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mailmango · 3 months ago

Text

One-on-One

Pairing: Professor Henry Cavill x Student Male Reader

Genre: Fluffy Smut, MDNI

Kinks/Warnings/Notes: AMAB Reader; Calling the reader a slut, a whore; Calling the reader a good boy, praise; Slapping and spanking; Age gap; Professor x Student

Length: 5.1k words, Fic

Synopsis: You're one of the lucky few to have ever experienced one of Professor Cavill's lectures. And you are the lucky, singular person to have ever experienced his heart-racing one-on-one session.

A/N: oml hiiii! If you're reading this, then thank you very much! this is my first time writing something over a thousand words (of my own volition) in probably 3 years at least! It's also my first time writing serious smut GAHAHAHAH I would appreciate feedback (totally optional), but most of all, hope you enjoy :D

Credits: @/aquazero for the divider and @/starboye for helping me with formatting and tagging!! ^-^

I picked this one just for you! I hope it’s sweet and juicy…

You’ve always liked your Ancient Mythologies Studies class. It was an easy A, one that came packaged with an interesting topic to boot. Who doesn’t want to hear of the religions and myths of civilizations from thousands and thousands of years ago?

The answer is most people. It was one of the smallest classes–even with a size cap of twenty, it had barely filled out ten slots. It seemed most people simply didn’t take interest in the subject. That meant that most people were poor, unfortunate people, because they didn’t have the pleasure of knowing Professor Cavill.

Professor Cavill had worked at the university teaching their Ancient Mythologies Studies class for the past several years. He was a graduate of this school and, after having established himself as a prominent archaeologist, he opted to take time and teach a course for two sessions weekly. In his words he, “Wanted to help inspire any young people with a passion for learning about those that came before us.”

You had found those words so, so interesting. But it was more so about the man saying them.

Professor Cavill–Henry–was a tall, broad-shouldered man in his mid-forties. He was kind and considerate to each member of his class, treating them with a warmth and manner you’d read about in an overly unrealistic romance novel. And yet, he was very much real. You had class with him every Monday morning and Friday night.

Classes which you would sit in, bouncing your leg and hiding a raging boner as you watched the man fiddle with and adjust his tie.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Y/N, are you sure you’d rather not attend the festivities?”

Ah, just your luck, wasn’t it? Your college had been holding a concert for a handful of its alumni to celebrate their band’s first national tour. The university had decided that, due to the band falling under the alternative genre, they would allow classes to continue should any students or staff be disinterested.

It just so happened that, as much as you weren’t opposed to them, you also weren’t heavily inclined to actually attend their show. You had figured that at least one of your ten classmates would feel the same.

Apparently not.

Hence, you now sat alone in a small lecture room, the chairs beside you empty as you stared at your beloved professor, Professor Cavill.

“Ah, no, professor. Were you looking to attend?”

“Myself? My personal taste doesn’t align with their music. As much as I love Clive-”

Clive was the lead singer and, as you recall, one of Professor Cavill’s former students.

“-we’ll be meeting for a congratulations dinner tomorrow evening. We’ve already discussed.”

He smiled, dimples forming, as he flipped open his files for the night’s lecture.

Then he had to reach for his stupid tie.

“Would you mind if I loosened my tie? I’ve been feeling warm as of earlier this evening.”

His large, somewhat hairy hand was already holding the knot one either side. He did it often; you had come to suspect it was an unconscious habit at times. He would tug at his tie, calling attention to his strong chest or those bulging biceps…

Damn his stupid tie. Today, it was his blue tie, one you knew to be one of his favourites. He wore it at least thrice a month, most often during Friday sessions.

Every time he would touch it, toy with it, it sent shivers down your spine and blood straight to your cock. You almost weren’t sure if you hated or loved that he was almost never without one.

“Ah, not at all, Sir. Go ahead.”

“Thank you, Y/N.”

God, your name sounded so good out of his mouth. He drew the syllables out, gave it this weight that you hadn’t heard your name spoken with before. You could get addicted to the way he had said it just now. You were tempted to find an excuse to have him say it again.

That opportunity came as, for the first time, he pushed past absentminded tugs at his tie and now pulled the knot away from his chest. For the first time, you saw his neck without the tie drawing attention. It almost sounded manic to say but… the sight began to draw you in.

And then he overshot it. The tie came off, knot still done, but it was completely removed now. He stared down at the cloth before using his free hand to undo it, leaving it nice and straight in his hand.

“Do you mind if I forgo it?”

Eye contact. He made eye contact with those god damn near hypnotising eyes. They really were unique; the man had something called segmental heterochromia. He had mentioned it once before. It meant that his left iris, though mostly blue like his right, had a patch of brown in its upper half.

It felt mystifying, like a siren whose song you couldn’t ignore. He continued to look at you, and without him breaking eye contact, you were hopelessly unable to do so yourself. Instead, you simply muttered a weak response.

