#belated happy birthday you nerd

[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.”

[vivalabunbun]

As We Are, We Will Be

Summary: A nonsensical question is proposed in one singular moment between a stoic and stoic face in one singular universe.

Word Count: 9k (It was supposed to be short and sweet-)

Tags: Alhaitham X Fem! Reader, Smut, NSFW, Fluff, a lot of fluff, slight angst, soulmate au, slow fic, established relationship, married life, Soft! Alhaitham, attempts at comedy, mentions of aging, slightly jealous! Alhaitham, mutual pinning, soft sex, vanilla, safe sex (wrap it up), riding (cowgirl), fingering, slow sex, making love, really bad expatiations of scientific theories and math, just two nerds in love.

Authors Note: Happy belated birthday and Valentine's Day to my favorite dendro nerd. A continuation of this piece, one I hold dear. A thought experiment based on nothing more than the feverish delirium of love.

It was just for a moment. 

A mere pasting instance in the contentious momentum of time when a glimmer caught your eyes in the muddled chatter of a crowd, a silver shimmer like starlight.

Interrupting your contemplation as your eyes impulsively search for the source.

A late morning on a Saturday, the markets and stalls were lively with families replenishing a week's worth of groceries. Bodies veering and easing through the bustle of the busty streets.

The wide breadth of life that moved all around you. Like a collection of small dots within the vastness of a universe. 

But amid the vast collection of blurry faces were the flicker of silvery locks refracting the late morning light. Originating from a pair, an elderly lady and an elderly man, their aged hands intertwined. 

Time had made her marks upon them, and gravity had pulled down on their wrinkled faces. Yet, the ends of their lips were pointed toward the sky. The corners of their eyes wrinkled as their gazes held each other's faces. 

From their view, do they not see the starlight hue of their hair? Instead, do they still see the vibrancy and youth of their locks which age had stolen from them? 

The image of each other reflected in their irises, was it from a time before the hands of gravity pulled on their creased skin and bowed bones? Would you ever be able to find out? 

“I wasn’t aware you had a hobby of people-watching.” A baritone voice ghosts over your ear. 

Jolting your head to your right, you come face to face with the interruption. Or perhaps, your mind finally registered Alhaitham’s presence just off to the side of you. His arms were weighted down with various bags. 

Oh, that’s right, the markets and stalls were lively on the weekend with families restocking groceries for the upcoming week. You and Alhaitham were no different. 

Glancing up at his ashen trestles and then scanning back at the starlight locks of the elderly couple, and then back to your husband. 

“Hmm, not quite. Just noting the fact your hair is the same color as an old man’s, Haitham.” You catch the subtle twitch of his brow. 

“Is that so? I hope you are aware you’re not immune to the inevitably of aging, wife,” Alhaitham returns your jest. 

“Well, with your hair color and grumpiness, I’d say you’re already halfway there.” 

“I needn’t expound on your equivalent levels of grumpiness, it won’t be long before your locks share the same ashen hue.” 

“I guess that’s why we get along then, dear husband.” 

“That’s one theory,” he huffs, a simple tone lacking any bite.

You pan your face back toward the crowd, partly because it’s getting harder to hold the neutral position of your lips, partly because your curiosity aches for an untold conclusion. 

However, when your gaze returned to the ever-bustling sea of people, the pair of starlight hues were nowhere to be found. It was regrettable, but expected, the elderly couple were nothing more than a pair of strangers in a crowd full of unfamiliar faces.

They were just a brief scene that disappeared into the moving tides of people. 

Leaving you with your unresolved musings. 

“Is there anything else we need for the week?” 

Alhaitham’s voice reels your consciousness back, swiftly you check the crinkled slip of parchment within your hand. Scanning down the list of written items, all with a neat little line crossed through their immaculately penned letters. 

“It looks like we got everything we need.” You tuck the list into your pocket. 

“Then it’s best we get home before our groceries are spoiled by the heat.” Alhaitham readjusts the bags in his hands. 

A hum takes its place as your response. Pivoting your body in the direction of your shared home. From the corner of your field of view, his strides were paced to coincide with your shorter steps. 

Studying the numerous bags occupying his hands, you can’t help but think it’s quite convenient to have someone as robust as your husband. Maybe it's these weekly grocery runs that are the secret behind his physique. 

Discreetly, your hand slowly slips between the gap of his arm and body, linking your elbows together. So that your frame and his could withstand the push and pull of the crowd’s contentious momentum. 

The neutrality of your lips had long slipped away, softened by the familiarity of his warmth. Even as your eyes were pointed on the path ahead, you had an inkling that a similar occurrence was mirrored on his lips as well. 

An inquiry your curiosity didn’t need to peek to resolve. 

 

That ache for an untold conclusion morphed into a new musing by the afternoon. 

The silver shimmer from that elderly couple’s hair truly was like starlight. Perhaps that’s the correlation that steered your thoughts down this winding path of pondering. 

Everyone, from those taking their first stumbling steps of youth to the slowed cane-assisted tramps in their golden years, is technically billions of years old. Or more accurately, the atoms and minerals in everyone are billions of years old. 

The carbon in muscles, the calcium in bones, and the iron in blood were all forged in the hearts of bygone stars. When those bright beacons burned out they exploded in one last finale, expelling those materials across interstellar space. Stardust that found its way here. 

Here within you, and here within the slow breaths of the man in front of you. 

After being around for billions of years, does stardust ever get exhausted? 

That would be a sensible explanation for why Alhaitham had snuck away amidst hanging up freshly washed laundry. 

His tall frame stretched the expanse of the couch as his starlight lashes were shut, shamelessly relishing in a nap under the streams of sunlight trickled in from the window. 

Squatting down you observe the guiltless expression plastered over his resting face, still deep in the trenches of sleep, a small huff passes through your lips. Well, this morning you did have him carry all the groceries from the market back home.

Your husband does deserve this little nap.

Trailing your eyes down his neck you note the lack of a pillow, then as your gaze travels further you note the absence of a blanket as well. Internally, your mind tsks at this forgetful habit of his. 

Although his body and yours still have youth coursing through your veins, it doesn’t mean they’ll remain as impervious as they are now later down the line, especially if preventative measures aren’t taken.

Like having a pillow to support one’s neck, or a blanket to prevent chills from plaguing the body. 

Standing back to full height, you retrieved the missing artifacts, returning with a plush pillow and light comforter.  

Even when his head was momentarily lifted to make space for the pillow, and when the spare comforter was draped over him, Alhaitham didn’t stir one bit. At times you can’t determine if he’s a light sleeper or if his stubbornness refuses to leave the plain of dreams. 

It’s a true wonder of life how Alhaitham’s able to sleep so soundly at night given his extensive naps. 

The vivid sunlight illuminated patterns upon his cheeks and trestles, causing the ashen strands to dazzle in their refraction of the afternoon light. A sight your eyes just couldn’t help but be enraptured by. 

Maybe you could blame the warmth of the sunlight, or maybe the serenity of this quiet Saturday afternoon, or perhaps even these fickle inquiries about his naps for the yawn that left your lips. Now might be the prime time for some research. 

Lifting up the comforter just enough for an opportunity to slip through, your body settles in the space right against his. It’s crowded on the couch, the cushions unprepared for two bodies to occupy its entirety, the open edge looming against your back.

Even after all the shuffling and pressing against his dozing frame, your husband didn’t budge a bit. 

Leaden lashes still shut and lips set in that all too familiar line, chest rhythmically rising and falling in time with yours. The very image of unperturbedness under the blessing of sleep. 

“You really are like an old man.” 

At that mere jab, the corners of his lips tugged down while his eyes remained closed. A quick slip that confirmed your earlier suspicions. 

“Who knew you were so talented in acting, Haitham,” you snicker. 

A muscular arm soon enveloped your form, further pressing you against his chest as if to silence any more sardonic quips from entering his ears. 

It was quite the challenge to stifle those giggles before they could erupt from your lips. Peeking up, there’s an ever-so-subtle lift at the corners of his mouth. An express which yours mirrored. 

Studying the details of the lips just a breath away, a new musing worms its way into your thoughts:

 When the hands of gravity and time start to pull down on his skin and yours the same, leaving wrinkles and creases in their wake, will the edges of his lips still curl like this? 

Would yours mirror the same? 

A second yawn sneaks past your lips as your lashes grow heavier with each fluttering blink. Claiming a corner of the pillow to lay your head upon, the seconds between each subsequent blink grew longer and longer until your lids were too heavy to lift. 

Perhaps the stardust in your bones was exhausted, craving a short rest in his warmth. 

--------------------------------

There’s something against your back and your legs are tangled in something, sensations which gradually alert your dozing sense back from the fog of slumber.

At first, you only had the strength to peek open one lid, then promptly shut it. But in the nothingness behind your eyelids, something was halting your limps from stretching the weariness out from themselves. 

You tried again, this time fluttering both sets of lashes apart ever so slightly. There’s a dry film coating your throat and mouth, feeling the impressions of the couch cushions and bundled comforter imprinted into your skin.  

What time was it?

Blinking away the haze of sleep just enough to notice how the golden rays of a star were missing. A gray overlay was plastered over the living room despite the ticking clock hands displaying that it was late afternoon.

Peering back through the window behind, observing the congregating insipid clouds blocking out the azure sky. 

A sure sign of rain despite the morning forecast. Rain… wasn’t there something left unfinished on the clotheslines outside? The groggy recollection of responsibilities creeps into the forefront of your mind. 

The reign of your weary limbs slowly returns, and your legs languidly attempt to stretch out from the reveal they were caught in. However, their movements only caused a pair of longer limbs to ensnarl them further.

Alhaitham’s legs promptly caught yours, stifling any prospect of escape. 

Your displeased whine was responded with a disgruntled groan by the man keeping your body locked against his. 

Wasn’t your back looming just about the edge of the couch when you fell asleep? So why are you in this position now?

Your body wedged between the plush backing of the couch and his solid frame, the comforter swaddling you also didn’t aid in your immobility. Brawny arm draped over your waist, halting your feeble squirms at freedom. 

“The laundry,” you mumble.

“Later.” A blunt interjection from a groggy voice. 

“It’s going to rain.” 

“Less than a 30% chance.” 

“Haitham…” 

Your husband simply burrows his head deeper into the leveled pillow, likely an attempt to leverage the cushy material to block out your grievances. His ashen lashes still stubbornly shut, much to your displeasure.

“Alhaitham.”

No fluctuations in your volume nor tone, but it was enough for one teal eye to peek out from under ashen lashes. Trailing up to a subtle frown to the furrow between your brow, then finally meeting your unamused stare.

“Laundry,” you try again. 

A silent stare down, one stone face gazing upon an equally stoic face, like an immovable object pressed against an equally immovable object.

Which one will defend their title of most stubborn today? 

His chest expands with a deep breath, grasp enclosing around your waist before his teal gaze shamelessly vanishes behind closed lashes. Robust frame pinning you further to the back of the couch as he continues to ignore your huffy floundering. 

“Release me, don’t you dare-” 

Your grievance was soon muffled by a gentle hand pressing your cheek into his palatial chest. A move that stupefies the irksomeness bubbling within until it falls defeated into placidness. 

“Whether it be now or later, they’ll be clean regardless, it’s quite comfortable right here.” The resonance of his voice vibrates in his chest. 

You respond with a humbled grunt. In terms of strength you’d always lose to your feeble husband, wouldn’t you? 

There’s no point in peering up, for the pleased satisfaction of his resting face would bring a sour taste to your tongue. Thus, you merely adjust your limbs, coiling your arms around to his back and pulling his form closer.

It’s crowded on the couch, it’ll be troublesome if Alhaitham were to slip off the edge if his back were to stray any further. 

At this distance, entangled so closely together, the soft beats of his heart in time with yours like a rhythmic lullaby beckons the heavy to return to your eyelids.

The gentle drumming of his heartbeat coaxes out a final sigh from you, lashes descending down as your vision dims back into the realm of slumber. 

Slow breaths and heartbeats homogenize into a tender duet, tranquil enough to distract from the sporadic pattering against the glass and gradually increase in consistency. 

A less than 30% chance of rain doesn’t mean that there’s a greater than 70% chance of no rain. It’s merely a statistical probability of 0.01 units of more precipitation at a given area in the given forecast area in the time period specified. 

Known as the precipitation probability, calculated based on two factors: 

The forecaster's certainty that precipitation will form or move into the area X The areal coverage of precipitation that is expected, then multiplied by 100. 

Thus, if the forecaster were 90% certain that 30% of the forecast area would receive rain, then the forecast displayed on screens would read as a 27% chance of rain.

A crucial bit of information that seemed to have slipped his mind midst a quiet afternoon. 

A troublesome miscalculation Alhaitham tsks at internally as he wrings out the pillowcase into a sink before tossing it back into the washing machine. Button-down shirts and blouses, wrinkled from the process of twisting out as much rainwater as possible, sat in damp piles awaiting their turn to be rewashed. 

As he measures out the detergent he can hear the rattles and clanks of the pot and pans from the kitchen. A late dinner in preparation, a task which was supposed to be his this week.

When he woke up to the pattering of rain drumming against the window panes, the afternoon long gone, it stirred an ever-so-sinking pit of dread. Second only to the unamused stare of his wife as she replicated an overconfident statement:

“Less than a 30% chance, Alhaitham?”

How unfortunate it all was, that the area where this quaint house resides was part of that 30% of the forecasted area.

Teal eyes watch the bedsheets whirl and fumble as they spin in the wash, contemplating the circumstance and further action. 

There is only one spare bedding set in the closet, so it’d be wise to allow you to have it for tonight as all the sheets and covers get rewashed and dried.

Your bed is about the same size as his, so two bodies wouldn’t have an issue fitting. At this rate, the two of you just slept in whichever bed was the most convenient. 

However, given the current state of things, Alhaitham wonders if he should prepare himself to brave tonight on his bare mattress with a flimsy spare blanket and pillow.

He might as well return to the couch for tonight if that was the case. 

The accumulation of all the years of science, mathematics, and research, Alhaitham wonders if there was ever a bright mind who came up with a formula to calculate how displeased one’s wife is.

What would be the factors plugged into the equation? And how accurate would it be? 

More specifics needed to be gathered, something the man couldn’t do in the refugee of the laundry room. Thus, Alhaitham must brave a journey into the kitchen. His slipper-clad footsteps are slow and methodical as the kitchen appears from around the corner of the hallway.

Sights honed in on your back as you stood by the stove, a rich aroma wafting through the air. 

Sleep still dusted your hair, evident in the few unruly strands sticking up erratically on your head, you made no attempt at fixing it. One hand is too occupied with stirring the pot on the stove, and the other set upon your hip.

Your stance wasn’t exactly tipping the scales in his favor. 

Cautiously, Alhaitham made his way to you. Stopping just a few paces as your eyes peer over your shoulder, stoic gaze halting him in place just a few paces away. The faded imprint of the crumpled blankets and couch cushions on your cheek.

His hand twitches with the urge to run his thumb along the impressions, but rationally warns him of the consequences. 

“The laundry?” No discernable tone in your voice. 

“Everything has been collected and wrung out, I’ll rewash everything tomorrow.” It’s best to answer your questions this time. 

“Hmm, they were out in the rain for quite a while now. They were dripping out onto the floor when you brought them in.” 

“I’ve mopped away any rain and mud tracked between the back door and laundry room.” Teal eyes quickly checked the aforementioned area to ensure they were pristine before returning to you. 

“Hmm.” You turn back towards the stove. 

The soft ticks of the clock accompany the waning drums of raindrops against the glass, the kitchen hood whirring as a ladle continues to stir in a pot. A quiet lull engulfed the home. Treading on the side of caution, Alhaitham inhales deeply. 

Without opening the box, one will never be able to confirm to fate of Schrödinger's cat. 

“What’s for dinner?” 

“Hmm? Well, it’s raining tonight, what better to eat on a rainy night than some Sabz Meat Stew, no?” 

He’s careful to not sigh too audibly, lest he goes to bed with a stomach half-full of instant noodles and that miffed stare of yours.

Alhaitham decides to hold his tongue as teal eyes continue to watch you add more spices to the pot. Studying how nicely the apron is tied around your waist. 

But it wouldn’t be wise of him to stand so close when the fabric of his shirt was still damp with rainwater transferred to him by the soaked laundry and sky. 

His chain of thought was interrupted by the chimes of your phone on the countertop, catching your eyes as well as his to peek at the over. A certain name is displayed across the screen. It’s as if the hands of fate wanted to throw more salt into his face. 

Bahram (Manager)

It’s a Saturday night, for what reason would an employer need to contact an employee so late?

Alhaitham’s focus shifts to your gaze which is still honed in on the screen. A bitter tinge crawls up the tip of his tongue, threatening to spoil his appetite. Perhaps, he wouldn’t mind settling down in his bare bed with just a spare comforter without dinner tonight.

“Can you reject the call for me? He can wait until Monday to get me to resolve whatever he messed up,” you scoff before rolling your eyes back to the stove. 

Swiftly he swipes to decline the call, let your voicemail remind Bahram of the concept of ‘off time’. The phone whirs again right after the first rejection, but he simply swipes decline again.

Pushing the device away with a bit too much satisfaction in his veins. 

Glancing back at your frame, he lets out a sigh as he relents. Resting his head into the crook of your neck, careful to leave a bit of distance between your bodies and to not hamper your shoulder’s movement. 

“Hm?” You hum expectantly. 

“It was my oversight tonight.” A string of words a bit unfamiliar on his tongue, but stubbornness hasn’t been in his favor tonight. 

“And?”

“I’ll be more cautious regarding naps.” 

“Hmph.” 

The lull returns, him resting his head on your shoulder and you continuing to watch over the stew. Teal eyes on you and your eyes on the stove. Until your shoulders raise with a deep inhale. 

“Go get changed out of that wet shirt then set the table, this bastardized version of ‘soup’ will be ready in 20 minutes.” You reach for a skillet just off to the side. 

He hums this time, the liberation from treading in suffocating lull tugs at the end of his lips. He surmises that laying his head against you for a few moments more won’t be so consequential. 

The patter of raindrops still splattered against the glass panes of the window, drops which warped and blurred the scenery beyond the glass. Not that there’s any scenery to look at, not with the dreary clouds crowding the sky. 

A heavy sigh huffs through your nose, curling onto your side as you adjust your pillow. 

A filling dinner, a warm shower, and soft comforters. Factors that should contribute to a restful night’s sleep, or at the very least make your eyelids weary with the weight of lethargy.

Yes, perhaps those components should’ve granted you entry into the reprieve of a dream. 

If it wasn’t for the fact you’ve intruded into the domain of slumber twice already today. 

And the tempter who lured you to do so currently has his arm wrapped around your waist. 

Alhaitham’s chest rises and falls against your back, soundly asleep without an ounce of guilt over the predicament he’s partly responsible for. 

Lifting your head off the flattened pillow, your body twists around to fluff the stale stuffing back up before settling back to your position.

His body rested against yours just as it would any other night. But there’s a weight at the corners of your lips, one only grew heavier as your ears witnessed each content exhale resounding from the man who seemingly stole your sleep. 

If you were crueler, you would’ve exiled Alhaitham to the couch or his barren mattress. 

However, he’d probably sleep just fine regardless. 

Canting your head up, you flip your pillow to the other side once more. 

Your rolls and rhythm were abruptly interrupted by the clasp of two harsh hands pulling your hips into his, the contours of his rigor now digging into the plush of your ass. Forcing a stunned gasp up your throat.

“It seems like my wife has quite a bit of energy.” His timbre deeper from grogginess. 

Ah, all the twisting and turning you did just to adjust the troublesome pillow must've disturbed him. 

The softness of your ass cradled against his pelvis through the thin material of a button-down, an item borrowed from his closet that you’ve designated as sleepwear, and his sweatpants. 

‘Serves him right.’ 

Your attempts to twist out from his iron-clad hold only ground your ass more against the stiffness, earning a grumble from his lips. 

“Oh? And who’s fault is it?” You retort, still protesting in his hold. 

Snaking one hand downwards Alhaitham presses against your lower stomach to arch your ass further into him. Leaning his face closer to yours. 

“Do you want me to take responsibility?” His whisper ghosts over the shell of your ear.

You could feel the pads of his fingertips tracing under the loose button-down.

