So, the Interactive Novel WIP "Speaker" has a playlist that I have carried onto every platform I listen to music to. Feels like a playlist the characters would be playing on the long roadtrips they take and I come back to it a lot.

What's your guilty pleasure media, and why?

- I'm not too guilty about it, but the Our Life games. They are just wholesome and good, and make me feel warm. Interactive fiction games too. Games that make you create an OC for them!

And whatever else you think tells me about who you are!

- I am a pretty big maladaptive daydreamer, and I deal with a lot of anxiety over being outside. I have gotten a lot better with it, though I can still be hard on myself when I feel like I'm taking steps backwards. I like to doodle, and make lists. I want to get a cat one day. I love horror even if I am a total wimp about it, and one time I hyperfixated on a bad romance series, read all 40+ books of it, and it certainly wasn't fun! But oh man, do I know way too much of how the author mixed up their own characters.

Really curious to what you pick, thank you so much!!

There’s quite a few reasons why I’m choosing the redacted boi I am for you, but I have to admit the most nebulous but altogether vibey of them is that you and Elliott would be hella Crane Wives-coded.

Type Nines tend to be motivated by a desire for peace and harmony, a lack of conflict; another reason I like Elliott for you is because I think he could really get that, given he’s a middle child from a tempestuous home. Then there’s your identifying as a daydreamer with aphantasia. I love the idea of pairing someone who has trouble visualizing things with someone who could visually bring those things to life before your eyes, even if only in dreams. You also seem to love stories and character creation, and Elliott canonically a dreamwalking Dungeons and Dragons nerd; it’s a perfect match.

I’m so jealous, because I can’t imagine anything more fun than being a horror fan with Eli as a partner, even if you’re a wimp. He doesn’t care how many times you’ve both seen The Haunting of Bly Manor; he just cares about spending time with you- maybe getting cozy under a blanket with a cat on top of your laps. You two could watch any fun, horror media, and it’d be okay because he could turn any of your nightmares into good dreams. Maybe he plays the horror games while you watch and doze off, your own personal video game play through sleep-aid. (A chill one, I think, as Elliott strikes me as an unflappable type, at least when it comes to horror.)

Song:

I'll be the moon/ You'll be the sun/ We'll make the day glow/ You'll slowly rise/ And I will fall/ I'll be the sky/ You'll be the ground/ Under the hillside/ We'll slowly wait and watch it all

This was so tough to pin down since the Crane Wives Radio songs were all either tragic or epic in scale /lh I landed on this one because I was looking for neither of those things; I wanted something happy and comfortable and peaceful, which is all Elliott and his Sunshine truly need at this point. Also, the sun and moon imagery is just too perfect.

Runner-ups:

Ollie is a cute runner-up for you not just because I think you’d like the same things, like video games and horror but because he already has a cat that would obviously also become yours when you get together. Lasko is another runner-up for you for the same reasons! I think you’d share a lot of shared interests as well but different ones- namely fiction, OC’s, and horror that you can’t handle.

Read this post and send me an ask if you’d like a match-up of your own! 💌