“Go ahead, Sir.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Class seemed to fly by. Your hand wrote on its own as your legs bounced, mind and senses completely and utterly hinged on the man’s every word and movement. Though he entranced you each time you sat in on his lectures, tonight was different. You had always blamed his tie. It’s the tie. The playing with the tie, his stature with it, that’s what you blamed for your constant erections.

But it was difficult to deny it when, as the man orated with his tie discarded, you found your cock throbbing more eagerly than you can remember it having ever done before.

Sweat rolled down your forehead from the heat you were feeling. You cursed yourself, begging that the man would somehow not notice the warmth that afflicted you. But, as you let yourself look at him again, really look at him, you were both relieved and mortified to find that he was under the same circumstances.

“Is the air conditioning broken?”

His words were breathless as he fanned himself with his papers. He was tugging at his collar now, further exposing his neck, now slick with sweat. It seemed to be bothering him more than it was you, somehow.

“I-I think so.”

You could barely manage to let the words out. Your breathing had gotten unsteady, mind and body unable to focus as the man groaned from the discomfort. Seemingly without realising, his hand undid the two topmost buttons of his shirt. It exposed his chest–a strong chest covered in wild, dark black hair that you had been completely oblivious to the glorious existence of.

“Y/N? Are you alright? Is something-”

Of course now he notices your stares. It couldn’t have been when it was something that was easily explained away, like you were staring at him due to intent listening. No, it had to be when your gaze, which he followed, led down to his exposed chest. His exposed chest which had, mortifyingly, caused a wet spot to form in your pants.

“Ah, my apologies. Let me redo my button-”

“No! I mean-”

Your words came out too eager. Your brain was screaming at your mouth not to speak, to not make an utter fool of yourself. But your mouth chose to go rogue, instead opting to speak like a horned-up teen begging his boyfriend to keep making out with him.

“Y-you don’t have to. I don’t mind.”

An eyebrow was cocked in your direction.

“Is that so, Y/N?”

Your silence was used to scream, rather than actually think of anything remotely close to damage control.

“Y-yes Sir. I don’t mind if you keep your buttons undone.”

“If that’s the case, then…”

Was this… reality? Surely it could be. It was impossible.

You were sitting there, cock leaking with precum like you were a virgin watching your first porno, as your handsome professor began to undo buttons, one after another. He was exposing himself further and further with each passing second, each button exposing a new section of chiselled, hairy, sweat-covered skin.

His breaths were deep and heavy, sighs and groans of relief sending more and more sensations to your cock. Every vibration of his vocal chords seemed to be felt in full force by your erection, not helping your situation in any way whatsoever.

Then the man had the gall to take his shirt off, folding it neatly and placing it aside.

His body truly was magnificent. Plush, thick muscles were a constant, whether you looked at his chest, his abs, his shoulders, or any of his muscles. They radiated strength, covered in that same black hair as on his chest and equally slick with sweat. His body glistened under the dim light of the lights hanging above, almost like a gladiator fresh from battle.

How the hell were you supposed to react? What the hell were you supposed to do?

“Y/N, it’s hot, isn’t it? Would you mind if I further… undressed?”

How the hell were you supposed to say no to that?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was almost pathetic how easily the man got you to fish your cock out of your strained pants. Little more than an offhanded request, actually.

Now you sat, pants and underwear around your ankles, your own shirt unbuttoned, as you feverishly pumped your erect dick. Your hand glided up and down due to the slickness of your overflowing precum, breathing unstable and desperate. But you were helpless, the possibility of you stopping a distant memory.

Professor Cavill was now nearly nude. He had discarded his elegant brown leather shoes and well-tailored pants, also in a neat pile on his desk. It left him, his statuesque form, completely exposed to you and your horny, unabashedly feral mind. It was a wonder you hadn’t cum yet.

“Keep pumping for me, Y/N. Be a good boy and keep going.”

Fuck, you couldn’t stop. Not when he said your name in a gruff, demanding voice. Not when he called you the sweetest pet names. Not when he stared at you, panting and eager, with a hunger that a predator has for its prey.

Most especially when his cock strained against dark, black fabric, as he rubbed along his clothed shaft as he took in the sight of your desperate form.

“Prof-”

“Henry. Call me Henry, Y/N.”

Shit, you could feel your cum about to well up and burst.

“Henry!”

He gave you a curt nod of approval. Your stomach pulsed with excitement.

“P-please, fuck me-!”

You looked at him, eyes wide and begging, and desperately awaited a reply. With mercy, he gave you one.

“Alright, Y/N. I’ll fuck you.”

You let out a pathetic, strangled mewl as your cum sprayed up and onto your sweaty torso.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Henry–gah, you got to call him Henry–had a cock that you couldn’t fully process was actually human. It was too perfect. It was thick, nearly as thick as your wrist though thankfully just short. It was lengthy, having had to be nine or ten inches at full mast. His balls were heavy, full of cum that he was eager to let out, and the base of his shaft was buried in a wild, thick, furry bush.