“Shouldn’t you resolve the issues you’ve caused?” A huff leaves you.

The outline of his shape pressed along your skin, the plushness of your bottom contrasting against the rigidity. 

“I can say the same to you.” 

The pads of his fingers trail up your heated skin, crawling along your torso, feathering touches alighting your senses like sparks. Massaging the tired yet restless muscles. You sigh in contentment.

The billowing button-down dragged up by his vascular hand, unveiling your skin to the cool sheets. Wandering touches slow as they rest in the valley of your breasts. His fingers enclose around one mount, gently twisting the defenseless nipple.

“H-hey! Hmph-“ Barely catching a moan before it fled past sealed lips. 

“Hm?” His lips are now right next to your ears. “Surely you foresaw this, I’m just helping my wife with all her excess energy.”

His forgotten hand made its presence known as it kneaded your hips, cunning touches breaching under the feeble defenses of your panties. Effortlessly brushing them to the side, long fingers encroaching closer to their destination. 

Your thighs react, squeezing together to prevent him from venturing further. Unfortunately, it was all in vain, for his fingertips already dipped into an all too familiar sap.

“See, you seem quite eager,” he taunts.

Stubbornly, your body attempts to buckle away from his influence. Face firmly pointed away from his lest he peeks at your heated cheeks. 

Alhaitham abandons the perch on your breast, two large hands attempting to tame the bucks and rolls of your hips. He releases a slow sigh into the crook of your neck. 

“Are you not feeling it tonight?” His hands remain where they were, but the strength missing.

At the lack of resistance, your hips seem to have lost interest in their writhing, staying within his yielding hold. Internally, you chiding your body for being so straightforward. The only thing blocking an answer from exiting your throat was that fickle ego of yours. 

“Won’t you allow me to make up for my blunders today, wife?” He soothes his hand along your leg.

With that stubborn ego of yours still biting down on your tongue, you simply nod your head. Feeling the heat of your cheeks reflected to you by the pillow. 

Permitting your thighs to give into the tow of his grasp. Allowing the grip of one large hand to pull your bent leg open, exposing your vulnerable cunt. Shielded from the view of the raindrops by a mere blanket. 

The hand snaked under your waist took swift advantage of the oppurtunity. Sliding one firm finger down to part the fold of your slit as his warm hand cups your greed. 

Alhaitham continued with the caresses of his fingers. Your lashes and lips pressed tightly shut, your leg still held in his tender hold. His slow breaths brush ghosting your skin. 

He spreads the slick along your slit, the tips of his fingers ever so often knocking against the bud at the very top. Teal eyes catch the sudden jolts of your body every time it happens. 

He moves his fingers downwards, slowly parting the now soft folds of your core. Feeling the subtle puckers of your entrance as his touch traced closer, more wetness dribbling out from the honeypot. 

The tip of his finger now encircles the fluttering hole. Your hip subtly bucked into his hand, as if to lure him in a soundless plea. 

Breaths getting deeper as your eyes follow his touch, the warm pad of his index finger twirling against your clit. Stoking a burgeoning fire with each slow circle. Your placid sighs fill the lull. 

His middle finger ventures past the entrance of your satin walls welcomed with a lewd squelch. Curling his finger against slick walls to test the give, he wonders if this hidden oasis is etched into his shape yet.

Diligently, his digit continues to sink in and out of your weeping hole, making your teeth sink into the flesh of your bottom lip. The squelches increased in volume as trickles of nectar began pooling on the sheets. Walls clamping around a lonely finger, it wasn’t enough to quell that mounting heat within. 

A second deft finger joined in, sliding past a hungry entrance. A tangled dance amongst gummy walls as they curled and stretched the space. The lewd squelches resounding in your ear, a whimper trapped in your throat. The heel of his warm palm now pressed flat against the soft mound of your cunt, every movement of his hand resulting in a grind against your clit. 

Each grind causes a hot flash to shock throughout your body, starting from your curled toes to the very top of your head. The jostling of your hips and legs gradually expels the blanket off the bed. 

“Mmph!” A whine from a sudden surge of bliss when his thick fingers curled against a spongy patch deep within. 

“T-there! More there!”

Your body writhes, no longer docile under the white searing pleasure frying the ends of every nerve within your being. 

He gladly obliges. Unrelenting rhythm slipping in and out of your convulsing walls. Ensuring to grind against that spongey patch.

 Your body twitches and flails in reaction. Trying to find some way to handle this surcharge of sensations. 

Legs instinctively wanting to shut together as if to cease this turbulent sensation, unfortunately, your pitiful strength gave no resistance against his rigid hold.

Piqued by the sweet tune, Alhaitham watches the scrunch in your trembling brows. He repeats his actions, another mewl leaves your lips as your head leans further into his shoulder.

The mellow pace of his fingers suddenly amps up, retreating out only to clap back in as his palm presses into the twitching bud. 

“Ah! Haitham.”

A pressure mounting up, a sirens call beckoning you closer and closer to a hazardous cliff’s edge. The only foundation for your sanity is thousand-count fabric, thus you twist the silk fibers as tremors overtake your body.

Walls clamping down to trap his thick digits inside as it spasms. Muscles tensing and quivering as your back arches away from his chest, parted lips with nothing choking past them. 

Three thick fingers sink deeper into your pussy without a hint of resistance, as a reward he makes sure to roll your overstimulated clit in firm circles with his palms. Judging from the violent tremors in your legs, it seemed you were almost there. 

Just at the cusp of rapture when your hand tangles into his ashen-locks, canting your head back so that your panting lips could capture his. Alhaitham returns to gesture with just as much fervor in his kiss, swallowing down your sweet mewls for himself. 

With a singular gasp, the siren’s call had beckoned your sanity to drown in the murky depths. It’s as if you lost control of your body to the possession of pleasure.

Eyes rolled back and lips broke away as breathy moans escaped the prison of your throat, a haze heavy over your thoughts, pride long lost amongst the gale of an orgasm. 

The beckoning depths of euphoria welcome your descent. 

Your limp frame rests against him. A light layer of sweat coating your panting chest, blurred vision merging and blending the details of the ceiling above the bed.

Alhaitham coaxes the contractions of your core, riding out the waves of their squeezes and sucks against his fingers. Earning an addictive whimper from you when his digits pulled away. Entranced by the glimmering string of nectar stretching between his fingers and your oasis. 

Trailing back up to your face, he notes the return of your hazy irises from their ogle of the bedroom ceiling. 

“Better?” Teal gaze watching the pants of your chest as they steady. 

‘No, not at all’, a statement just at the tip of your tongue, but your lips were busy attempting to grasp deep breaths. The surplus of vigor festering into unquenchable desire. To be closer, deeper, more. You needed more. 

Where words fail, action must take its place. Even before your mind finishes up the scheme brewing within, your lips catch him off guard, plush lips embracing his in a tender waltz.

Your body rolls back so that your breast can press against his chest through the thin fabric of his stolen shirt.

At the tender caress of your kiss, teal eyes disappear behind ashen lashes, the clasp of his grip loosening. Allowing you the mobility to finally pull your body on top of his, lips never once parting until you were finally settled atop his broad body.

A certain stiffness makes its reintroduction against your roused clit.

Breaking the seal of the kiss as a line of salvia stretches between your tongues, arms pushing against his firm chest to prop your body up as you gaze down at him.

“Still have too much energy?” Haughty eyes peer into yours, yet you can see the ardor oh so thinly concealed behind the brilliant teal. 

“What do you mean? Aren’t you the eager one?” You hum, rolling your hips against the rigidness trapped behind the prison of sweatpants.

“Hmm.” He sucks in a breath through his teeth. 

Large hands feel down along the plumpness of your ass as they drag a flimsy bit of fabric down your thighs. Daintier hands pull down the hem of sweatpants and briefs. 

A fair exchange. Him helping you out of those ruined panties, and you freeing him from a compressed prison of cloth. Discarded and forgotten along the floorboards as the fog of passion obscured them from further consideration.

His vascular hands slide down the curves of your body, settling on your hip as your legs plant themselves on either side of his body. Alhaitham coaxes the hem of his stolen button-down just above your midriff. Sharp eyes surveying the puffiness of your clit, glistening with temptation. 

Lowering your hips a breathy sigh leaves his lips and yours as the ridges of his cock drag against your slick folds. A few slow rolls starting from his leaking tip sliding down, thick veins skimming against your swollen clit. Precum mixing with arousal in a sinful concoction along his length. 

Perhaps he should convince you to participate in more naps if he knew it’d make you this excitable. 

“Oh,” you hum aloud, pausing your hips as you reach over to the bedside table.

Pulling open the drawer and rustling about a box followed by the crinkling of foil. Holding up the corner of the packet to your lip, tearing the foil while your gaze held his. Taking your time in dragging the condom out from its package. Easing it down his length while your fingers traced along, feeling each twitch and shudder. 

“You sure do know how to test my patience.” 

“Hmm?” You feign innocence. 

A pair of shaky breaths mingle as Alhaitham helps position his engorged tip at your dripping entrance. Your hand guides him while raising your hips.

Other hand pressing his chest down for support as your thighs sink back down, a shameful squelch accompanying heavy breaths as your walls welcome his cock’s fat head.

Weeping pussy engulfing his girth in bit by bit until you clit kisses his pelvis. Sending jolts of searing pleasure that caused your satin walls to twitch and tighten. 

Releasing a breathy sigh as you gather your senses.

Drawing out his cock inch by thick inch, sloppy trails of arousal caught on each ridge before dropping back down. Earning low grunts and sighs each time your satin walls swallowed his girth. The rhythm of your hips is paced and controlled despite how Alhaitham’s fingers dug into your skin. 

A whine living your drooling lips with each slap of his skin against your clit. Pushing each tantalizing inch to stroke your starved walls until his skin claps against yours with a wet kiss. The bedframe creaks with each calculated movement, back and forth, back and forth the wood sings along. 

Your head was light, intoxicated by a feverish potion of lust and desire. Feeling him reach the deepest depths, fat tip grinding against those spots which made your legs falter momentarily each time.

Utilizing the strength of both your arms now to support yourself. However, the jolts of pleasure that shot up your spine with each roll of your hips were too maddening to stop. 

His calloused fingers massage circles into your hips. Squeezing the plush flesh to ground his sanity, watching your lewd face as you shamelessly bounced on him for your pleasure. Observing the subtle ripples with each slap of your hips and the jumps of your perky breast. 

The ghostly touches of your fingers skim across his lips, prompting his eyes to connect with yours. Lush and glossy lips parted with your deep pants as your lust-hazed eyes peer down at him, unspoken plea inscribed within them. Who is he to not fulfill your desires?

Lurching his upper body up, he answers your plea, capturing your lips with his. Swiping his tongue against your bottom lip, deepening the kiss. A messy and feverish tangle as if to replace the air in your lungs with his. 

Mewls and whimpers muffled by his skin, your hands moving to perch themselves on his broad shoulders. Your quivering legs grew limp as the strength of his hands took over. Barely processing the sweet nothings whispered as your core relishes in the fullness. Like an ache that’s been finally satisfied. 

He wondered if tonight’s excessive vigor was fraying his control, or if your body was just this addictive. 

By now any notion of decency and integrity has long left you, your hand clawing into his shoulders, marking him with the scars of rapture. A harsh thrust of his hips recoils through you, a wanton moan reverbing off the walls as it forces your tangled lips to part. 

Tongue unable to produce anything other than strained moans, your head nods into his broad shoulder as your hips ground against his. The wet squelch announces the reciprocation of your walls. 

The intervals of those unrelenting rams increasing between the tender thrusts, half-lidded eyes trained on the shivers of your body. Cock sliding against satin ridges of your wall. Grunts and pants reverberate through his throat, teeth clenching as your heat engulfs him again. Reaching deeper into your welcoming core as your lips fall open. 

“Is this not enough?” You could feel the mirth in his whisper. 

Closer, deeper, more. You want more. Walls aching for more, for his girth to jostle your core more, to extinguish this all-consuming heat within you. Hips floundering in harmony with breathy mewls. 

Pressing libidinous kisses along his throat feeling the vibrations of his grunts and pants, a deep chuckle was soon felt against your lips.

“Good grief you are a greedy little thing aren’t you.” 

A deafening slam of skin resounds through the heavy air, swiftly followed by another and another. A new tempo in this waltz of passion takes over like a wave sweeping both of you out to a sea of indulgence.

Possessed by the desperation of chasing a white light, your hand rakes deeper into his toned arms. Seizing anything to prevent your mind from abandoning your sinful body as his girth twitches within your velvety folds. 

Sanity like a foolish sailor who’s beckoned by the lure of a siren’s voice, uncaring of the rocks which will sink them to the very bottom of the bemused tides. Keening against your husband shamelessly, a shameless wife on the cusp of her second fall into ecstasy. 

The heavy scent of lust, the smothering heat, his unrelenting and unshakable thrusts amalgamating into the spark that lit your nerves alight. Toes arched into the air and eyes reaching the back of your head. Sobs and incoherent babbles resounding through the room. 

Your devious walls clamped around his dick with maddening convulsions, gummy muscles suckling against his girth eager to quell your aching greed. It was too much. 

His fingers claw into your soft hips, pressing your cunt flush against his hips with a sloppy slap of skin. The bulbous tip prodding against that weakness deep within you. Bruising grip holding your body in place as his lips crash back into yours.

Swallowing down his breathless groans with your sweet mewls and praddles.

A heat is spilled into the rubber, making your greedy walls quiver amidst the aftershocks of ecstasy. Alhaitham’s hips twitch with each subsequent rip of his orgasm, thrusting his length further into your crowded cavity with each one. The filthiness of it all prolongs your sinful depravity. 

Chest expanding with pants, your lopsided shirt falling further down your shoulder. Your eyes return from seeing blinding white, exhaustion drenching each fiber of your body.

Limp figure crumbling against your husband as his back lays back on the creaking headboard. Even before your worn mind could conjure a coherent thought, your hands caress his starlight tresses. 

As his own breath evades him Alhaitham releases one hand to cup your cheek, thumb brushing softly against your smoldering skin, guiding your lips back to his. 

Basking in the warmth forged between your bodies, between drumming heartbeats and breathless lungs. 

Two bodies lay under silken sheets, skin freshly wiped clean of sweat as the crisp breeze brushed against the curtains gradually erasing the sinful haze. The cool air aids your rising and falling chest to pace itself. 

Muscles and bones heavy with fatigue, yet your eyes couldn’t bring themselves to retire behind shut lids. Not when those dreary clouds have finally retreated. 

The moon hangs high in the sky, finally free from the shroud of rain clouds, she sits among the twinkling dots. Twinkling dots were in actuality brilliant stars, some even larger and brighter than the beloved sun. 

Glimmering lustrously as they traverse through the contentious vacuum of space and past other nameless stars. A scene from a late-morning market trip wanders its way back from the depths of your memory, bringing its musings with it.

“Something on your mind?” A timbre voice beckons your conscious mind back from its trek.

Teal eyes set upon yours as your heads rest on plush pillows, just a breath away from one another.

“Hm, just senseless musings.” Your gaze shifts away from the window. 

In a changed world with millions of hands will your hands and his find each other to make two pairs of hands?

In a different time with a million pairs of legs, will your steps and his steps still coincide in time with each other 

In a new life with a sea of new faces, will a stoic face and another stoic face spot each other in the crowd? 

What is the likelihood of those odds? 

“If you keep letting your thoughts fester, it’ll only bring trouble upon yourself in the morning from sleep deprivation.” He shifts his position, supporting his cheek on his fist as he stares down at your face. 

You sigh because he spoke exactly what those whispers of rationale were urging you, but the scoffs of pride had deemed these rampant inquiries ‘childish’. However, it’s a bit hard to avoid his eyes now. 

“I was just musing about the soulmates concept again,” you confess. 

Alhaitham hums in curiosity. 

“Do you…” You take a deep breath, forcing the hard-to-vocalize question from your tongue. “Do you think we’ll only be together in this life?” 

He’s silent. Just the muted chorus of Summer crickets rejoicing over the conclusion of a rainstorm resounding through the space.

“In a different time, a different universe, or the next life, do you think we’ll be soulmates again?” You muster together the courage to peer up at his face. 

“I don’t recall ever reading an article or paper related to this topic, so it’ll be convoluted to get an answer.” He brings his other hand to his face, signifying his musings. 

Right, there isn’t even a definitive answer for what happens after life passes, an afterlife, a cycle, or nothing, no one knows. Was this the only universe where life exists or are there infinitely many far out there in the stars? Does anyone know?

Your hand pulls your blanket up to your face, partially to cover the growing shame creeping up your face. That haughty voice within was right, these baseless questions are silly and childish. Perhaps even too morbid to bring up so unprompted on this weekend night. 

What were you expecting Alhaitham to even do? Did you want him to give you an answer? What can he even do? A question you can’t even begin to understand, why would you even expect him to have some solution prepared? 

What to do now? Can you just take back your previous words from his memory, so he’ll just forget what you said? Maybe just ask him to quell any more mindless musings from plaguing you tonight by placing his lips on your forehead? So that you could finally drift into the realm of slumber. 

However, is that temporary solution enough? Enough to stifle the contentions and riddles clattering together into a clamorous ruckus in your head? Could sleep even spare you from their tumult? 

“The Membrane Multiverse Theory or reincarnation, hm, do you have any personal theories you’d like to share?” The sensation of his fingers grasping yours brings you back to reality. 

Glancing at him with a quirk in your brow, you wait for him to continue. 

“Who knows, maybe we’ll be the first to publish something for this topic.” His thumb runs along your knuckles. 

“So, is there a speculation or possible rationale you feel particular to?” Teal eyes reconnect with yours. 

“Well…” You sigh, relishing in the warmth of his hand as you concoct a half-baked theory. 

“There’s stardust from stars that had burst billions of years ago, that have somehow ended up on this planet. Subsequently, every being on earth has the atoms of stars in them. So, naturally by the law of conservation, the earth is where the atoms of the human body will return.”

“Based on the law that atoms cannot be created or destroyed?” He drones. 

“Yes, they all had to come from something before them. The carbon in muscles, the calcium in bones, and the iron in blood. The atoms that make up you and I might become part of something else, or even of different people too.” 

“Hm, that sounds probable.”

“But, then this brings up a whole new host of questions, such as, if the new people our atoms become a part of are even ‘us’? Will they ever meet? What if you become a tree and I a rock? What if the atoms of you end up on one side of Teyvat and I on the other end?”

You peer into his irises, but you were just searching for an answer that isn’t there. 

For his beryl irises were impassive. But it was the impassive foundation you needed to ground your rambling thoughts and nonsensical musings into the desolate truth of it all.

The warmth of his hand slips away.

“Never mind, I suppose it’s the most logical to conclude that we’re just soulmates in this instance of time, in this universe, and only here.” Your hand closes over the empty space he left. 

Maybe it’s wise to dismiss it as silly rambling and then withdraw from his indecipherable eyes. Is it too late to put this plan into motion now?

The weight of a muscular arm is draped over your waist, hand pulling you closer unlike your ploy to escape. 

“But I have a few theories I haven’t shared yet.” He glances out toward the bedroom window. 

“While the theory of reincarnation currently doesn’t have any solid scientific backing, in some way, the law of conservation of mass does give a bit of merit to that notion.” Alhaitham draws circles into the small of your back. 

You hum in response. 

“The atoms that created us will return to the earth after us and become a part of something or someone else’s molecular structure. A tree or a rock, a human or a beast, it’s all probable. However…” Beryl eyes return to meet yours. 

“What’s stopping them from repeating the same molecular structures as right now?” He asks. 

Maybe it was his turn to peer into your eyes to search for an answer, an answer currently brewing and forging between your united gazes. 

“What’s stopping these atoms from returning to these exact molecular structures in the future? In a different time, the atoms of us now could one day in the far future come together again and make ‘us’ once more. Maybe just you, maybe just me, or maybe both at the same time.” 

He frees his other hand from the duty of supporting his head, broad body settling down into the bed and blankets, allowing his face to move closer to your level upon his pillow. 

“What’s the likelihood of those odds? Me and you again?” You ask. 

Alhaitham pauses. All the bright minds of science, mathematics, and physics, have yet to come up with a formula to calculate such a thing.

What would be the factors plugged into the equation? And how accurate would it even be?

The ashen-haired man wasn’t sure, but there was at least a statistical observation that would provide some basis. 

“A true 0% chance is an absolute impossibility, just as nothing can be proven absolutely 100%. Since we don't know the absolutes of time, existence, or physics. So, there’ll always be a non-zero chance.” Feeling the drums of your heartbeat against his chest. 

“Then, when they do, I think I’ll spend my life pondering what could fit into the spaces between my fingers like this.” He slips his hand into the gaps of yours, intertwining them. 

Then finally, he saw the smile he’d been yearning for rising on your lush lips. The ends of your eyes crinkle as it make its way to your irises as well. Your grip mirrors his as you nestle your face closer to his. 

“You won’t get tired of this stoic face?” You taunt.

“Will you get tired of mine?” He counters. 

Your shoulders quiver with stifled giggles. 

“No, no I won’t,” you promise him. 

“Then I won’t,” he promises back. 

His larger hand brings yours closer to himself, all the while your attentive eyes watch failing to keep the curl of your lips under control. 

“Any thoughts on the Membrane Multiverse Theory? How will your astute mind surmise the possibility of us laying like this somewhere else in the stars?” Honeyed-voice mimicking awe as your face inches closer.

“I believe I’ve shared enough, I’d much rather hear what your brilliant postulate is.” His tone casted with mirth, but the bite missing from teal eyes. 

Letting a soft hum, your mind rifling through all the paragraphs and journals your hands had ever thumbed through.

The soft rhythm of his breaths kept time. Stringing the words together on your tongue, you hope this monologue of yours will provide some amusement for him. 

“If universes are randomly put into 2 boxes of ‘yes’ and ‘no’, then on average the number of universes in each box would be the same. For every universe I’m not with you, there’ll be equally as many where I am with you.” 

A coin toss, perhaps it was all just a coin toss after all. Whether or not the Akasha paired a stoic face with another stoic face, for the gaps of your fingers to fit his so perfectly.

It could have all been a coin toss, for one half to stumble upon the other half cruelly parted from them by the hands of unseen gods. 

“Something akin to a bijection existing between both sets of universes?” He cross-examines. 

“Maybe… If we were to assign one type ‘yes’ to a positive integer, and the other type ‘no’ to a negative integer, then perhaps we can construct a bijection from the positive and negative integers.” Your brow furrows in contemplation. 

“If we submit this theory do you think the Akademiya would publish it?” 

“Not likely, bijections are usually made between sets of elements like numbers, not sure if bijections can be applied to something like whole universes. I’m just hypothesising nonsense,” you sigh.

“But they did publish the nonsense known as The Lifespan of Love,” he interjects. 

“Hm, then maybe there’s a non-zero chance they’ll publish our nonsense too.” You stifle a scoff. 

“Hm,” Alhaitham hums in amused agreement. 

His free hand pulls the covers further up over your frame then smoothing out the wrinkles. Observing the growing delays between your slowing blinks.

“Only you and I would turn pillow talk into an academic deliberation.” You couldn’t hold back the giggle any longer. 

He sighs in agreement, nestling his head closer to yours on the plush pillows, teal gaze never once leaving yours. 

“It’ll make any romantic keel over and die from how dry it is, wouldn’t it, Haitham?”

“I say let them.” 

Scoffing and shaking your head at his crude declaration as a yawn slips past your lips, a conclusion to this nonsensical academic deliberation.

With one hand still intertwined in the tender grasp of another you pull Alhaitham closer. So that the spaces of your body could lay against the spaces of his. 

The warmth of his skin mingling with the warmth of yours, pressed against one another. You drawing mindless shapes into his back, his hand tracing senseless ruins into yours.

Perhaps, an illogical attempt to echt memories into the stardust in your bodies. 

So he and you could imprint the memory of each other into the very fibers of your beings. Then maybe someday when these atoms return to these exact molecular structures, they’ll remember this too. 

The law of conservation of mass, the probabilities upon probabilities, and bijections used in an inconsequential pseudo-academic ramblings to no one but an audience of silent stars.

Alhaitham’s certain no academic publisher would spare a glance at them. 

But this nonsensical instance in the continuum of time, feeling the rhythm of your heart on the other side of his chest next to his own, is his most precious epiphany. 

Fin~

©️vivalabunbun DON’T PLAGIARIZE, REPOST, OR TRANSLATE ANY OF MY WORKS. 

[star-sim]

espresso ☆ sunoo kim

☆ super mega down bad!sunoo x fem! reader ☆ summary: that one time sunoo had a not-so innocent dream about you, and suddenly you're the only thing that consumed all of his senses. the problem? you're the most popular girl at the academy, and he's just a nerd. driven mad by his feelings for you, it felt like his chances with you were next to zero. it's actually much higher than he thought! ☆ genre: dark academia! au, classic popular girl x nerd, a looooot of romantic and sexual frustration LOL, a bit of nerdy lingo , loser and desperate sunoo!! ☆ warning(s)? slightly suggestive, but mostly just pure silliness and fluff :3 ☆ word count: 9.5k ☆ happy belated birthday to sunoo! the sunoo fic disparity is criminal. this is for you @ashtxrie. inspired "espresso" by sabrina carpenter. i hope i did mintchoco king justice. enjoy!

Ugh.

Popular kids.

Sunoo narrowed his eyes, clutching his textbooks even closer to his chest as he walked past the hoard of snobby rich kids. Their expensive pearl necklaces and diamond rings gleamed under the warm hallway lights, but no golden jewelry would take away how downright obnoxious they were.

"How could anyone be so loud right now?" Sunoo grumbled under his breath, pushing up his thin golden-framed glasses. Seriously though, he had a point. There was no reason for anyone at all to be screaming at the top of their lungs at 10 in the morning. But alas, here he was, rolling his eyes at the stuck-up rich kids.

The Academy had a pretty simple admissions system. Either you pay to get in, or you apply and get evaluated based on your application. Most of the students at the Academy were from wealthy families, so they obviously paid to be admitted. Sunoo, on the other hand, had more humbler origins. 

To say that he worked his utmost ass off to even be able to apply was an understatement. It was almost patronizing to see all of these kids born with a silver spoon in their mouth act so carelessly.

They all acted so condescendingly, as if they didn't get admitted because of their father's paycheck.

"What's got your panties in a twist?" A new voice interrupted Sunoo's thoughts. It was his younger friend Riki, who threw an arm around his shoulder. 

"Nothing," Sunoo murmured, tearing his eyes away from the group of popular kids. 

All of them were the same. All arrogant, all pompous, all vain, all—

"Are you sure?" his other friend, Jungwon, joined. "You look a little bit—err— disturbed."

"I'm not."

Riki and Jungwon shared a look.

Okay, maybe not all rich kids were the same. 

Because there were a few exceptions, such as—

"Are you still mad about that one time that snobby little Sanghyeok threw a ball at you?" Riki asked, blinking owlishly.

"No, what are you—"

"He's a rugby player, isn't he?" Jungwon thought aloud. "Geez, all the rugby players love tossing that goddamn football around, don't they?"

"Erm, actually, it's called a rugby ball," Riki corrected in a nasally voice.

"Whatever. It doesn't matter. Why would anyone throw those around? It's like a ball of concrete!"

Sunoo tuned his younger friends' bickering out. He'll admit it, he's just a little bit of a hater. 

Among the snobby rich kids, there's definitely a few exceptions. Jay Park was a pretty cool guy, and so was Jake Sim. Sunoo could've sworn that there's one more person that he didn't mind too much... He just couldn't remember who....

"Watch out!"

It happened so quickly, because one moment Sunoo was lost in thought. And the next, a rugby ball was hurling at him, pummeling him square in the head.

Not again, was the last thing he thought of before he fell to the ground, blacking out.

"Aw man, you hit the nerd again?!"

"Hey, I didn't mean to— Ack!"

Sunoo stirred. It was weird. He could feel himself gain consciousness, but his head and body were pounding. Excruciatingly.

He could hear a little bit of arguing and a few masculine voices, all muffled yet somehow also painful to his ears.

"Quiet down," a new voice entered. It was a voice that Sunoo recognized, a voice that was much kinder and softer on his ears, almost healing. "If you keep yelling, you'll overwhelm him."

Whose voice was this? Sunoo knows that he knows this voice, but he couldn't quite put his finger on who.

Then, Sunoo felt a few gentle fingers run through his hair, and then a cold, ice compress pressed on his forehead.

"Just leave," the voice told the others. "Get to class. I'll take care of him."

There's some murmuring, and then some shuffling, and finally, the door slammed shut.

And the moment that it did, Sunoo's eyes shot open.

The first thing that he's met with as full consciousness pervades his body is a sharp pain everywhere, much more amplified and extreme this time.

The second thing that Sunoo sees is... you.

Of course, that makes sense now. You were the voice, and you were the person he was thinking about earlier. You were one of the exceptions to his "all rich kids are annoying" gag.

Of course you were.

Everyone knew you, and everyone loved you. Who wouldn't?

You were incredibly sweet, had a knack for calling everyone with affectionate nicknames, and every reason why Sunoo couldn't bring himself to hate everyone in the popular crowd. He's had a few classes with you in the past few years. You weren't the top student or academically driven by any means, but he could sense your effort. 

Not to mention, you were really pretty. It was no secret that every single guy in school wanted a chance with you. Sunoo wasn't like that, but he wasn't going to sit there and deny that your face was nice to look at. Truthfully, it was difficult to not like you, one way or another.

In total, Sunoo's spoken to you a total of probably four times. Nevertheless, you were a lot more than just tolerable, compared to the rest of your peers.

Now Sunoo was in the infirmary, after that rugby ball smacked him right in the head and knocked him out. He was lying down on the gurney, a cold compress to his head. And you were taking care of him.

"You're up, sweetheart," you said softly, jumping to your feet once you realized that Sunoo was awake. You handed him his glasses that were folded neatly on the table, and then you went to the shelves. Sunoo attempted to raise himself up to sit, but almost immediately he was met with that horrible, aching pain again.

"Aghh!" he groaned, dropping himself instantly and clutching onto the ice pack on his head. 

You hissed, scurrying over to his side. 

"Don't move," you instructed him. Sunoo got a good look at your face now. Pretty, as always, but you had a pinched expression. You looked frustrated, and as you unfurled the bundle of bandages that you fetched from the shelf, your eyes traveled to him and almost looked apologetic. "Let's get you fixed up, sweetie."

Very gently, almost as if you were dealing with glass, you lifted Sunoo's head just enough so that you could wrap bandages around his forehead.

"Is that okay?" you asked him quietly, your nimble fingers brushing against his skin gently. 

"Mmm—" Sunoo was cut off by a guttural sound in his throat— "Mhm."

You pushed his dark locks out of the way, humming.

While you worked on him, Sunoo couldn't help but notice how.... concerned you looked. As a matter of fact, where were the rest of your friends? Where was that bastard Sanghyeok that threw the damn rugby ball at him in the first place? 

It wasn't like you were a student nurse or anything. Aside from just being a nice person, what reason did you have to go out of your way to fix Sunoo up? It wasn't like you were the one that threw the ball.

You pulled your bottom lip between your teeth, your brows furrowing together. Something was on your mind. 

"I'm sorry," you finally blurted, your eyes wide and nearly glassy.

???

"Wha—"

"I'm sorry that Sanghyeok threw that ball at you," you continued, words spilling from your glossy lips like a waterfall, your eyes trained onto the floor and your head hung low. As words tumbled out, you stopped your ministrations on him, your hands taking solace on the hem of your uniform skirt. "I-It was very wrong of him, and it's even worse that you're now injured, and—"

"Why are you apologizing?" Sunoo interrupted you, though with labored breaths between his words, as he didn't want to hurt himself.

You frowned even harder, your fingers wringing each other. "B-But—"

Sunoo's face scrunched. "You didn't throw the ball at me. Sanghyeok did, so there's no reason for you to say sorry to me."

You shook your head. 

"Still!" you huffed, your cheeks filling with air as you tapped your foot. You let out an exasperated breath. It smelled of coffee. "I know that it's not my fault, but— but that doesn't make what happened right."

Sunoo opened his mouth to speak, but you cut him off, beginning your ministrations once again. "I'm just doing what's right."

By the end of the school day, Sunoo got out of the nurse's office, just slightly stumbling. His head still hurt, but thanks to you, who missed a few classes, it hurt a lot less than it should have. Once again, you proved that you weren't as bad as the rest. 

If it was any other day, Sunoo would go to the library to fit in a few hours of studying, but after today's events, he just wanted to go back to his dorm.

It's been a long, stressful, and painful day. 

The moment that Sunoo's dorm door shut, he made a bee-line for his bed, completely ignoring his roommate Sunghoon. He threw off his uniform shirt and tie, peeling them off like they were some nuisance. 

And just like that, the second that Sunoo's head hit the pillow, he knocked out.

Sunoo opened his eyes and he was in a bed. Not his own bed, but a softer, much more comfortable bed. 

He felt a warm—really warm— almost fuzzy, feeling in his chest. Sunoo's hands feel around the bed. The sheets are smooth and clean, and under his fingertips they wrinkle ever-so slightly. Now that he was looking around, it seemed to be early morning, with rays of sunlight peeking through the windows. In fact, this dorm room wasn't his. It smelled of espresso coffee, and was so pristine and neat.

Sunoo didn't notice it now, but all the pain he was supposed to be feeling disappeared. And just as he was about to get up to his feet to inspect, someone appeared at the doorway.

You.

"You're up, sleepyhead?" you said, leaning on the doorway as a sly smile spread across your face. 

Why was he in your room? 

And more importantly, why were you in only a bathrobe? 

Sunoo looked down, and that's when he realized that he, too, was shirtless.

Instead of responding how he'd want to— confused out of his mind— words tumbled out of his lips, almost like he had no control over them. "I was waiting for you."

You giggled, pretty sounds falling from your pretty lips. You slowly sauntered over to the foot of your bed, your gentle hands coming down to brush against Sunoo's leg.

"You look so handsome, sweetheart," you rasped. The warmth and fuzziness that he felt earlier began to spread from his chest to his entire body.

And the next thing that Sunoo knew, you were on top of him. Your lips pressed wet kisses all over his bare chest. Sticky gloss clung to his flushed skin, leaving pretty lipstick marks across his skin. 

"God, I want you so bad," you groaned, before taking his skin between your teeth. You sucked on it gently, earning a gasp from the boy. You giggled into his ear.

By now, Sunoo was burning up completely. Each graze of your lips was like a scorching hot iron piercing his skin, but it burned so good. If it weren't for his fingers that dug into the crisp bed sheets, or the way that you gripped his chin, Sunoo would have fainted already. Each gasp for air as you marked his soft skin was ripped from his throat, hot lines of electricity running through his veins. 

"Please..." Sunoo pleaded through a strangled whimper, letting out a soft moan when you bit onto his ear, your warm breath brushing up against his skin in a way that made him shudder. "Please, [Name]."

Everything before had a haze over it, a blurry screentone cast over Sunoo's eyes.

But as you looked up at him through your pretty eyelashes, lips swollen from abusing his skin, Sunoo swore that he could see everything so clearly. Every line on your face, every shadow and every highlight, every blemish and every perfection— he could see all of it.

"Please, what?" you murmured, your lips spreading into a grin. "What are you begging for, sweetheart?"

And it drove him crazy.

Sunoo threw his head back, an airy moan tumbling from his lips, giving you better access to his neck. 

"I need you," he whined, his chest heaving up and down as he failed to catch his breath. "Please, I need you so bad."

You giggled again, pressing a hand against his chest.

"Anything you want you get—"

Beep beep! That was an eerily familiar alarm sound, one that was familiar enough to make Sunoo's head whip around.

You looked unfazed, only giggling again before leaning in to press soft kisses on his chest. 

Beep beep!

There it was again! This time, Sunoo's body jerked at the sound, his face scrunching. Why weren't you reacting?

"Focus on me, sweetie," you whispered in his ear. 

Sunoo complied (because of course he did), closing his eyes as you pressed a chaste kiss to his lips. And just as he was beginning to forget that godforsaken sound, sinking into the sweet taste of your lips...

Beep beep!

Sunoo couldn't help the way that he jerked away from you.

And as he did, Sunoo jerked awake.

His eyes shot open.

Dark room, completely drenched in sweat, burning up, and unfortunately alone.

"I swear, you always look like someone pissed you off."

"Right? He always looks so... constipated?"

On most days, Sunoo could endure his friends' teasing. Not this morning though.

He woke up from that dream completely disoriented. With his hair disheveled and face flushed, Sunoo arose from his slumber with beads of sweat running down his temple. It took him four more rings of his alarm clock and his roommate yelling at him to truly regain his consciousness— for while he was physically awake, he wasn't truly awake. Not after a dream like that.

Sunoo told everyone so far that he woke up with a fever, which was true. His cheeks were bright red, and his skin was hot to the touch, as he was bundled up in a few layers of coats. 

Truthfully, his physical condition wasn't what was causing him to be so disoriented.

It was you.

What the fuck was that dream? 

Usually, Sunoo couldn't remember his dreams, even if they were fever dreams. But now sitting in the dining hall, nibbling on his breakfast, Sunoo could remember every little thing so clearly in his mind. 

He could remember how your room looked, how your bathrobe made your skin look so beautiful, how your plump lips felt against his chest, how fucking gorgeous you look—

Clank!

Sunoo dropped his fork onto the table, the metal cutlery clanking with the porcelain plates around him.

"What's up with him?" Jungwon not-so-quietly whispered to Riki. The two watched, perplexed, as Sunoo's cheeks turned even more red, the older boy's tired eyes squeezing shut as he hid his face in his palms. 

Sunoo groaned, looking through his palms to look at his friends' confused expressions.

He felt hot. Maybe it was the fever. 

He looked down at his palms, the reddy patches sticky with a thin sheen of sweat. 

Definitely not just the fever.

He couldn't get your voice out of his head.

It was well-known that you liked to call everyone a nickname of sorts. It seemed like his nickname was "sweetheart."

Sunoo knew it was innocent, especially when you were fixing him up yesterday. But now with a new context—the context of his not-so innocent dream where you rasped "sweetheart" into his ear— he couldn't help but feel shy.

Sunoo's chest heaved. His tweed coat felt too thick now. His fingertips were held together by threads, and if he wasn't careful, he'd burst with blazing plasma. 

Tuning out his friends, Sunoo couldn't stop his mind from drifting back to last night's dream. 

He'd absolutely combust if he saw you again. Sunoo had no idea how he'd even look you in the eye, after doing unthinkable things with you in his dream.

God, there was no way that he'd ever let anyone, let alone you, find out about this. He felt like some pervert, some sick creep using you to fuel his nasty fantasies. He was not, but he sure felt like it.

Sunoo didn't dare look anywhere except down at his plate. If he did, he feared that he would catch sight of you, and completely die. As a matter of fact, even hearing the names of your friends in passing made his stomach do flips. 

The school bell rang, and now Sunoo had to drag himself to class. Murmuring a small good-bye to his friends, his heavy footsteps took him where his first period morning class would be.

Gosh, he fell asleep almost immediately last night! Quick, was there homework that he was supposed to complete? His morning class started with his elective, botany. 

Botany, botany, botany, he repeated in his head, jotting his memory. There weren't any notes due until the end of the week, and the closest test from today is two weeks. So why did he feel like he was missing something? Was there a presentation that he didn't remember? Maybe they were having a lab today and he forgot to bring his gloves. Or maybe—

Sunoo stopped in his tracks.

Just as he was cooling down, he felt his skin erupt with goosebumps, warmth overtaking his entire body.

If it weren't for his acute awareness of his surroundings, Sunoo would have tripped over his feet.

Because you decided to appear.

Oh fuck, why were you right there? Standing across the hall from him, all prettied up and completely oblivious to the hell that you were putting Sunoo through.

Had you always looked so pretty? 

Of course, Sunoo recalled how perfect your face looked at all times, how jaw-dropping you managed to look even when you didn't try. The way that the light reflected off your skin made you look like you were glowing. Like a halo.

Sunoo's face burned. You definitely looked prettier in real life than in his dream. Not even the intricate workings of his brain could capture your beauty.

A strangled noise escaped Sunoo's throat, his face turning as white as a ghost, eyes big as saucers. 

No, no, no! Sunoo squeezed his eyes shut. Of course. He had morning Botany with you! How could he forget!

"Move, you nerd!" someone grumbled as they shoved past him. Usually, on any other day, Sunoo would cuss back at them, maybe shove past them even harder. But all he could do now was stand back dazed.

He forced himself to pick up his feet again. After all, class was starting, and the bell would ring in a matter of minutes. 

What was harder than pulling himself out of his daze was walking into that Botany lecture hall. Sunoo didn't dare look anywhere that wasn't his shoes, in fear that if he even caught a glimpse of you, he'd evaporate.

With quick, hasty steps, Sunoo scurried along the sides of the hall, ignoring the little hi's and good morning's from his classmates. 

And just as he thought he successfully made it to his seat...

"Good morning, Kim!"

To say that Sunoo nearly jumped out of his skin would be an understatement. 

As you appeared before his seat, seemingly out of thin air, Sunoo felt every inch of his body flare up with warmth. 

You looked even better up-close.

"Oh— Uh—" Sunoo couldn't help the way he stared at you with wide eyes, his lips agape. 

"Good— Um, Good morning, [N-Name]," was all he could manage out.

You stared at him for a few moments, blinking a few times, before a wide smile broke out on your lips. 

You reached out, your hand resting gently on the crown of his head, completely oblivious to the way that the boy tensed under your touch. "How does your head feel, sweetheart?"

Sunoo completely forgot that he'd sustained a head injury earlier. How could he remember when something (or someone) else was making his head hurt?

"I-It's good!" he stammered quickly, words tripping over themselves. "I'm good!"

You cocked your head, your brows furrowing. 

"No one picked on you, right?" you looked around, leaning closer to him— close enough that he could feel your breath on his neck. "Did any of my friends try bothering you again?"

Sunoo flushed at the proximity. This was feeling a little too familiar.

"No!" Sunoo nearly shouted. When everyone turned to look at him weirdly, the room falling silent for a mere second, he muttered a quick sorry. "I mean— No, n-no one bothered me again."

You nodded slowly, before you brought your hand to his forehead. "You're feeling a little warm, sweetie. You aren't sick, aren't you?"

If he had less self-awareness, Sunoo would have run around that lecture hall a few times, dunked his face in a bucket of iced water, and maybe even screamed a few times before answering your question. But he couldn't, so all he could do was shake his head no.

"Good," you said with a smile. "I'll see you around."

With that, you turned on your heel, and went back to your seat. 

Class started, but Sunoo couldn't quite focus.

Sunoo felt like this had to be some joke. It felt like Jungwon or Riki were about to come out behind the curtains and scream "Gotcha!" in his face.

Because why on earth were you and him on the same path to the boys' dormitory?

After his daily study session in the library, Sunoo figured that the chances of him running into you again would be low.

But lo and behold, as Sunoo was on his way back to his dorm, you materialized from thin air and started walking with him. In silence, of course, but you greeted him with a smile.

Even after 10 hours of being out and about, you still managed to look so perfect.

In all the years that he'd attended this Academy, Sunoo's never seen you take this route, let alone go to the boys' dormitory.

Did you have a boyfriend? Or a special relationship with a boy? Sunoo's stomach dropped. What if he's been thinking about you all this time when you were taken already?

Sunoo opened his mouth to talk, but you beat him to it.

"Sooo, Sunoo," you said in a dreamy, sing-songy voice. "How's your day been?"

Torture, because of you. "I-It's been okay."

You hummed. "That's good to hear."

.

.

.

Silence.

It wasn't like he was in love with you. But for some reason, it bothered Sunoo that you could be heading to the boys' dorm for a possible boyfriend. He just needed to know.

"Where are you— Where are you headed?" Sunoo winced at his question. You probably thought he was weird now. He felt hot all over.

You smiled, clicking your tongue with a playful eye roll. "Just to my cousin's dorm. He just transferred here so my parents want me to help him move in."

Sunoo blinked.

Oh.

"Th-That's nice," Sunoo quipped. "I'm just going back to my— uh— dorm."

Of course he'd be going back to his own dorm! Sunoo chided in his head. You definitely thought he was an idiot by now.

The trip up the stairs and down the hall was quiet, awfully silent— only the distant sound of students and footsteps filling the air.

Eventually, the two of you met a stop.

"I should be turning at this corner now; his room is just down that hall," you said to him, earning a nod. "Thanks for walking with me, Sunoo."

"Of course," Sunoo said back shyly, a small smile on his lips. " 'It's my pleasure."

"No seriously," you continued, a bashful smile on your lips. "The halls during this time of year are a little sketchy. Sometimes, I can't even trust my own guy friends to walk me."

Sunoo cocked his head.

"The point is," you said, your eyes unwavering as they met with Sunoo's eyes, "You make me feel safe."

Before Sunoo could respond, you shot him a kind smile, before turning on your heel. "Good night, sweetheart!"

Sunoo was rendered speechless, staring at your retreating back.

"Good night," he muttered under his breath, not audible even to himself. "Sweetheart."

(He definitely thought about this interaction later into the night, and burned up severely.)

Although no one would guess it, the next few weeks were hell for Sunoo. It was almost terrifying.

How did you manage to show up everywhere?

Truly, it felt like everywhere Sunoo went, you just happened to show up. 

It started with little things. In the middle of class you would come in to give back a sweater you borrowed from your friend. Sometimes you would come in and sit at the back of class to make up a test that you missed, or to ask the professor any question you had about the upcoming assignment. Each time, you'd wave at Sunoo, sometimes even before you waved at your friends.

All normal, of course. Every time he'd see you, he'd immediately straighten his back to make sure his posture was perfect— maybe even brush his hair out of his eyes and adjust his glasses, all in the hopes that if you looked at him, he wouldn't be a pain to view.

All as if he wasn't screaming on the inside. There was just something about how you always had that dreamy look in your eye, like a princess. How could he possibly look you in the eye? 

Sunoo wanted to look perfect and pristine for you, but at the same time, he wanted to disappear under your gaze. Sometimes, he wanted to disappear because he simply couldn't handle the power that your eyes had. Other times he wanted to disappear so that he could look at you— observe every line, perfection, and imperfection of your face— without the existence of others around him.

No matter the time, one thing was common: Sunoo always turned four shades redder whenever you walked into the room. And it was frustrating.

"Why are you red?"

"You look embarrassed. Did you fart or something?"

"Tomato boy."

It was embarrassing, especially because his seatmates always ended up being the biggest assholes anyway.

Then, you began waving to him in the hallway. It started with small waves, sometimes with you mouthing hi or hello. But then you'd sometimes run up to him with a wide smile just to say hi.

Maybe you were just really nice, Sunoo thought, though he'd be lying if he said that he didn't wish you were giving him special treatment. In fact, it made him feel sick just thinking about how you called your friends cute pet names like darling, too. He almost had to excuse himself to the washroom when thinking about you calling other people sweetheart. You were bound to, of course, but that didn't mean that Sunoo particularly liked that idea.

All of these were small little things, pretty insignificant in the grand scheme of things, especially considering that you were the most popular girl in school.

But then it started getting bad.

And it wasn't your fault.

Why— just why— did you have to be in every single one of his dreams?

The first dream he had about you was already enough. Why did he need a bajillion more?

The dreams ranged from extremely mundane to scary to a bit... raunchy. And yet, you still managed to be in every single one of them.

In the mundane ones, you'd be the person that mutters a remark to him before disappearing. 

In the scary ones, you'd be the person that Sun threw over his shoulder as he ran away from the undead. 

In the raunchy ones, you'd be under him, your arms thrown around his neck as he lays wet kisses on your skin, basking in the pretty sounds that you make— Too much!

He couldn't help it. He really couldn't.

There were times where Sunoo was afraid to go to sleep. Not because seeing you was a bad thing, but because the aftermath was always bad.

Sunoo always woke up sweaty and burning up. He'd trudge to the shared bathroom and splash water on his face. No matter how cold the water was, whenever he closed his eyes all he could see was your face. Your pretty, pretty, face. You seemed to get prettier with every dream, yet dream-you couldn't ever compare to real life-you.

Seeing your face wasn't the problem. He loved to see it. The problem was that every time he saw your face Sunoo would get all clammy and mushy and warm on the inside. His cheeks would burn, and he'd feel warm all over. 

And the hardest part was that every single time, all he could hear was your voice calling him "sweetheart" — over and over, in a hypnotizing cadence that only made him want to fall into your essence even more.

It was weird.

So, so, weird.

And Sunoo thought that he was going to die.

It seemed like Sunoo was always in for a surprise.

By the end of the month, Sunoo managed to convince himself to forget about his dreams completely. 

After all, after a few days of doing his best to avoid you, he was able to assure himself that all of these feelings would disappear with time, since his attraction to you was random anyway.

Sure, you're pretty, Sunoo told himself. And very kind and sweet, but it wasn't like you and him were best buds. So whatever delusion that was going on in his head was bound to go nowhere. He was just being a teenager, probably.

He'd never felt this way towards anyone before. It was best to just ignore it.

Sunoo clenched his fists. Yeah, he'd do his damn best to ignore it.

But as he was in line in the Academy's library, preparing to check out a new book about whatever topic he wanted to read up on, Sunoo felt a pair of hands clutch his shoulders.

"Hi, Sunoo!"

Sunoo whipped his head around and jolted, a small "Ah!" leaving his lips. Startled, he nearly dropped his massive hunk of a book, earning a glare from the snobby student-librarians. 

It was you.

The moment that he laid eyes on you and your silly little grin, Sunoo's resolve weakened. Like walls of a fortified castle crumbling under the force of a cannon, if Sunoo didn't look away now he'd be absolutely beat. 

"H— Hey there, [Name]," he said quietly, tearing his eyes away from you and turning back to the front, holding his book close to his chest.

"Whatcha got there?" you asked him curiously. He could still feel your hands on his shoulders squeezing him playfully.

Sunoo looked down at his book.

Thematic Cartography and Geovisualization?

Oh god, you were definitely going to think he was a nerd.

"Nothing..." he murmured, clutching the book even closer to him.

You shook him by his shoulders playfully, a little chuckle coming from your lips. "Oh, c'mon! I know that massive book isn't just 'nothing.' What're you reading?"

"It's..." Sunoo winced. "It's embarrassing."

You pouted, a little hmph! coming from you.

"Next!" the librarian called, and Sunoo moved forward in the line to check out his book, though he was distracted by the way that you still continued to cling to him.

"You didn't— You didn't get a book?" Sunoo asked as you followed him to a library table, your hands empty.

"Nope," you said smoothly. "I'm just here to study!"

"Oh." Sunoo blinked, pushing up his glasses. It was quiet and he didn't know what to say. "What are you studying?"

"I'll tell you," you smiled, "Only if you tell me what your book is about."

He sighed. Sunoo sat down, and naturally, you followed suit, sitting across from him. He plopped his massive book down onto the table, and slowly slid it over to you.

Your brows furrowed together as you read its title.

Sunoo's cheeks burned. You definitely think he's some nerd. How embarrassing.

You finally looked up at him. Only, instead of looking at him with condescension or ridicule, you looked embarrassed.

"Um," your brows knitted together further. "What's cartography?"

Sunoo stared at you. You don't think he's weird?"

"I-I'm sorry," you continued, letting out a deep breath. You looked perplexed. "I'm not very smart. I don't know what cartography is. Or what geo-something-something is. Can you explain it to me?"

He stared at you again.

After what you just said, there was no way that he'd possibly let his feelings for you fade away. There were a lot of things that Sunoo couldn't agree with when it came to the popular kids at his school. But here he understood why hoards of boys would be at your feet, begging for just one chance.

The corners of his lips lifted. The bashful look on your face was... cute.

"It's okay," he began. "Cartography is just the science of making maps."

You looked even more confused, but also relieved. Relieved that he wasn't going to make fun of you for not knowing. "There's a science behind making maps?"

"Hm," Sunoo paused to think, "Not exactly. But there's a lot of thought that goes behind making maps."

"Why?"

Sunoo thought he was going to fall in love. He loved his friends, of course, but none of them were ever as curious about his interests as you were.

"Well," Sunoo's hands joined to make a circular shape. "The Earth is a three-dimensional globe." You nodded to show that you were listening, staring at him with curious eyes. "Imagine even trying to transfer a 3D globe onto a flat, two-dimensional surface. It's pretty difficult to do without intense distortion."

You nodded slowly, your eyes narrowing.

"Was I rambling?" Sunoo asked quietly, so quietly that he didn't even think you could hear him.

"No!" you jumped to answer, earning a glare from the librarian. "I'm just trying to process it."

After a few moments of silence, you sucked in a deep breath. "I get it now, sweetie. You're so smart."

"Th-Thank you..." Sunoo stuttered out. Did he really just ramble to you about maps? And did you actually just listen to him with interest? "What are you studying?"

"Oh, me?" you looked down, embarrassed again. "It's just history. I can't wrap my head around it and I have an exam next Wednesday."

"Oh...." Sunoo blinked. "I can help you."

And that's how he got invited to your dorm.

(And to hell with forgetting his feelings!)

Truth be told, you weren't the person that everyone thought you were.

It seemed like, to the rest of the school, you were just a perfect little angel. And the fact that you rejected every guy that made advances toward you only helped that image grow.

Everyone thought you were perfect, beautiful, and most of all, untouchable.

And that couldn't be any further than the truth.

The truth was simply that no one was good enough for you. 

Everyone had an essence of snobbery to them, something that you just couldn't get past. You wanted someone raw and genuine, someone that had more substance to them than just their daddy's money.

Which was why you wanted Sunoo Kim.

And you wanted him bad.

There was something so fucking attractive amount the way he'd push up his glasses, eyes squinting to get a better look of the board as he messily jotted down notes.

There was something so charming about the way he clenched his jaw when he was concentrated, his brows furrowing.

There was something that made your stomach flip whenever he rolled up his sleeves to do some math problem that you probably couldn't understand.

There was something that made you so obsessed whenever he swiped his tongue over his plush lips, his eyes brightening as he explained his favorite topic.

God, you didn't just want him. You needed him.

All these years, you did everything with him at the back of your mind. Would Sunoo Kim look up from his massive textbook if you wore this skirt? Maybe he'd even breathe in your direction if you got a better grade on this exam. 

You didn't get it. Everyone looked at you, yet the only person that you wanted to look at you did not.

You wanted Sunoo Kim, and you wanted him bad.

You and Sunoo agreed to meet on Monday and Tuesday to help you study for your history exam on Wednesday.

On Monday, the two of you met in the library right after school. It was a quiet, focused session, covering all the necessary sections in a short amount of time. For the first time ever, you actually understood the concepts!

On Tuesday, the two of you agreed to meet in your dorm at 7PM, because that was when you knew your roommates would be gone.

You glanced at the analogue clock pinned high on the wall near the entrance of your dormitory. Every dorm room had one, as mandated by the school to promote punctuality— all the exact same model with a red-brown base, serif lettering, and a gold trim. Yet, the clock in your dorm felt slower, much slower than it should.

6:47PM, it read, the slow ticks pushing off the walls as if to tease you.

Couldn't 7PM come any faster?

Your eyes fell over to your roommate's mirror in the corner of her desk. 

The Academy's uniform was strict. Collared button-up, the school blazer with its crest crisply embroidered on, for girls the skirt at a reasonable length: it was all very stringent. All students were required to wear the uniform during school hours.

This study session with Sunoo would not be during school hours. You picked out your best top— a pretty, white top with a delicate lace trim. You always got the most stares when you wore this one (and hopefully, Sunoo would stare at you).

You never thought that you had to put any more effort into your appearance than you usually did, but as the clock ticked on the wall, you couldn't help but feel self-conscious.

You knew you were pretty, but what if Sunoo didn't think the same? Did you look weird today? You swore your face was feeling puffy earlier— should you do something? What if you suddenly woke up today and you morphed into a frog-like creature, and everybody knew except you?

You picked at your fingernails as you waited (im)patiently for 7PM to come. Your palms felt a little clammy, and your heart pounded in your chest with each passing minute.

And finally, just when all of your self-confidence was beginning to slip from your grasp, you heard a knock at your door.

If it was anybody else, you would've taken your time to get to the door, maybe even shout a little "Just a minute!"

But because it was the Sunoo Kim, you couldn't help but eagerly scurry to the door. You would've been embarrassed because Sunoo could 100% hear your loud footsteps as you rushed to the door, but you were too engulfed by your nerves to even think of it.

"Hi, sweetheart!" you blurted the second you opened your door, a bright smile on your face. There Sunoo stood, with his delicate face and thin gold-rim glasses, looking composed and focused as ever. And god did that make you want him.

"Oh, hi," Sunoo said coolly, pushing up the glasses on his nose. Though, you missed the way his eyes twitched, his tongue swiping over his bottom lip as he sucked in a sharp breath.

The two of you stood at the door for a few moments, just staring at each other. Your smile never faltered. If anyone were to see you, they'd see hearts in your eyes and a sparkly, pink lovey-dovey aura radiating off of you.

"Come in!" you said cheerfully, letting the boy into your dorm.

The two of you got to work pretty quickly. If there was one thing about Sunoo that you could appreciate, it was his sheer willpower and concentration when it came to academics.

It wasn't like you didn't try in school. That couldn't be further from the truth; you always tried your best, even when your best didn't earn you the best marks. 

Sunoo was just another level. You couldn't understand how he did it. He was so focused and intelligent, it made your chest feel warm and fuzzy.

The moment that he stepped inside, he had your textbook and notes cracked open immediately, asking you questions that were just a little too difficult for your mind to wrap around.

"What?!" you cried, your face scrunching as jumbled words that you couldn't understand fell from his lips. You looked at Sunoo incredulously. "We did not study that!"

You could have sworn Sunoo chuckled at your confusion, his eyes squeezing into thin crescents as the corner of his lips lifted. Usually, you'd feel embarrassed for not quite being the brightest, but Sunoo never made you feel that way.

"Lee is your professor," Sunoo pushed up his glasses, unable to hold back airy chuckles at your outrage. You nodded. "Well, he's notorious for his ridiculous trick questions, right? As your study-buddy, it's my duty to prepare you as best as I can."

That's when you got up from your desk chair and flopped over onto your bed, groaning into your pillows. 

"Why do you have to be so thoroughhhh?" you whined, kicking your feet.

Your heart fluttered when Sunoo laughed. 

Yes, laughed. 

It was high-pitched and breathy, like he was sucking in breaths of air only to push it out with a pretty giggle.

You whipped your head around, picking it up from the pillow. You stared at the boy with wide eyes. 

God, how could anyone be so beautiful?

You watched the boy laugh, completely and utterly infatuated with him. He was so cute. You needed him now.

You threw your head back into the pillow, continuing to groan and whine, in the hopes that it would make him laugh.

"You hate meeeeeee," you whined, "You hate meeeee!"

"I don't!" Sunoo laughed, his hands slapping his knees, "I don't hate you."

You whined again, kicking your feet. "You doooo."

A comfortable silence fell over the two of you, filled with quiet giggles. From your desk, Sunoo nudged you with his foot, earning another cute whine from you.

You were cute. And hardworking and enthusiastic. But that wasn't a surprise to Sunoo. 

Sunoo watched as you shouted at your roommate who came back to the dorm to fetch something she left behind.

"Hurry up, Yujin!" you chided quietly, trying to get Yujin out of the dorm as quickly as possible... before your momentum with Sunoo was lost. "Move it, move it!"

"Geez, sorry!" Yujin rummaged through her things, trying to look for whatever she forgot. 

When Yujin finally left, you never closed the door any fast, eagerly turning back to Sunoo and plopping down on your bed.

"Sorry, sweetie" you murmured, a frown on your face. "My friends are having a party tonight and Yujin forgot her lipstick, or something. Her stupid crush is there so she needs to look 'perfect' or whatever."

"Party?" Sunoo cocked a brow.

"Yeah," you rolled your eyes. "It's for someone's birthday."

Sunoo narrowed his eyes. 

Did you skip your friends' birthday party just to study for your history exam? 

.

.

.

Pause.

Did you just ditch your friends just to study with him?

A strange noise came out of Sunoo's lips as his cheeks felt warm.

Relax, he thought. It wasn't like it was a date or anything. Surely, you were just trying to get a good grade. That's why you chose to study instead of party.

"I was gonna go," you said smoothly, looking at your nails, "But how could I miss out on time with you?"

Sunoo's ears burned. 

"Oh— Well—" Just as words were becoming coherent in his head, you just had to drop that on him. He spluttered. "Thank you...? I-I— I mean—"

You chuckled. You got off the bed and joined Sunoo again at your desk. "Let's study, sweetheart."

For the next hour or so, the two of you were in a deep study session. Every word that you read and every word that fell from Sunoo's mouth, you soaked up like a sponge. You needed to pass this exam, and even more, you needed to make Sunoo's efforts worth it. He already spent yesterday and today helping you; you did not want to waste his time and fail.

Your dorm room was quiet now. Other than the sound of pages turning, pencils on parchment, and the distant sound of partying down the halls, the room was silent. From time to time, someone would run down the halls, probably running after their friend. You and Sunoo would look up at each other and share a chuckle.

You had just finished a practice test a few minutes ago, and now Sunoo was grading it for you. Meanwhile, you read up on your notes once again. Holding the notebook up, you hid behind it, creating a wall between you and Sunoo. 

You feared that if you could see Sunoo, you wouldn't be able to concentrate.

Well, just him being in the same room as you was already enough to make your mind drift. How could you not?

His concentrated expression made you feel weak to your knees, his fox-like eyes drilling into your practice test. His skin looked so perfect and airbrushed, you just wanted to pounce on him and mark it up and—

Okay, too far.

But still.

You've been studying for a good hour now. It wouldn't hurt to take a break, right?

You peeked over the side of your notebook to catch a glimpse of Sunoo. He was minding his own business and doing it quietly, but he looked so good that you couldn't tear your eyes away.

Yep, this was the break that your eyes needed, from those hunking paragraphs of text and difficult-to-read stimuli.

"Do you need something?" Sunoo asked, not moving his eyes from the practice test that he was currently grading. 

You felt your cheeks heat up. How did he notice your staring so quickly? This must mean that he could always notice you staring at him! Fuck, fuck, fuck, were you weird? He definitely thought you were weird now, and—

"N-Nothing," you stammered out, immediately burying yourself back into your notebook. In fact, you even went as far as turning your entire back from him out of embarrassment.

.

.

.

So embarrassing!

"I don't mind..." Sunoo murmured.

You snapped your head over to him. "W-What?"

Did you hear him correctly?

"I said..." This time, it was Sunoo's turn to hide his head behind the paper, making it impossible for you to see face. "I said I don't mind if you stare at me."

You felt light-headed.

Everything— from the deep espresso scent in the air to Sunoo's soft cologne to the way his moles littered his skin to the way he was sat so attractively at your desk, spouting intelligent nonsense at you to the very way that his glasses sat on his nose— everything about Sunoo was driving you mad.

Insane.

You didn't feel like yourself. You didn't feel like the perfect angel that everyone wanted you to be.

You felt like a selfish animal about to pounce on another. You felt like you were going to sink your teeth into his neck and ravage him.

Your head was spinning. Everything was spinning. Your skin felt hot, your mouth dry, as if it needed something to satiate it now. You were thirsty, thirsty for Sunoo, and nothing would be able to satisfy you but him.

And before you could even control yourself, you threw aside your notebook, grabbed Sunoo's face, and smashed your lips against his.

In that moment, it felt like all time stopped.

You couldn't feel anything, other than your hands that delicately clutched Sunoo's face, and your lips that were pressed against his. Your heart pounded in your ears. You felt like you were tied to a pyre, burnt like a sinner at the stake, yet it felt good.

But the moment that you heard Sunoo's breath hitch in his throat, a guttural sound tumbling out, you regained your senses.

Immediately, you pulled away, stumbling back as you caught your breath.

Sunoo's face was bright red as he stared at you. He took heavy breaths, almost like he wasn't breathing before.

"I-I'm—" you blurted, your mind not quite thinking straight. When your eyes met with Sunoo's you nearly bursted. "I-I'm so sorry— I don't know what came over me."

Sunoo only stared at you.

You swallowed the lump in your throat. What on earth did you just do? Suddenly, you were hit with regret and embarrassment.

You spluttered, apologies and jumbled words spilling out of your lips. Yet, Sunoo wasn't listening.

Your words fell upon deaf ears. 

Sunoo was too busy staring at your lips.

And if you weren't too busy apologizing, you would notice the way Sunoo's teeth dug into his bottom lip, his fists clenching as his nails prodded into his palms. You would notice the way Sunoo stared at you with glazed over eyes, how his pupils were blown out.

You would notice Sunoo's own self-control slipping out of his grasp.

After all the torment that he's been through— all your light touches, appearances in his dreams, and goddamn pretty smiles— Sunoo could feel his resolve being torn from his hands. He did his best; he dug his claws into what determination and control he had, but alas, it wasn't enough.

And as fast as you could blink, Sunoo grabbed your wrist and pulled you in against his chest.

Holding you by the waist, Sunoo gripped your chin. 

"Can I kiss you?" His voice was desperate. "Please, can I kiss you?"

"Yes," you whispered, your hands sliding up his chest to hold his broad shoulders. "Yes, please kiss me."

As the last syllable left your lips, Sunoo wasted no time crashing his lips against yours. 

Unlike his usual quiet and calm self, his lips were the complete opposite. They were rough and hungry, eating you like a starved man. You whined against his lips, gripping Sunoo's hair with weak fingers. 

It was a messy kiss. An inexperienced, messy kiss that any of your friends would jeer about. No rhythm, no ebb or flow, just feeling.

But to you, this was what you needed. 

You could taste the desperation on Sunoo's tongue; the taste of someone pushed to the edge and now finally tipping over. It sent electric waves of warmth down your skin, your stomach doing flips as his hands roamed.

Then, Sunoo gently pushed you onto the bed, his lips swollen as he peered down at you.

"Are you okay?" he asked quickly, making sure that he didn't push too hard.

You only smiled. "Mhm."

Sunoo got on top of you, being careful to not crush you under him.

It looked just like his dream.

The smell of espresso coffee in the air, the two of you in bed, and did you think he wouldn't notice the white lace top that you chose to wear? Just for him.

Sunoo leaned on his elbows for support as he was on top of you, leaning in to kiss you.

Except, before his lips could meet yours, you giggled, placing your hands on his shoulders to stop him.

Sunoo looked at you concerned, like a deer in headlights. Had he done something wrong?

But you only smiled. 

Gently, you put your hands on his glasses, straightening them out. They had gotten crooked earlier when the two of you first kissed. 

"Can I take these off, sweetie?" you asked.

Shivers ran down his spine at the nickname. Sunoo hummed, too eager to kiss you to even care if he'd be half-blind without them. You took his glasses off, putting it on your bedside table.

Sunoo took your face in his hands, his fox-like eyes staring into your eyes. 

"You look so beautiful," he breathed. Sunoo's head dived for your neck. His breath tickled your skin, making you let out a whimper. "So, so, so beautiful."

With that, Sunoo began pressing open-mouthed kisses on your neck. With each kiss you let out a moan, your arms tightly wrapped around his neck and pulling at his hair. Your legs wrapped around him, your head falling back into the pillows to give Sunoo better access.

"Su— Sunoo— ahh," you struggled out, especially when Sunoo sucked on your skin. Although he was only kissing your neck, your entire body felt like jelly, including your brain. "Sunoo— I-I'm sensi— sensitive there."

"Sensitive where?" Sunoo asked simply, ignoring the way that you squirmed under him.

When you could only moan in response, you could feel Sunoo grin against you.

His lips nipped at your collarbone. "Sensitive here?"

"A-Ah—" you moaned, your arm jerking out to grip the bed sheets below you.

Sunoo kissed a wet line to your jugular, right at the center of your neck. "What about here?"

When all you could do was whimper, he grinned again. His lips traveled to the very side of your neck, just under your ear.

"What about here?" he asked again.

But instead of a moan or whimper, you laughed. You threw your head back again, pulling Sunoo's head into your chest in an embrace as soft giggles left your lips.

"I'm ticklish there," you giggled out. You bring a hand up to brush up against that spot on your neck. You grinned softly. "Sorry, I'm ticklish there I guess."

Sunoo nodded into your shoulder. He took in your scent, the feeling of you pressed up against him. He didn't mind that your little session was interrupted by something light-hearted. After all, he got to learn something about you, no matter how small.

And just as Sunoo was listening to your heartbeat, you pulled him back. 

"Turn over," you instructed. He did just that. You were now on top of him. "My turn."

Just like in his dream. 

He was in for a long night.

"Sunoo!" you shouted, your legs moving faster than you could think. The moment that you spotted his familiar back, you pounced on him, throwing your arms around him. "Sunoo, guess what?!"

Sunoo looked over his shoulder, swallowing back any embarrassment and shyness as you hugged him. Everyone in the hallway was staring at you by now, but it seemed like you didn't care. And if you didn't care, then he didn't care either. "What?"

You turned the boy over. It was now that he noticed the papers in your hands. You shoved it in his face, big red numbers at the forefront.

"One hundred percent!" you exclaimed. It was your history exam. "I got one hundred percent!"

The two of you celebrated (i.e. you hugged Sunoo) in the hallway, completely ignoring anyone that was staring. After all, it was Wednesday afternoon and the dining period was ending soon.

"Good job," Sunoo smiled. He was happy. "You did great."

"I couldn't have done it without you!" Your smile was so bright that it could light up the entire academy. You threw your arms around him again, this time pushing your face into his neck. You squeezed him. "Oh, thank you, thank you!"

You pulled back, looking at him with big, glimmering eyes. You took his hands in yours, squeezing them excitedly.

Feeling bold, Sunoo pushed up his glasses before leaning down to whisper in your ear. "Your neck," he rasped, "I can see the hickeys."

Your eyes widened into saucers at that, immediately fixing your shirt's collar. Your face was painted with shyness, squeezing your eyes shut. Your panic was so evident that anyone could probably tell. So cute.

"Just kidding," Sunoo chuckled, before he turned on his heel and began walking away from you, ignoring your cute shouting as you followed after him.

Yeah, he'd regret that later. After all, you had him on a leash, and there was no way in hell that he could escape you. 

He wasn't going to sleep tonight, one way or another. Not if it's you.

[moonstruckmoony]

A Ravenclaw Lunch 🦅

Drew some of my favorite Ravenclaws on this platform. Although one isn't necessarily a Ravenclaw. (@traceyc-uk I genuinely thought he was a Ravenclaw when I first saw him lol but I saw your comment reply somewhere that your first playthrough was Ravenclaw so I think this counts… a bit? 😂)

This post is basically a peace offering (and a love letter) bcs I want to make more Ravenclaw friends 👀👉🏻👈🏻 definitely not because I'm obsessed with you guys' MCs

I swear it was supposed to be a silly doodle at first but idk how or when down the line but somehow it turned into this mega drawing. Took me weeks to finish it. I’m not happy with a few technical things especially lights and shadows… and some other things as well but I leave it be bcs I’m aware that I’m still learning 🥲 The rest I’m pretty satisfied with, I’m just happy that I got to finally finish this.

Front row (left to right):

Violet and Pearl Castellar by @vienguinn Omg HAPPY BELATED BELATED BIRTHDAY TO THESE BABIES! These 2 are some of my favorites and everytime you post I always open my phone real quick, your short comics are my comfort 🩵

Clora Clemons by @choccy-milky I cannot not draw Clora?!!?! I consider you a legend in this fandom tbh 👑 also I want to thank you bcs your fic and illustrations literally helped me go through my stressful period when I was at my lowest bcs of my new demanding job that I started half a year ago. I look forward to your post everytime and your Clora and Seb always heals my soul 😭🩵💚

Sally Salamander by @siboom777 Sally is just so wacky and unapologetically herself and I love her for it 🩵 Does she take commissions for toys tho?

Marvin Jerry by @runicxraven MY LOVELY SILLY ADORABLE LITTLE NERD 💗💗💗💗 I need more Marvin in my life honestly.

@najiang ‘s MC - I’m so so sorry I didn’t draw her full face😭, I tried my best to show her face as much as I can while still looking like she’s taking those sausages haha. But anyway please know that I love your art so so much and I kept going back to the curry one and the one where MC came across Amit with beard as adults (that one is hilarious). Idk if your MC has a name or you left it nameless? I assume it was the latter but if she has one I’d love to know!

Faustine Daemon by @faustinio27 Hey, a fellow INFJ! Winter is the same 🩵 I really love her story and especially her personality character sheet, you drew her expressions really well and I’m a fan!

Back row (left to right):

Oliver Lennox by @pixie-dustss Handsome boi 🥰 We’re friends already (I hope I’m not the only one who thinks that way 🫢) from TikTok and you made me a video for Secret Santa last year and I just found out recently that you’re on Tumblr too so I want to say thanks by drawing Oliver! 🩵🩵🩵

Aurélie Collins by @morelikeravenbore I loove this look for Aura, she just looks so chic with the hat and scarf 😭🩵 Sassy Ravenclaw bebe 🥰 My Winter has some French heritage (the lore is still rotting in my notebook bcs I haven’t had the chance to draw her family members 🥲) so I do hope they can be friends and Aura would teach her French bcs she can’t speak much of it 👉🏻👈🏻

Alistair Dusk by @speedysart Surprise! You commented on my last speedpaint on Tiktok yesterday and I want to spill this art so bad but I was almost done so I kept my mouth shut haha. I love the pretty boi’s hair and piercings, and the fact that you chose this blazer for him, I just love it he looks so dapper in that 😣🩵

Eleonora Russel by @zordanna I love sweet Eleonora and her fascination with the moon and stars 🩵🌌 Oh and I kept coming back to your “I feel like an orange” Tiktok bcs it’s so fluffy and it heals my stress… also I adore your art it’s super soft and painty and delicate 🥹💗

@traceyc-uk ‘s MC - YOUR MC. I SWEAR TO MERLIN HE’S ON MY MIND 24/7 LATELY. Not sure why, it’s probably bcs I kept re-reading your comics. Also bcs he’s an adorable little golden retriever (but also a fierce cat!😼) You’re super talented in drawing comics and facial expressions, I have a lot to learn especially in terms of layouting… last time I made a comic I hated the layout and the fact that it looks stiff to me, so your comics has been such an inspiration!

[wonysugar]

skilled | kim minjeong

synopsis : you always, always did her homework. what changed today?

pairing : bully!winter x nerd!femreader

genre : smut, nothing else, they just fuck very roughly, the end

tags : exhibitionism, they’re seniors, they also fuck in the lockers, before p.e, so they end up skipping oops, lots of manhandling, heavy degradation, fingering, nipple play, cunnilingus

warnings : !!read these before reading!! heavy blackmail, dubcon, recording, minjeong uses the word ‘lesbian’ as an insult, so homophobia? implied studentxteacher relationships

word count : 1.9k

a/n : disclaimer, all of this is fiction and is written for entertainment purposes!! i do not romanticize any of this. if anything similar is happening to you please please PLEASE speak up about it and also DON’T DO THIS TO ANYONE?? PLEASE?? THIS IS HORRIBLE

but on another note, happy belated birthday present @wintersera!! i meant to post this yesterday but uhm! writer’s block was on my ass. anyways i sincerely hope you enjoy it!

also this is not proofread uhm. SORRY,,

“where’s my homework?”

you looked away from minjeong, stupidly blinking at the numerous lockers behind her, trying to distract yourself from the fact that you were probably going to die today. to which, she groaned, annoyed.

her smooth hand grabbed your jaw in a swift motion and made you look at her properly, “i don’t have all fucking day y/n, it’s due next period. so, where is it?”

you felt your breathing get heavier by the second, your palms getting sweatier, your mouth suddenly producing more saliva, you knew how bad she got when things didn’t go her way, being a menace to everybody in school definitely got to her head. her poisonous stare piercing right through you as her grip on your jaw got tighter, you gathered up the courage to speak.

“i-i.. i don’t have it.”

..a scoff escapes her mouth, you always had the homework done and ready for her, what suddenly changed today?

“what do you mean you don’t have it? i told you to bring it today, didn’t i?” she responds, a mocking pout plastered on her face as you slightly shook under her touch.

“i didn’t do it, minjeong.” you confessed almost immediately. her eyes widened slightly as her eyebrows were upturned with condescension, surprised by your sudden boldness as she let go of you.

“it’s fine i’ll just- i’ll do it and give it to you after class. it’s about to be pe anyways—“ you added, stuttering and quickly closing your locker, convinced and hopeful that you could take the opportunity to walk away from the whole situation and get to the gym before she could do anything else.

boy, were you wrong.

in what felt like an incredibly short amount of seconds, she violently grabbed your collar and pinned you to the locker with full force, earning a yelp from you.

“who said i was done with you, bitch?” she leaned into you, staring at your visage like you were nothing but mere garbage to her, like laying her precious eyes on you was a chore. she giggled upon seeing your worried expression,

“i think you’re forgetting something, sweetheart. do i need to remind you that this whole arrangement started because i saw you, i watched you getting fingered by our teacher. i mean fuck, i always knew you were a weird desperate fucking lesbian, but our teacher?”

you clenched your jaw,

“i’m not a lesbian.” you snapped, to which she immediately started laughing.

“oh but you seem to be enjoying yourself soo much in that little video i recorded, don’t you think? how she was gripping your hair, how your eyes rolled back like a slut while she pumped her fingers in and out of you. be honest, you were loving it, y/n.” she hummed, then carried on,

“but then again, i might be totally blowing this out of proportion, so i could always show others and ask what they think–“

“goddamnit minjeong pleasepleaseplease don’t do that i’ll do anything i’m serious just– please.” you pleaded, tears threatening to spill out of your eyes now, like they always do when she’s pulling shit like this. if anyone were to find out that you gave your virginity up to your teacher for some grade, you’d be the talk of the entire school.

there you were, the y/n she knew and loved, the y/n who looked like a prey being hunted by its predator, the y/n who would sob so abundantly when she’d hurt you that it almost made her feel bad about it. the y/n that she got off on seeing.

thoroughly enjoying the sight of you shaking like a lost puppy under her, “so, why isn’t the homework done, baby?” she asked you in a mocking concerned voice, wearing a pout, being fully aware and amused by the fact that calling you by that cute and innocent pet name would make you quiver in even more fear.

she usually called you nicknames whenever she was planning to do something really bad.

upon seeing you avoid her gaze in shame, she gripped you tightly and pressed you harder into the locker. she was growing impatient, you knew it.

“i d-didn’t want to do it.” was the only thing you somehow managed to let out.

she stared at you some more, a smirk slowly cracking into place, progressively turning into a full-blown laugh as her grip on your collar loosened, before she let go of it completely once again. it took her a while to compose herself again, because it was just genuinely that hilarious to her.

“take off your clothes.”

what.

“w-what?” you immediately tensed up. thoughts filled with the possibilities of what she could do to you, your mind wandering in the dirtiest of places. you didn’t want to acknowledge it, but you felt insanely, extremely, very weirdly attracted to her.

“god, are you braindead or something? just shut the fuck up and take off your clothes, it’s not that hard. you’re better at being a fuckdoll than doing homework, anyway.” she groaned, snapping you back into reality.

“minjeong, the bell is about to rin-“

before you could even think about finishing your sentence, you felt a pair of lips roughly pressing against yours. letting out a surprised whimper, minjeong forcefully inserted her tongue into your mouth as she took it upon herself to get you out of your clothing, gliding her hands under the graphic tee you wore for your class, reaching for your tits and groping one of them before taking it off.

you quickly pulled away from the kiss, barely processing that it even happened in the first place. you suddenly remembered where you were at that moment, then proceeded to push her hands away.

“fuck - mmh - n-not here?? anybody could walk in and- and-“ you stuttered, completely ignoring the question reoccurring in your mind; why the fuck is she even wanting to do you in the first place?

obviously, as to be expected, she didn’t let you finish. instead, she just settled on grabbing both of your shoulders and turned you around, once again pushing you on the locker so your back would be facing her. you immediately felt your throbbing headache come back from the impact there was something else that was also throbbing, you just didn’t want to think about it.

you were getting ready to say something as you felt her stick her hand into your gym shorts, but she quickly used her other hand to shove two fingers inside your mouth.

“you’re way prettier when you stop talking.” she chuckled, whispering into your ear as she rubbed your embarrassingly wet cunt through the fabric of your underwear, making you whine against her fingers as you’re trying your hardest to be quiet and sucking on them to do so.

“my god baby you’re so wet for me.. and here i was, harassing you everyday, trying to annoy the shit out of you.. turns out you get off from this shit, hm? you probably play with your clit thinking about how mean i am to you all the time.” she sneered, “fucking lesbian.”

how the fuck did she expect you to stay quiet in this situation? the door was very much open, literally anyone could walk in at any moment, you were skipping class whether you liked it or not, and the way she was talking to you was not making it any better for you.

it’s not even like you could cover it up if someone did come in, due to the fact that you were, you know, slightly bent over in front of minjeong, her hands now inside of your shorts and on your clothed boobs as she manipulated your body to her liking.

it didn’t take long before her hands dug under your panties, sliding her middle and ring finger across your slit, feeling your slick immediately coat her digits. once again using her other hand to unhook your bra. your breathing hitched upon feeling her immediately grab ahold of your tit.

minjeong was quick to play with the bud, harshly twisting and pulling while attentively looking at your every move; her piercing gaze on you, observing and watching how your expression twists in one of euphoric pain, a wince whenever she dug her nails into your skin, mixed with a whine as she finally ended up inserting two digits inside you, slowly and gently curling them.

it was a sight to see.

“does my stupid little whore like that?” she asked you, taking in all of your reactions, one by one.

“f-fuck you.” was all you could let out in response, because while she was doing her thing, probably amused seeing you this powerless. you, on the other hand, were paranoid, throwing occasional glances at the door to make sure no one was near.

she chuckled when you threw your head back onto her shoulder, relieved from both nobody being near and the knot that was progressively tying in your stomach. you were getting close, she could feel it from the way your walls clenched around her, or the way your breathing got heavier and profanities started coming out of your mouth as you gripped her skirt tight. it was a myriad of things, really.

and that’s exactly why she completely stopped.

she knew it’d frustrate you to not finish, so she just completely ceased what she was doing. smirking while taking her fingers out of you and letting go of your chest.

“what the fuck??” is what you were gonna say if she wouldn’t have shoved the fingers she used to fuck you into your mouth, fake pout as she watched you. you made sure to glare at her before sucking on them thoroughly, also making sure that you licked them all clean.

“see how good you taste, baby?” she chuckled, taking her fingers out.

“i was close to finishing i was- i was about to cum.” you coldly told her.

she raised a mocking eyebrow, “first you don’t do my homework, now you wanna talk back? and here i was, trying to cut you some slack, fulfilling your weird disgusting fantasies and this how you thank me?”

she kicked on your leg, pushing you down to your knees and raised up her skirt to reveal her black lacy underwear, all in one swift motion.

she let out a theatrical sigh, “you know, you got me really worked up. so here’s what’s gonna happen,” she grabs your hair violently, making you look up at her. she laughed at the scene, at how ridiculous you looked, then continued.

“you’re gonna eat me out until i’m satisfied, got it? you wouldn’t want me to spread that video now, would you, y/n?” she tilted her head slightly, and.. here goes that fake motherfucking pout. oh how you hated seeing her treat you like an inferior.

is what you so desperately wish you could say.

but no, you actually obeyed. you proved her point, you showed her how obedient you can be, and ate her out like it was your last meal on earth.

her quiet moans, her grip on your hair, the grinding of her wet pussy onto your face, the way she was holding her phone and recording you, saying things like “you’re pretty - shit - skilled for someone who supposedly doesn’t like girls.” and “i know you’ve been wanting this, doll. it’s written all over your dumb fucking face when you glare at me.” while stroking your hair, before pulling on it right afterwards.

it was so dehumanizing, and for all you knew, she could use that as new material to blackmail you with next time, but you still did it. it was an indescribable feeling in the pit of your stomach.

you took a mental note that day,

and reminded yourself to never do her homework again.

[wintersera]

study date? || futa!wonyoung x f!reader

notes: first time ever writing futa and i feel like a hentai loving freak for doing so- anyways “hermaphrodite” futanari especially refers to pornographic characters in erotic manga or anime, known as hentai. basically wy has a pussy and a dick 😭 also happy belated birthday @wonysugar this was for u

cw: futanari, sub!wonyoung, dom!reader, dacryphilia, strap on (i say cock as well), overstimulation if you squint, praise(?), 100% not proofread leave me alone 😭

wc: 5k

“you know you’re about to be kicked off campus if you don’t pass right?”

“what…”

your teacher had summoned you a mere 5 minutes ago to drop the most devastating news you had ever heard in your half assed school life. obviously you knew your grades weren’t the best- they were shit.

you had joined the university to get away from your annoying ass parents, and you were very VERY lucky to have been accepted into such a prestigious one, a university that would make your parents proud. only skimming the entry requirements by a passing grade.

anyways, you couldn’t have the risk of losing the good friends you had made, so you started thinking... if you were to study hard you could stay, maybe fuck around at parties and whatnot, but then again you and studying don’t go hand in hand, unfortunately. even if you tried to sit down in the lecture hall with a notebook and your laptop on the side you’d most likely forget the content in as soon as you step out.

groaning in frustration, you throw your hands up into the air dramatically “ughhhh… okay, i’ll make it up to you somehow. please don't kick me out just yet”

—

stumbling into your next class like the dramatic person you are, you mumble under your breath with a displeased look on your face obviously shown by furrowed brows and your persistent frown.

“fuck this class, this is so shitttt” uttering as you take your note book from out of your bag to scribble down some barely readable half assed notes, since your teacher was rambling about some topic you didn’t quite grasp.

it was extremely obvious that you had no clue on what was being taught. instead of embarrassing yourself in front of the whole entire class by extending your arm up in the air, it was only natural for you to ask the person next to you for help. the girl next to you was known as the most intelligent person in the class, maybe the most intelligent person on campus if you say so yourself.

“…hey” whispering while poking her shoulder “what exactly are we learning?” the girl carefully placed down her pen to turn her head in your direction, her hair doing that cliche slow motion sway as she adjusts her glasses, making sure that it was tucked behind her ears. it took her a while to speak up, maybe it was nerves. people often depicted you as an outgoing ‘popular’ person, but you didn’t believe that at all- i mean who uses school hierarchy at your big age. sure, you have a couple of close friends here and there and you easily become acquainted with people, yet that doesn’t really make you popular… you think. just a few drinks and you’re already chatting to everyone at the club.. you wouldn’t call that being popular, right? or maybe she was repulsed by you instead, you dont know why, but maybe she just didn’t fuck with your vibes- your personalities clashed severely, and although you weren’t a believer of those cliche stereotypes where the nerd is absolutely terrified of the avid partygoer- those cliches almost felt too real.

her eyes widened and it seemed like all the blood had rushed up to her cheeks as she stared at your face for a few seconds, completely forgetting what you had asked her before “uh.. um… what did you ask me again?” by her body language alone, you could sense that she was tensing up. okay maybe you were a little bit intimidating, who wouldn’t think you were by the way you waltzed into the lecture hall all dramatic like that.

“i’ve been behind on everything and i’m about to get kicked out so could you maybe help… please?”

“um- well, it’s kinda impossible to learn all the content in one sitting, since our professor kinda just talks for hours on end. so… uh if you’re okay with it, do you wanna do a little studying together?”

“yes?! oh my god perfect, you’re a lifesaver. just say where and i’ll be over” immediately accepting the offer just like that. you’d think that she would be more timid considering that she was literally paralysed when you poked her, but luckily enough, she had the balls to speak to you. god bless confident ass nerds.

being too enthusiastic about studying with her, she was a little bit caught off guard by the way you beamed “w-we could do it after class. i’m not busy and no ones gonna be in my dorm today apparently…” you thought about it. even though you were fine with studying at a local cafe, or the university library, a change of environment could possibly help you “that’s if you want to of course” fiddling with her pen as she softly added the last sentence.

“sure, why not. a change of environment wouldn’t hurt- and plus i might study better with someone as smart and cute as you”

“h-huh? what?”

you felt a little pang in your heart, her confused face made your pulse race a little too fast for your liking “ah… i didn’t mean that in a flirtatious way” sureeee “i meant it more like- you know what… i'm digging myself a hole. i meant you’re very very smart and i’d love for you to help me study” flashing her a quick smile.

“uh- um yeah.. ahaha. so my place is fine?”

“sure”

—

after another painful hour of sitting impatiently in your seat, class finally ended with you still not understanding a single thing that came out of your professor's mouth.

“i have no idea what she was yapping about”

“it’s because you sleep at the back sometimes. you better stop taking naps or else she’s gonna kick you out for real”

“…you pay attention to me sleeping in class?” interrogating her seemed fun. she was always so quick to answer your questions with a funny flustered response. something along the lines of stuttering profusely everytime you ask her a simple question. it was like you knew her for a while, being so comfortable in her presence that you can easily toss banter around.

“NO- i mean.. it’s because you sleep so soundly and so obviously, probably because you’re partying almost every night, r-right?”

“you’re so cute when you stutter- also yes i do go out a lot but not that much” teasing her a bit more as you walk out of the lecture hall “so where’s your dorm at pretty girl?”

“oh! uh.. it’s just a 10 minute walk away”

you called her a pretty girl? out of nowhere? it was involuntary but it came out smoothly and without you thinking, plus it really messed with her head. score. what you failed to realise is that she walked a little funny, shuffling as she walked beside you. the tent in her pants being so obviously apparent that she covered it up with her bag, that was thankfully big enough.

that 10 minute walk to hers felt oddly familiar, until you realised that you lived in the same accommodation. what a shocker.

what's even more funnier is that she lived one floor above you

“wonyoung”

“y-yes?” she jumped in place as she reached for her keys in her bag, the keys almost falling out of her hands.

“it’s kind of funny how i live right below you” giggling about how silly you thought it was “how come i’ve never seen you around?”

“hmmm… too busy studying i guess”

“ah, that would make sense. anyways why are you just standing at the door, are we gonna go in or nah”

you waited as she lowkey struggled to insert the key into the door. watching her closely as she curses under her breath, she must’ve thought that she looked like a complete and utter loser. she was right. she was a mess in front of you-

“take your time babe”

“s-stop don’t call me that. you’re gonna make me mess up again” panicking as she missed the key hole.

the door finally opened and you were in. her room was, well, basically the same size as yours of course, but it was definitely much more organised in contrast to your hell hole of a room “god damn, i’m glad you didn’t offer to go to mine”

as you sat down on her bed, you scanned across her walls and other stuff, taking note of what types of posters she had on her wall just in case you felt generous one day and decided to give her a gift. not like you had any money for that though. it wasn’t surprising when you glanced over her desk to see a couple of shoujo anime figures still fresh in the box “hah wow you really are nerdy”

“s-shut up and come sit here”

—

“alright so that’s how you finish off this part… are you okay… you look out of it” she questions you while you slide down her conveniently placed extra chair that was placed right next to her.

“that felt like a fuck ton of cars just crashed simultaneously into my brain. wonyoung i know you’re smart, but can you dumb down the explanations plea-” you pause as she got up from her seat- your jaw swung wide open in shock laying your eyes upon something you guess wasn’t meant to be seen.

“how about we take little break. let me get you some.. um y/n? helloooo- are you good? is your brain fried?”

yeah it was. your focus was shifted onto something else. no thoughts, no words just..

cock?

you responded to her question with a nod- yeah yeah your brain was definitely fried, you even questioned if it was because the studying REALLY did fuck your head up, but my god it was as clear as day. the print in her pants was certainly real, there was no way that it was fake. her bulge being so unrealistically big that it looked like her pants were restricting all the space in there- no room for her cock to breathe at all.

“i… i uh- i don’t wanna be a creep or anything but… wonyoung i think you might have an issue down there”

“down where?” HOW did she not realise that she had a massive hard on right in front of you.

luckily she was cute, and thankfully you had a huge thing for nerds like her. you take a deep breath- praying to the skies that she doesn’t find you weird for asking this specific question.

“need help?” you breathe shakily, the sight of her cock begging for it to be released from her tight pants made you almost drool. heat spread to your face while she looked at you confused for a second until it hit her.

“ah, you meant t-that? aha i don't know how it got there um uh.. it’s definitely not because- i mean it’s like… well it seems like i have a hard on ahaha” there was an awkward silence that washed over the both of you.

“i- sorry i didn't mean to get turned on by you” shyly admitting whilst attempting to cover her hard on with her note book.

“oh, so i turned you on?” a smirk slowly appearing on your flushed face, a teasing hand brushed her cock ever so slightly as you crossed your legs.

“fuck… y-yeah you did.. sorry” she began to lose her balance as you cupped your hand around her bulge.

“no need to apologise” once again, silent washes over you- collecting your thoughts on how to approach her again “…wonyoung”

“mhm?”

“take your pants off for me” you eyed her down like a predatory animal, crossing your arms as she slowly takes her pants, then her boxers off. her cock sprung out and hit her stomach with a thud. damn, she was hung-

telling a cute girl to strip in her own dorm room wasn’t really on your to do list today, or at all, but here you were. the cute girl in question having a massive cock and what seems to be the lack of balls.

wait pause? she doesn’t have any balls? interesting- now you’re equally intrigued and horny.

“sit down on the bed for me cutie” the sudden use of a pet name made her whine aloud. you guess she was weak towards those types of words- adorable. she sat down on her bed, legs shut from embarrassment “awww” you coo at her “how cute. come on, spread your legs for me baby”

“mmm.. wait wait you’re gonna be weirded out. i-i don’t think we shouldn’t do this”

“there’s nothing to be ashamed of. be proud of your dick wonyoung, people would die to have a cock this size” lifting yourself outta the chair to kneel in front of her “nowww, i did say i was gonna help- i promise i won’t be weirded out”

even though her dick was out, and you were so ready to suck it off. clearly nervous, you placed a reassuring hand on her thigh “it’s not like i’ve never seen a dick before- you’ll be fine with me, promise”

“it really isn’t about my dick. it’s more about the um… the… okay i don't have balls”

“huh?” you sat there perplexed- she has what? what do you mean she has no balls “n…none at all? well it’s not like i care anyway, dick is dick”

“okay so um- instead it’s just… actually just look for yourself” no words could explain how embarrassed wonyoung felt, her cheeks heated up- actually no, her whole entire face lit on fire. slowly spreading her legs apart, she revealed her sopping wet cunt.

yeah whatever, you weren’t opposed to the idea of nerd girl jang wonyoung having a massive fucking cock and a pretty tight pussy at the same time- more so, it turned you on severely knowing the nasty things you could do to her “you don’t need to worry about it baby, i’ll make you feel so good that you’ll forget about being embarrassed” you say after licking a strip up from the base of her cock to the very tip

“ah.. mhm… your tongue- warm” hands extending to grab your head gently, her long fingers tangling themselves in your messily tied hair.

“first time?” looking up from in between her legs. surprisingly, she shook her head with the bite of her lip “not a virgin? okay so i can do this” swooping one strand of hair to the back of your ears, you make haste, your mouth opening wide as you let her cock slide into your mouth, and a little into your throat.

“hngh s..so deep, sorry i lied ah- i am a virgin” it makes you giddy on how she always gave such honest answers, not a single drop in this woman's body could lie. even through pleasure she was true, her hips jolting upwards and never shying whenever you did something she enjoyed. you played with her tip, attentively listening to her whines gradually increasing in volume. for funsies, you then ease one finger into her needy pussy, her head thrown back- rolling her hips shamelessly.

releasing her cock from your mouth and resting your face next to it “feeling good?” you ask, just to make sure she’s actually good. she doesn’t answer, well she does, but in a series of whimpers and squeals. her response confirmed it for you, she felt more than good.

your pulse quickened, her once tense body relaxed under your control. to be an extra tease, you flashed her a cheeky smile before you take her cock back in your mouth. she gasps again, you watching her face contort; brows furrowing, biting her lip, her eyes occasionally rolling back as you curl your fingers inside- stretching her pussy by adding a second finger just so you can see her mouth fall open.

wonyoung felt like she was crumbling over the edge with your fingers pumping in and out of her hole without any breaks, and your tongue working magic around her throbbing cock. soon enough her legs were wide open for you and in return you giggled a little. an unknown feeling building at the pit of her stomach freaked her out yet it was oddly welcomed. you knew by the way her thighs trembled that she was close to finishing.

she couldn’t help but call out your name. she really tried her best to take her cock out of mouth while she came, but you refused to move even an inch, letting her load paint your throat white as you gulp down every last drop of it. you still kept fingering her until she couldn’t take it anymore, wriggling herself out of your hold and flopping onto the bed “that… felt… too good. i-i think i need to.. catch my breath” she says while blankly staring at the ceiling.

even in a situation like this you found her endearing, unlike the many hookups you’ve had where you’d leave after a good fuck. she was different from rest; a hidden gem “sorry i got carried away, you’re too cute wonyoung” like that her dick sprung back up “really, just by me calling you cute your cock is back up?”

“it has a mind of its own, leave it be” you giggle at her silly antics. with zero hesitation, you pull off your flimsy shirt exposing your bare skin to the air. it’s a little cold

still on the bed lying down, her eyes closed, you straddle over her hips “can we do it again, i didn’t get off. or maybe no… you know i don’t mind, i just wanted to see you flustered, and of course feel good”

she sprang up- which, to be honest, caught you off guard. huffing into the crook of your neck, peppering ticklish kisses alongside. there was a minor look of desperation on her face that you weren’t familiar with when it came to her. you’d usually see her around campus all calm and collected, looking so poised and shit and yet here she was, crumbling over a simple comment you made about her and her dick.

she switched between light pecks to open mouthed kisses, definitely leaving obvious bruises all over “you’re.. so.. pretty… wanna-”

“yeah? you want that dont you baby. wanna fuck my pussy don’t you” poor girl was flustered at your words. her lips grazed your neck again and whimpered as she kissed your jaw.

“yes please” your stomach twisted. so so cute begging to fuck your pussy. you complied, quickly discarding your underwear and tossing it somewhere. a hand took her shoulder, stabling yourself as you gradually let yourself sink onto her cock.

“hnggh… fuck. wonyoung you’re so? haaa- you’re really big” you felt a little lightheaded after fitting the entire length of her inside. you weren’t expecting her to reach that deep into you, maybe to the point of you losing yourself all over her dick. it was insane to you how much you could take. really really insane how she was able to stretch your pussy out so much to the point of your eyes rolling back.

fuck, why was she that big? you started tearing up and she wasn’t even moving “won… wonyoung, please i need you to start doing something” i think you might’ve driven her past processing because tell me why she wasn’t listening at all. she could be pussy drunk for all you care, actually no she was one hundred percent drunk off of your pussy. you were wet beyond comprehension, and the feeling of your walls clenching down on her cock made her moan so loud. thank god her flatmates weren’t because if they were, they’d hear the most filthiest things through the thin ass walls.

you gave her some time to adjust herself accordingly, waiting… for… quite a long time. it really looked like she was basking in the heat of your cunt and you honestly you thought that was quite endearing, but fuck, you needed her to ram into you or at least move around. she still hasn't done that still… good lord she was gone. so taking the situation into your own hands, you lifted yourself off of her hips just a tiny bit and harshly slammed down, both of you moaning at the overwhelming feeling “ah- fuck? wait wait..” you couldn’t wait any longer, you needed to be fucked crazy.

“mhm, just- just stay still like that. let me do what i need to do” you bounced once more, watching as wonyoung threw her head backwards, her mouth agape and everything.

even though you were mid fuck, wonyoungs glasses were still on. she needed to take them off for some reason, but you didn’t let her “hey don’t- keep those glasses on, you look so… mgh.. you look so fucking good” saying all of that while you increasingly sped up. now your thighs began to ache, worth it though. with each time her cock pumped inside, the closer you felt towards coming.

shit, you felt it so much, it was much stronger than usual and you felt like you were about to explode.

“come- fuck. wonyoung baby, are you close too?”

she nodded weakly. she was about to come again after the last- and so quickly too. her head was spinning, her thighs clenched, snapping back up to wrap her arms around your torso to keep you still; and to keep you close “close.. gonna…”

“me too… me too. keep- oh my god” your movements became frantic. then, not so shortly after, wonyoung lets out a long lasting moan. a mind breaking orgasm hits her so hard, her mind blanking out yet again while her thick semen fills you up. you followed straight after, your hand gripping her shoulder tightly until your knuckles turned white. a harsh groan reverberating inside of wonyoungs head as you moan straight into her ear.

awkward and weird as it may sound, but you immediately thought about hmmm… strap. you really wanted to try it. the thought of her with her ass high up in the air, with you dicking her down and jacking her off seemed something almost so pornographic and unrealistic that it excited you beyond comprehension.

why not give her the chance to cum all over you, and then get severely embarrassed about it. something about her just made you want to tease her until she’s crying. well that did sound like an appealing thing to do.

wonyoung laid down again. out of breath “made me… come again… i’m so…”

“cute… haa.. you’re really cute” you were equally as spent as she was but you HAD to try pounding her pussy. sure, your legs weren’t able to support you standing back up, after all you did use them to fuck yourself on her, but you were UP “can i go back to my room real quick? i’ll be back, it’s a pleasant surprise, i promise”

“uh, sure?” she was confused as to why you grabbed your pants and her shirt that she took off to then sprint outside of her room. quite strange don't you think? well whatever.

you hurried to your door, searching for your keys in your back pocket “come on- come onnnn” your thighs were so sore but you had to get that damn pink strap out of your closet. it was a need to fuck her perfect pussy.

there it was in its glory, a small rectangular box that concealed your strap. alright, time to speed back up the stairs.

i guess she wasn’t even bothered to check who it was, but she immediately opened the door as soon as she heard you knock once “hey i’m back, i got you a present” you heaved as you legitimately ran up a flight of stairs not too long ago.

“a present for me?” i mean she was bewildered, you had a box in your arms. no decoration, just a plain ass box.

“yeah- fuck, let me catch my breath… okay yes i know it doesn’t look like all that, but look-“ you opened the box to reveal your unused strap on “can i use it on you?”

you cannot stress this enough, but wonyoung’s face was violently red again. given the fact that you had made her cum twice and she was still this flustered about it had you drooling at the thought of making her a mess all over again.

“y/n do you think that can fit… in me?”

“we can try. i know your pretty pussy can take me whole” and with that she was soaked again. she felt that and got hard once more.

“g-get inside, you’re in the doorway”

“oh shit yeah okay”

wonyoung fell on top of her bed, cushions and blankets were still messed up. you closed the door behind you and opened up the box, a whole eight inches just for wonyoungs pussy “it’s so cute how you’re still soaked, were you thinking about me while i was gone?”

“it was five minutes… yeah, i was thinking about you” hiding her face behind her hands.

“aww cute, lean on your hands and knees for me babe”

“o-okay” she responded obediently to your words. wonyoung got onto her hands and knees and waited patiently for your next order. her back looked way too pretty, so you got up onto the bed, planted a kiss on her lower back making her twitch in response and cooed

“aww still so sensitive?” she didn’t realise it before, but you were behind her with your strap already fitted on you. she unintentionally arched her back, feeling your presence already there “god, you’re so desperate for me aren’t you?”

“please… just- i’m ready. just hurry up and take me” you giggle as you acknowledged her insatiable craving for your cock.

“you’re dripping.. and you’re so hard, tell me how much you want it” telling her just to be a tease “beg for it”

“…please…” her voice low, almost a whisper.

“good girl” you slowly buried yourself inside her cunt, letting her familiarise herself with the new sensation. her hands gripped the sheets tightly, a fist full of cloth was keeping her from losing her control.

“oh my go- so… fuck” she cried out your name a couple of times before spilling out incoherent sentences. something like “good, so good” and a few more unintelligible words followed with high pitched moans.

a girl this cute and needy deserved more than just this. you slowly paced your thrusting, making sure that she felt comfortable, and by also not shoving the entire strap inside of her. all though you wanted to go rough and abuse her tight hole, that was for another day or maybe even in a couple of seconds actually.

“you good?”

“nnghh- s… so good” she couldn’t even form sentences. there was no need to even ask. her body alone showed how much she yearned for your touch.

oh so now you needed to fuck her till she’s dumb. what happened to that little smart brain of hers? so spent out on being fucked till she’s dry made her behave like she’s out of her mind. you started thrusting your strap in even deeper, hoping that she can take the full thing. she did. with how wet she was, it wasn’t surprising that it slid in so easily. a choked moan coming straight from her mouth as soon as you finished pushing it all in “you’re taking me in so well. i knew you could do it babe”

it was like you didn't think but you started to pump in and out of her faster and harder. each guttural moan that came out of that pretty mouth of hers, the faster you went. the more ruthless you got. oh how hard you were going, giving wonyoung no time to settle. the sounds her pussy made were nothing but filthy, the sweet sounds of her squelching pussy was like music to your ears. she loved every single thing you did to her body, although she couldn’t express it through her words.

you grabbed her hips, moving them and slamming them straight back into your cock just to make her scream out your name “you like that? want me to pound into your pretty pussy like that again?” there was a slightly mean tone to your voice.

“mhmmm… again- do it again” she begged and cried for more.

this time you pulled straight out, leaving her whining until you slammed right back into her again, but this time with a twist. you leaned over wonyoung a little, resting almost on top of her back. you slithered your hand across and grabbed her cock, teasing the tip a little before snapping your hips that made her ass push into you. she sharply inhaled as you played with her cock, moving from her sensitive tip to stroking her length gently while you ravaged her insides

“too- too much.. feels so.. haaa… mmmmm” two sensations blending into one could be described as too overwhelming and extremely overstimulating. being fucked dumb made her sob a little, feeling as if her insides were about to collapse, and feeling as if her dick was about to erupt.

shit, it felt way too good.

her entire body convulsed, her hands were balled into a fist, clutching onto the sheets desperately, she screamed profanities into her pillow. her orgasm hit her harder than it did the other two times. you could say it even made her almost pass out. poor girl was seeing stars as you kept stroking her cock to help her ride out her climax. you never knew she could scream that loud… or even cum this much. beds being completely drenched with both her juices and her cum. you’d have to help her clean up for sure…

“stop- stop.. oh god… mmm oh my god”

and maybe you could do this again. another study date.

[sjyuns]

FREAK LIKE ME — SIM JAEYUN

boyfriend! jake x fem reader 1040 words warning making out partying skinship vampires miniskirt wearing thigh grabbing biting hickies manhandling jake pushes a pendant with his initial into your skin genre suggestive asf fluff at the end mikaela’s note inspired by THIS edit. jake is the hottest man in my life and this is my belated birthday post to him | collection

Jake’s ring clad fingers sit in your thigh, the cold silver contrasting the warmth of his palm. Yet it was the only comforting thing in the room, aside from your boyfriend’s presence beside you, keeping you distracted from the unusual party scene and your uncomfortably short skirt.

You decide to focus your attention on your boyfriend, who’s come to this belated halloween party dressed as a ‘vampire nerd’, or at least that’s what he calls it. And to no avail you’re matching with him as his vampire mate — a bite mark drawn onto the right side of your neck with matching fangs to complete the look.

“Can’t get enough of my vampire look can you, sweetheart?” Jake teases, pulling you closer to him by your thigh. He watches as your curled eyelashes bat, face flushed a shade of crimson — and it ignites something in him, something so raw and animalistic.

The hold you had on him was exactly why he’s so intrigued by you: like a supernatural spell to keep him wrapped around your finger, to get his heart palpitating whenever he just looks at you. Intoxicated. Despite being his exact opposite, he was intoxicated by you.

You hum in agreement, fingers moving to brush his messy hair back. It was well established that Jake was the best looking man you’ve ever seen in your life. His thick lips and tanned skin, lean yet muscular body along with his accent you could listen to for days — and everyone has told him that, yet he constantly seeks your validation like a lost puppy.

“Well, I think you look ravishing as well,” he grins, fangs on display. And you think that he pulls the vampire personality off too well for your liking.

“Makes me want to bite you,” Jake whispers, lips eerily close to your ears as his fingers move along your thigh, leaving a chilling trail. “Here,” he stops, fingers close to the hem of your skirt.

You hold your breath in hot red anticipation as your boyfriend’s fingers move again, up your waist and to the left side of your neck. “Here,” he breathes, voice slightly strangled as he inhales the inebriating scent of your perfume. His fingers gently caressing the skin of your nape as your fingers wrap tightly around his forearm.

He watches you closely as if you were his prey, his silver contacts pulling you in like hypnosis. Jake’s tongue darts out, pressing against his fangs as he eyes your lips and how you involuntarily imitate his previous actions. Your mauve tinted gloss invites him like a moth to a flame and it drives him insane how you wait for him so patiently, hooked onto his every move.

“And here,” he finishes, out of breath. His veiny hands dancing against your skin to your lips, thumb pressing down ever so slightly on it. You tug on the fabric of his shirt, shifting around in your seat before Jake mutters a string of curse words, pulling you up, fingers wrapped securely around your wrist as he leads you out of the house and into the familiarity of his car.

The squeeziness of Jake’s backseat doesn’t distract you one bit, not when you’re straddled over his lap, arms around his neck, with his hands grasping the dip of your waist. And Jake grins, looking up at you in sheer happiness: it’d suddenly hit him that he’s here, with you and his mind goes haywire at the way you look at him.

“You gonna kiss me now baby?” he teases, urging you to make the first move and you move down fast, urgently, as if he was air and you were ten feet deep in water. And Jake has never gotten so lost in a kiss before: his heart keeps missing beats and his hands can’t seem to bring you closer to him. His senses ignite and his skin burns at your touch — as if he was a vampire and you were sunlight. He thinks if this was what it feels like to be burned alive, he would gladly surrender himself to such suffering as long as he could be with you.

Your hands manoeuvre around his back, fingernails grazing as you let out a soft moan. The silence around you explodes and a world of colours appears before your closed eyes.

Jake pulls away, the heat of his breath pounding against your lips before he pulls you back in again. This round it’s slow, as if he has all the time in the world, every thought in his brain stripped out and replaced with you.

you. you. you. you. you.

He groans into the kiss as you shift on his lap, thighs pressing against his as his fangs sink into the pillow of your lips before he kisses down to your collarbones.

Your fingers now wrapped around his luscious brown locks as your head tilts back in ecstasy, brain and heart chanting Jake’s name like a mantra in fervent praise, as if he was their God, their saviour.

Jake thinks everything he’s ever craved for is nowhere near comparable to you. This is what it was to crave — to crave your body against his even though there was no space between you, to crave the sweet taste of your skin and lips not even a millisecond after he’s pulled away, and to crave you: your heart, your mind, your soul.

His mouth skillfully leaves behind a trail of love bites before he flips you over. You back pressed against the seat of the car as Jake hovers over you, his necklace with your initials dangling over you: a reminder of his devotion to you.

Jake leans down to press his lips against the pendant of your necklace — a reminder of your devotion to him. The cursive ‘J’ initial digs into the neck of your throat as he returns, a goofy smile apparent on his face.

“You’re such a freak, sweetheart,” he points out playfully, eyes gazing into yours.

You mimic his grin, teeth out in display as you reply, “but you like it.”

“Like it?” Jake tilts his head, placing a chaste kiss on your forehead, “I love it, just like I love you.”

© SJYUNS

[cheolhub]

LOVE SCENE — LEE SEOKMIN ࿐

summary. you’re scared that seokmin might want to go separate ways after graduation, but he proves, in more ways than one, that he wants you. forever.

wc. 2.3k

warnings. college au. nerdy soft dom!seokmin, breeding kink xx, obscene amounts of dirty talk, pinch of angst, literal love making, unprotected sex, marriage kink, HEAVY praise, baby talk, v minimal plot im sorry — MINORS DNI 18+

note. DAMN ok i have a lot to say so i’ll keep it short. ONE this was a request but like i kinda didn’t do anything the request asked for and im so sorry, i hope u can forgive me anon. TWO i literally lost sight of the plot so dont ask me abt any missing details ehehb just enjoy seok being hot <3 THREE happy belated birthday to my minnie <3 FOUR thank u to my luvr @rkiv4d for beta-ing. yas ok enjoy

p.s. reblogs and feedback are extremely appreciated— i also love to hear ur thoughts <3

how seokmin pulled you, the most beautiful girl to ever walk the earth, he has no clue. he’s what people call a ‘nerd’ with his thick-rimmed glasses and his abnormally high IQ and you’re the pretty girl that didn’t understand the simplicity of covalent and ionic bonds who fell head over heels for him. 

you couldn’t help it, he was so smart and so fucking pretty. he was awkward and he giggled when he got nervous and he was so unbelievably goofy that it had you laughing till you cried. nevertheless, he was the most beautiful man ever. 

then you asked him out. he remembers it like it was yesterday. the last day of your chem class– the end of the first semester of your sophomore year– right after your final. you thanked him incessantly, giving him a hug for helping you get a B in the class. you told him you’d rather thank him another way— another way being a date. with you. at your place with a homemade dinner. 

he would’ve been stupid to decline. so he didn’t. and the rest was history. seokmin became your boyfriend, grew more confident in himself, and fell in love with you.

now you’re in your final year, the last few weeks approaching quickly, and you’ve been anxious. anxious about seokmin leaving you, anxious about going separate ways after graduation, anxious that this was all just fun and games till it was time to get serious about life.

seokmin has picked up on your behavioral patterns over the past 2 years. he knows you so well, probably better than anyone else in your life– probably better than he knows himself. 

so when seokmin sees you evading his eyes with his cock stretching you open, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. 

“hey,” he whispers, stilling inside of you. when you don’t turn your head and your eyes are still closed, he calls for you. “baby?”

you feel your heart clench at the pet name. “hmm?” you hum.

“baby, do you not wanna do this anymore?” he questions worriedly, ready to pull away from you. “i can pull out.”

you mumble, “i-i do.” 

he cocks his head even more confused, “talk to me, pretty, what’s going on?”

he pushes into you some more, making you gasp and you can feel his expectant eyes burning holes into your face. you then realize he’s not gonna let this go, but it’s partially your fault for letting your mind wander while he was putting away the dinner you guys ate. you decide to just come out with it.

“‘m just… so scared of graduating…” you whimper between your words, eyes screwing tighter. 

he hums, “look at me, baby.” the demand comes out so soft, yet the sheer dominance of his voice makes you clench around him. you turn your head on the pillow, opening your eyes, and finally looking at him. “why?”

you shudder at the eye contact. he looks so pretty, so concerned over you, yet you’re still tense and oh-so nervous. the topic of post-grad has never come up, and now you’re mid-fuck about to tell him how you want to be with him forever. 

“i-i’m scared that… that you’re gonna go off without me,” you pant, hands wrapping around his biceps and holding him to keep you stable. 

“where am i gonna go, beautiful?” he whispers, bottoming out and fully sheathing himself inside of you. 

you whimper again, his massive cock filling you so well. “s-scared you’re gonna go do big things ‘n leave me…” 

he freezes at that, eyes widening, “leave you?” he asks incredulously as if he couldn’t believe that you’d ask that question. “baby, you think i’d leave you?” 

you nod slowly. “i dunno, ‘s just that i’ve been thinking ‘n you’re so smart– gonna go get a real job that’s across the country or something…” 

he’s honestly bewildered. why would you ever think something like that when he’s tried so hard to show you how much he loves you every single day?

“oh, baby, i would never fucking leave you.” he presses his forehead yours, nose rubbing against yours. “pretty fucking thing, i adore you— love you. more than anything.”

your eyes glisten with tears at the reassurance. you feel yourself relax under him, entirely fluttering at his words. “really?”

“yes, really. how can i prove it to you? want me to put a ring on your finger?” he whispers, breath fanning against your face. 

you gasp, clenching around him again, fingers digging into his muscles. he smiles, chuckling airly at your reaction. 

“my pretty baby wants that? you like that idea?” he asks, his sultry voice filling your ears. “you wanna be my wife?”

you nod your head, eyes fluttering shut as you moan, “yeah, w-wanna be your wife.” 

your response has seokmin reeling. he pulls his hips back and slams back into you making both of you moan again. 

“yeah? bet you want my kids, too.” he states boldly, mind cringing at his words and internally freaking out that you’ll get turned off at them. 

you choke, clamping tightly around his length. “f-fuck.” you cry. “d-don’t say things like that, seok.”

“why? ‘cuz i’m right?” he grunts, thrusts growing faster.

you nod your head and seokmin nearly cries, cock twitching at the idea of pumping you full of cum and getting you pregnant with his kids. you’d be such a great mom and he’d love having a mini-seok running around a nice, big house fit to take a family. 

admittedly, he’s been wanting to talk about his future with you. he’s been fantasizing about it since the first time he said he loved you. fantasizing about you being his wife and living together in a big house and having three kids and living happily ever after as if it were some fairytale. he’s imagined your kids and how they would be a constant reminder of his everlasting love for you. he hopes that they’ll look like both of you– kids with your eyes and his nose. he’d kill for that.

“wanna put a baby in you,” he mumbles, lips ghosting over yours. “swear to god, ‘m gonna give you everything you want– ‘ll get you a ring ‘n a house– everything. just say the word.”

you lift your head to press your lips to his, moaning into his mouth like a mad woman. your stomach drops in anticipation, suddenly craving the feeling of his warm cum filling you to the brim, sure to get you pregnant. your legs wrap around him, heels digging into his back and you can’t resist the cry that he ends up swallowing at the new angle. 

seokmin pulls back, panting, “gonna let me give it to you, baby?” 

“uh-huh!” you nod, eyes screwing shut and jaw going slack as his speed increases. “yes, yes, please give it to me.” your response is wavered as you nearly choke on a sob of pleasure. 

and you know the decision is haste– a baby even though you still have a month left of undergrad seems… absurd to say the very least, but you don’t need to think about anything. you know seokmin. you know he’s the one you want to spend the rest of your life with. he's an amazing boyfriend and person in general. you already know he’d make an even more amazing husband and father. 

who would’ve thought the nerdy man with glasses who was insanely good at chemistry would be the one you ended up with?

he lets out a guttural moan, “such a good girl, always saying please.” he praises, slamming into your sweet spot repeatedly.

and jesus fucking christ, your moans and cries are like music to his fucking ears. 

his head falls into your neck, licking and sucking at your skin. “never gonna leave, i promise. gonna make you mine, gonna take care of you.” he mumbles into the skin as he continues to mark and ravage you. 

the stimulation and his words are sending you into orbit as your stomach churns and tightens at the feeling of his cock rearranging your insides. his strokes are impressive, never missing a beat and unrelentingly hitting the spot that makes you crumble. 

he feels you tighten around him, gummy walls squeezing him in and he curses, “shit, is my pretty girl gonna cum already?” his voice borders on condescending, but it only makes the tightrope in your stomach all the more closer to completely unraveling. 

“y-yeah, so close,” you moan breathily as your pants increase, chest rising and falling rapidly. “so fuckin’ close, min, ‘m gonna cum.”

his lips find your ear and he whispers hotly against the shell, “come on, baby, cum for me so i can fill you up.” he gently tugs at your earlobe with his teeth and you can’t resist, back arching with a shiver running down your spine.

your orgasm brings you immense pleasure, white spots filling your vision as you cum with a loud sob. you feel it in your entire body, from your curled toes to your thrown back head. your eyes roll back, calling out his name and raking your nails down the skin of his arms. 

he coos, holding back a groan at the way you get even tighter as you soak him in arousal. “thaaat’s it, baby, just like that. so, so good for me.” he coaxes you through your euphoric high, fucking you through it as he always does. 

“s-so good,” you slur, parroting his words as your mind numbs a bit. 

he moans, letting the sound of your whimpers and the lewd sounds of your bodies meeting fill the room. he buries his head in your neck again, desperately rutting into you so he can let go, too. your eyes flutter closed again and you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him even closer to you. 

your overstimulated pussy pulses around him as you listen and whine along to your lover's muffled moans. you can tell he’s close. so close to giving you the life you’ve imagined for almost 2 years. so close to being yours forever. 

“seok, cum inside me,” you whisper and his hips stutter, yet they keep moving as if they have a mind of their own. he lifts his head and looks at you– his eyes are clouded over and teary, yet they’re filled with all the love in the world.

he looks so beautiful above you. his face is scrunched up in pleasure, brows knitted, eyes droopy, mouth hung open as pretty sounds exit his loose lips.

“i… fucking love you…so much.” he says in between pants, thrusts growing sloppy. the telltale signs of his fast approaching orgasm becoming heavily apparent. “god, so much, baby, love you so much.”

you nod your head, mirroring his pleasured face. “me too, seok, i love you.” your words are a bit scrambled, but seokmin makes sense of them– understands you so well. 

his eyes roll back a bit at your response, brain momentarily malfunctioning, but he comes back seconds later. “gonna take this load like a good girl, right, pretty? gonna get pregnant and let me marry you?” he moans out breathily, cock now twitching uncontrollably. 

“yes, yes, yes, please, wan’ it so bad!” you beg.

it’s all he needs to press his hips to yours, stilling there, and releasing inside of you while he moans out your name so prettily. it’s a newfound feeling for both of you– his cum coating your cunt, filling you up till it’s spilling on his freshly washed sheets. he’s grown accustomed to finishing on your skin or into a condom, but this? this is all very new. this is something he now can’t live without.

you think the same thing when you feel him spraying your walls with his thick ropes of cum. it feels so good– so euphoric– while it’s leaking out of you. you don’t know how you’ve gone your entire adult life without experiencing this at least once.  

“c-came so much, baby…” you whimper, feeling him pull his cock out of you. 

as soon as he sees his release dripping out of you, he groans softly, already feeling hard again, but he decides to ignore it for now, bringing his attention back to you.

“hey… love,” he says softly, noticing the way you perk up a bit from your tired state just at the sound of your name. “you should’ve told me you felt like that… i hate that you thought i’d just leave you ‘cause we won’t be in school anymore.”

you frown, “i’m sorry, i didn’t know how to bring it up without being awkward… it’s the real world and i dunno… things are different.”

he sighs, hands running up and down your naked sides. “i get it, but like i said, i wanna be with you forever.”

you blush, biting your lip to hide the wide grin that ends up on your face despite the fact. “yeah, i remember… was that a proposal by the way?” you ask meekly. 

he squeezes at your waist, “did you want it to be?” he beams.

“i mean, it was a bit untraditional, definitely not how i expected my wedding proposal to be.” 

“what? you mean you didn’t think you’d get proposed to while i had my dick inside you?” he asks with faux incredulity. “i, for one, thought this was the best proposal ever. i even put a lil baby in you.”

you giggle, wrapping your legs around his body again, “you don’t know that, i’m not pregnant… yet.”

his heart swells at the idea and he smiles brightly at your blushy face, “well, maybe another round can change that, hmm?”

you pull him closer to you by the strength of your legs and say, “make me yours then, seokmin.”

© cheolhub — all rights reserved, please refrain from copying, reposting, modifying or translating my work on any platform.

[kairiscorner]

happy birthday — miles 1610 x reader (birthday special)

↳ summary: miles never gets a day off from being spider man, which causes him to lose track of a lot of things, even his own special day. luckily, he has the sweetest partner in the world to help him remember and celebrate. ↳ word count: 1,536 ↳ a/n: i did not realize it was my son's birthday on the third, i'm so sorry it's late SJEBCBFIVBRFVBRBVVRBO BUT I HOPE THIS IS GOOD ENOUGH TO MAKE UP FOR IT, HAPPY BELATED BIRTHDAY MY BOYYYY AND I HOPE YOU GUYS LOVE THIS <333

and he does it again, spider man saves the city from more mutated villains! ...and is currently late for biology class. miles hurries out of the scene and swings over to a less noisy block in city to messily change out of his spider suit and back in his school uniform. the day was jam-packed with so many goings-on for the boy and his workload as both a superhero, student, and son are piling up into one big mountain of work for him.

though he's not one to forget easily, a few things escape his mind without him realizing it. he's been in a rush for too many things too fast, he can't keep up with all the demands quickly. you were worried about miles trying to please everyone and do his part, however you knew very well a lot of what he's doing is beyond his responsibility as being miles morales, resident artsy nerd; though you couldn't blame him, being spider man was a full-time job he couldn't just up and quit.

you would get worried often when he'd reply late, he used to reply so quickly to your messages. his texts nowadays don't go without a crying kaomoji with apologies in such expressive all caps. he sometimes forgets some of the promises he makes you since he's out fulfilling so many others from other people, many of which he isn't familiar with, but hey, it's all in a day in the life of being spider man. he really hates how forgetful he's becoming, since he's so busy nowadays, he even forgets what day of the week it is; he's sometimes stuck in last week and remembers all too late what day it is.

but today was important, you knew very well. it was an important day to you and for miles himself, though he didn't realize it, he was too caught up in saving and helping people that he forgot the very day he was waiting for this year with you. though today, you weren't going to let it slip away from him. you called up ganke and convinced him to help you out with organizing your surprise for miles. you two went over to miles' house and, with the help of his parents, cooked up a delicious dinner for him and decorated the place in a simple, yet incredibly meaningful way.

you didn't see miles all day at school since he was catching up with homework and classes that he missed as spider man. his parents didn't know yet, which was how he was still able to get a gift from them, but as one of your gifts for miles that day, you slipped in his locker some copies of your homework and answers to a couple of tests from subjects you two shared. you were his lifesaver, and miles could not express enough thanks to you. he wanted to make up for all the time he couldn't spend with you tonight, though when he finished his rounds as spider man and went over to your place, he found your room empty. he knocked on your front door, but nobody was home.

miles found it really odd, so he tried calling your cell, but you didn't answer either. you instead texted him back, saying you were at one of your friends' place studying for an upcoming quiz. miles sighed but texted you back saying he understood and wished you luck on that quiz. he swung back home and changed again to not raise any suspicions from his parents, though when he entered the front door...

"happy birthday, miles!"

he was taken aback by how not only his parents surprised him, but you and ganke were there, too. miles blinked in confusion, then, disbelief; then when it registered to him the date today was the third of august, the date of his birthday... a smile had curled on his lips as he chuckled at himself. he forgot today was his own birthday! he mumbled questions, like how, when, where, why--you celebrated his birthday even when he couldn't be there for you when you two agreed to, multiple times.

miles felt a little ashamed in spite of the surprise and happiness he felt that you guys remembered his birthday in his stead, but you approached him, with your hands behind your back as you gazed up at him. "hey," you began as miles froze in place when he heard your kind voice. "oh, um... hey." he said awkwardly with a bashful smile as he tried playing it cool, not letting a hint of nervousness slip out of him, but instead releasing a tidal wave of nervousness come flooding out of him. "happy birthday, miles." you said as you handed him your gift to him. he raised his eyebrows as you handed him a thick box, wrapped in red wrapping paper with black accents, all tied up in a black bow.

"f-for me?" he stuttered out as you chuckled and nodded. "of course, birthday boy." "but... but i... i wasn't there for our dates and meet-ups like i promised..." he uttered as he looked down at your gift with guilt filling his voice. you rolled your eyes as you kept grinning at him. you lightly shook your head as you placed your hand on his cheek, bringing his eyes back up to level with your own. "and that's okay, you would've been there if you could, right? i know you have a lot on your plate, not a lot you can share the burdens and responsibilities with, and i... i get it. you can't quit, and i'm glad you save lives before thinking about yourself, but... today's about you, miles. we can make up for the missed dates and meet-ups once life's a lot less chaotic. i'm willing to wait forever for that peace and quiet." you told him with a sweet voice as you leaned over and pecked at his cheek.

miles got flustered immediately as you kissed him, as every word you uttered sank into his heart, filling it up with even more love and adoration for you, he smiled widely and wrapped you in a big hug. "man... i love you so much. i promise i'll do whatever it takes to give us that peace and quiet you deserve." "we deserve, ya dummy." he chuckled at your correction. "right, right, that we deserve." he said as he pulled away and with you encouraging him to open your gift. you called ganke and his parents over as he began to unwrap your gift.

miles had gasped in excitement and utter shock as he unwrapped the gift, you got him the pair of shoes he had been saving up to buy. he had set the gift aside gently and covered his mouth, smiling as he gasped and kept repeating 'no way!' as he jumped up in glee out of excitement. his mother jokingly told you not to have bought him those shoes because they kinda stole his parents' thunder with their gift for him, but she was so happy to know you knew their son well to gift him the one thing he's always asked for.

ganke was filming the whole time, making commentary on how adorable and dorky miles looked right now, and as miles rushed over to you and thanked you endlessly as he held the shoe box in his right hand and your cheek in the left, he couldn't stop giggling and kissed you all over. "hey nerds! how 'bout you two kiss for the camera, huh? the night's young, live it! kiss! kiss! kiss!" ganke chanted as miles' parents side-eyed each other at the notion. miles was a little hesitant since his parents were in the room, but you certainly didn't care anymore.

you gently grabbed hold of miles' collar and gently, you pressed your lips against his. his mother cried out in spanish as his father chuckled and exclaimed "that's my son right there!" miles was flustered and embarrassed at your boldness, but he didn't want to pull away so quickly. he held the back of your head and gently kissed you back. ganke and his father cheered for you both as his mother retreated to get a glass of wine and kept repeating how you two could've just done it up in miles' room!

"this... is the best birthday ever..." miles hushed as you wrapped your arms around his neck. equally flustered and embarrassed, you stared into his eyes as he grinned and chuckled up at you. "even with your parents watching me kiss you, and ganke capturing all this, probably never gonna let us live it down...?" you asked him as he pecked your lips with another quick kiss and pulled away. "definitely." he replied as you leaned over and kissed him again. it was certainly a birthday to remember, and miles promises that he'll earn back all the days you've spent waiting for him and for the gift you got him. though the gift miles had wanted all this time... was nothing more than to be with you, be with you as he turned another year older, and hopefully, celebrate many more birthdays with you, his dearest.

tags !! @k4tsu3 @fiannee @luvstarrstruck @toneystank-3000 @ii01vq @maxoloqy @solecitoszn @q2ie @zalayni @anikaluv

[icycoldninja]

hello! my birthday is tomorrow and i was thinking requesting the dmc boys x goth autistic reader who can go on and on about their favorite horror movies (my personal favorite is saw or coraline) or bands (type o negative or london after midnight, i feel like v would potentially like type o alot :3 )? bonus points if you can maybe work in that reader usually wears long skirts/sleeves but maybe one particularly hot day they wear shorts which is out of their comfort zone but the boys reassure them!

Hey, sorry this might be too late, but happy belated birthday! Please enjoy!

Sparda boys + V x Goth!Autistic!Reader headcannons

¤ Dante ¤

-He thinks your style is really cool, kinda like what a vampire would wear if one was alive today.

-He could listen to you ramble on for hours, even if he doesn't have a clue as to what you're talking about.

-He ends up spending a lot of time watching horror movies with you and can now be called an expert on this field.

-Your taste in music is alright in his eyes, but he still prefers his stuff (and his own playing).

-When it's too hot out and you're forced to wear shorts, Dante's there to hype you up.

-Your legs do not look like skinny pencils to him, they're beautiful, and he insists you show them off.

■ Vergil ■

-Vergil thinks you're very beautiful, and admires your clothes.

-He doesn't mind that you like yammering on about your interests because he would honestly do the same if he weren't so closed off.

-Pretends to not care about your favorite bands, saying he prefers classical, but he secretly listens to it when you're not around.

-Has a lot of fun staying up till 4 watching horror movies with you, even if he's never scared by it.

-Feels your frustration regarding the heat, because he too is forced to wear lighter clothes, which he hates.

-He comforts you when you're embarrassed by patting you on the shoulder and/or back.

□ Nero □

-Nero thought you were pretty damn weird at first, then realized you were just an autistic dork like his dad.

-He thinks it's cute whenever you start nerding out about your favorite interests and such.

-Watches horror movies all the time with you, but is never scared. After killing devils his whole life, nothing scares Nero anymore.

-He's actually now very interested in goth music despite originally thinking he wouldn't like it.

-He's pretty indifferent to the heat, but knew that you and your thick clothes would suffer.

-It's unfortunate you have to step outside your comfort zone during this time, but you must, or you'll overheat. To remedy this, Nero tries setting up fans and air conditioner, but ultimately, you'll still need to wear lighter clothes.

● V ●

-V admires you and your unique clothing.

-He also enjoys your taste in music to such a degree, he might now be more of a fan than you are.

-He loves to watch movies with you, not just horror movies; he'll watch any genre.

-Loves chatting with you about your favorite horror movies and will listen to you talk until the end of eternity. It's never boring.

-While he cannot relate to your pain during summer, he does understand it. He doesn't like wearing shorts either.

-He will comfort you however he can, either by turning on all the fans or by simply patting you on the back and saying some encouraging words.

[happypot0001]

⚠️Characters belong to @just-a-carrot 🥕⚠️

Ok..so…Friday. Had to wake up at 4am…then had to go to a pep rally….AND THEN had to go to a football game. All. For. BAND. So I drew Iggy holding my favorite instrument (the vibraslap)

Had to draw this on my phone but I used ibis paint so I was able to add an outline and now I’m happy 😆😆

Lots of love to anyone reading!! 💕💕

Why am I in band again??? And along with that I’m also a dumb theatre nerd so I have songs in my head 24/7 it’s a curse 😭😭😭 I love legally blonde and Sweeney Todd (cannibalism haha Orlam) so hit me up if you like those two they’re a classic 👌👌👌 anyways I had an epiphany one day. The epiphany told me to draw Iggy holding the vibraslap…so I did exactly what it told me PFFFTTT. Well okay not exactly..the drawing is kind of me gifting the vibraslap to him. And that’s because uhhhhh like I got into OW mid-late June so the only birthdays I have to celebrate are Genzou and Orlams. AND THOSE TWO ARE FINE THEYRE GREAT LOVE THEM OH SO VERY MUCH 💕💕💕💕 but I felt bad for the others because I wanna celebrate their birthdays too so…I might try and do their birthdays but they’re just…really…really…late 😭😭😭😭😭

I hope Iggy appreciates the thought 🥺🥺🥺 I tried giving him the best belated birthday ever but 😭🥺😆 Idk if this is weird or not but what am I to do I need an excuse to draw OW characters and this is just absolutely positively perfect for me 😆😆 also no I do not play the vibraslap I’m not in percussion at all but if you went back to past me that was picking an instrument to play and told me that this beautiful thing existed then you would probably see me in percussion HAHAHA 😭😭 I just know that Iggy was in pit when he was in band so atleast it fits as well 😁😁😁 ahem HAPPY VERY VERY BELATED BIRTHDAY IGGYYYYYYYY 🫰🫰🫰🫰

Lots of love to anyone reading once again!! 💕💕💕💕

[iamthecomet]

-walks in with an assorted cheesecake platter-

I've aged recently, and that's all I'll say on the matter.

For your consideration this evening: Rain and Dew occasionally go on little dates to weird locations.

It started off as visiting historical ruins, strange local amusement parks, things like that, all very legal.

Well now they have to take Mountain with them, because they've begun exploring really sketchy abandoned attractions and stuff like that, and somebody has to be the responsible one and make sure these two nerds don't wind up going for a swim in the ruins of an It's A Small World like water attraction.

Something, something, they have absolutely nasty sex in the middle of an abandoned amusement park until Dew swears to Satan he saw one of the old park animatronics move (it's just a rat climbing around) and nearly blacks out from fear mid-orgasm.

Such ends their days of exploration, but also begins Dew's weird Palovian fear boner instinct.

He can't watch horror movies anymore, and when he gets startled it's like, "AH-! Aw, nuts..."

-leaves the weird plastic container behind-

Happy (very) belated birthday. You know Mountian has to watch Dew and Rain otherwise something horrible will happen. Rain will swim in the weird sludgy water. Dew will climb something rickety. Mountain has his hands full. Honestly, the nasty sex is probably partially a distraction to keep them from accidentally maiming or poisoning themselves. But man do I love the idea of Dew getting hard whenever he gets scared. You know as soon as other people catch on they use it against him. Want to get Dew in the mood? Horror movie. Want to have a quickie? Hide in the shadows and jump out at him. Grab him by the ankle from under his bed. Anything, startle the shit out of the little guy and he's good to GO. I feel like Swiss and Rain are never going to exploit that little party trick for the rest of their time topside.

[agent-toast]

artemis fowl rant for a belated happy birthday

There's something so unique about the Artemis Fowl books that no other YA book series I've read can capture. So what shall I do? Throw my obsession into words in a Tumblr post, that's what :D

For one, Artemis Fowl is grounded in reality. This may sounds strange because of the magic fairies, but take a look at the detailed descriptions of landmarks (I loved reading about Ireland and that one scene at Taipei 101 in the Lost Colony where Artemis forgets he's running a negotation and starts nerding out over the ingenuity of the building -- you know how, iirc, there's a giant metal ball inside the spire that swings in the opposite direction from the tower's swaying to counteract the wind :D :D ok I'll shut up now), Foaly's and Artemis' inventions (shimmer suit; C-Cube; Ice Cube; etc), Artemis' plans, and other random things. It gives the sense of us being in Artemis' mind, and learning actual real stuff about the world that's genuinely interesting (at least to me). And it doesn't push the information in our faces like many educational storybooks, it hands us the story first, and pipes up with a few tidbits of info in just the right places. Eoin Colfer you are as much of a genius as Artemis <3

NEXT Have you ever wondered why you like the Artemis Fowl books so much? For me, it's because Artemis encapsulates a version of who I'd like to be. A child who's taken seriously, and with good reason. A child who can mentally smack the d'arvit out of any adult. And the way he marvels at new information about fairies at the most random moments! Like with Mulch, or about the scent that elves have (citrus and grass, if you wish to know). The other day I was having a conversation with my father about the specifics of time travel and when and where he would go if I sent him into the past. He decided to visit Neil Armstrong after his trip from the Moon and take a picture of him, then introduce himself to a press conference as a time traveler, showing his phone as confirmation. His reasoning was that Neil Armstrong would be so curious about my father and time travel and he'd go on another mission, discovering how time travel works, thereby preventing his depression <3 Afterwards I was running our conversation through my head, thinking 'this is the kind of random yet logical shit Artemis talks about to anyone who'll listen'.

Eoin Colfer writes so much about Artemis' lack of coordination, especially in the Arctic Incident and Last Guardian. Why am I bringing this up? Because the entire time he's just describing me :') Artemis' tendency to complain about everything he's slightly disgruntled by is so relatable as well :D

I apologise for the clunkiness of my writing, but anyway thanks for reading :D

[galaxywarp]

I know this is belated, but I just wanted to say in case you need to hear it, birthdays can kinda suck...there's a lot of pressure in a day dedicated to celebrating yourself, and a lot of pressure to have a great day (the best of the year, even) and be happy and whatever. I hope the next bunch of days are calmer, and that you celebrate your revolutions around the sun however you want/need to, and I hope you don't put too much pressure on yourself <3

Thank you. It’s now 2am the day after my birthday and this is the first nice thing im doing for myself: making myself some hot chocolate with whipped cream and marshmallows.

(Do you like my cute nerd mug? @spidermimi got it for me a few years ago)

That was….an extremely intense and emotional day yesterday. Hell, the whole week leading up to it. I almost feel like I’ve been anxiety dissociating for days. Fuck man.

I cried so much I felt sick yesterday. I think I’m finally calming down a little. Fuck. I drove to Lake Erie last week to stare at the frozen water while my hands were so cold they hurt cuz it was my birthday. Jeez.

[death-in-a-handbasket]

did you hear that bsd won anime of the year!?

I DID. ,,!!!!!!

I love bsd but ngl I do not think we deserved that 😭‼️ how in gods name did we score higher than jjk AND aot jesus christ dawg

on another note did you see the post saying that the new bsd chapter coming out this month is gonna be 30+ pages ???? IM SO EXCITED AHHHH

I want to know Fyodor’s backstory SO bad I’m so fucking hyped

LIKE DID YALL SEE THIS ?? I was on twitter at like 3am and there were actual tears of joy bro

as a certified Fyodor liker and a nerd I’m over the moon, also the first fic I ever posted to the internet was about him !!!! this is the og man !!!! me and faraday have been theorizing about him and his past for SO long

and on a last and final note happy belated birthday to bbg akutagawa may bones personally explode for how badly they botched his death scene 💀

[tarableart]

Happy belated birthday! 🎉

Awww, thank you!

Yeah my birthday was yesterday but I do have a bad habit of flaking out and not telling people. >.> (My grandfather was horrified on the phone earlier when he realized he'd forgotten, lolol).

This was my birthday cake! <3

It's supposed to be a Hobbit house. And cuz I'm a nerd I picked a honey cake to match the one described in the book. The cake, fondant, and icing are all made from scratch. :>