It was so close to you. It throbbed in front of you as you sat in your chair, the proximity allowing you to see the thick, pulsing vein that ran from base to near the tip. It let you watch as that fat, mushroom tip leaked a viscous, sticky precum. It lets you inhale that delicious, heady musk, intoxicating your mind and sending it reeling.

It was almost too much to process. Almost.

You were far, far too eager to begin sucking on the fat shaft. Who could blame you? People would pay good money to get a taste of a cock this perfect.

Fuck, the taste! A salty, somehow indescribably masculine taste, that flooded and overwhelmed your mind. It felt like you were at risk of addiction. Nothing had ever or would ever taste this damn divine. The copious amounts of thick, even saltier, precum being pumped into your throat was an excellent, equally addictive addition.

Even though it hurt and strained your jaw to stretch that wide and accommodate its length, the activity felt simply euphoric. If Henry would let you, you’d opt to do nothing more and nothing less than worship his cock, day and night.

“That’s a good, good boy, Y/N. Lube up my cock.”

You always were one to follow Henry’s instructions. Always one to listen, to be a good, obedient puppy. Maybe that’s why you were his favourite.

And, as he uttered praise and guided your head with a large hand’s firm grip, you certainly weren’t going to start disobeying now. With a hum of acknowledgement, you dutifully continued your task.

Once satisfied, Henry grunted and lightly tapped the back of your head.

“That’s good, baby. That’s enough. Come, get off my cock now.”

Part of you wanted to resist. How were you supposed to tear yourself away from his dick? It sounded impossible. But, you were eager for his praise, to hear him call you a good boy again. So, with one last deep dive down, your nose pressed into his hairy bush and your lips to the base of his shaft, you reluctantly pulled your face away and off of his delicious dick.

“Good fucking boy. You’re a very, very good boy, Y/N.”

Your cock throbbed with lust-filled need as you nodded with pure excitement.

“You deserve a reward. Lay on my desk, Y/N, and let me take care of your now.”

This was somehow the easiest instruction of the night to follow. You found yourself, now nude with your clothes having been folded just like Henry’s, laying on your back on his wooden desk. The surface felt cold and hard, but the feeling of a sturdy base comforted you. You knew that you’d need it.

As you took deep, steady breaths. The first of the night, actually. Your mind was trained on one thing, one concern rather.

How would you take his monstrous cock?

The answer would come soon. Without warning, your legs were lifted by two strong hands. You looked down, seeing as Henry in all his glory set your ankles on his broad shoulders. He began pressing light kisses to your skin, beard tickling your skin, as he maintained unwavering eye contact. It caused you to let out a soft laugh, which he opted to respond to.

“Your voice is beautiful, Y/N. Save it for me, okay?”

You felt it then. His fat, throbbing, steaming hot cock was set beside yours, pressed between your dick and your thigh. He was slowly and subtly moving his hips back and forth, groaning at the sensational friction.

“You’ll let me hear you sing tonight, yeah? Let me hear your wonderful voice, Y/N.”

His words were sweet like honey. It was almost enough to distract you from the prodding of his thick fingers against your tight hole. But, as you felt them push past your tight ring of muscle, your voice came out like the gates had been torn down, a moan resounding through the room.

“There you go. Good boy… moan for me. Let me hear each and every one, okay?”

You stared at him, eyes half-lidded, and nodded with an eager need to please.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Deep breaths, Y/N. Deep breaths for me now…”

How could someone so sweet cause so much pain? Henry was hunched over, his large, comforting hands on either side of your head as he hovered his face no more than four inches from yours. His heavy breaths fanned against your cheeks as he kept a steady, solid eye contact between you two. It was wondrous how much fire brewed within you from such a mundane act.

“Are you ready? I’m going to insert the tip, alright?”

He looked at you with such care and concern that it almost shocked you. He was a big, hulking man with a terrifyingly huge cock, but as it has come to be shown, a larger heart. It was so damn cheesy, wasn’t it?

But that didn’t matter as you nodded once again, body unable to take the anticipation, the waiting, for him to shove his fat cock inside.

…Except maybe it had to. His cockhead slipped inside with ease, but that wasn’t to say it wasn’t fucking painful. You let out a strangled half-moan half-scream, and within seconds, those large hands were patting the side of your head.

“Y/N? Is it too much? I’ll stop, okay? Should I pull out?”

Henry was kissing your forehead, your cheeks, the sides of your lips. He muttered small praises and comforts, every other kiss targeting a tear that had fallen from the pain. He kept true to his word; his hips remained still, his cock not pushing a millimetre further inside. It was from that moment of calm that, as you adjusted to the burning stretch, you were able to speak.

“D-don’t. Just- give me a second to-“

You huffed out, desperate for air.

“-adjust!”

He smiled, pressing a kiss to your lips. He tasted, somehow, better than his cock. It wasn��t quite something you could place, to be frank. It was a savoury taste, one with hints of candies you couldn’t identify and a tea whose flavour you couldn’t imagine. But it was entirely and wholly the delicious thing you’ve ever or will ever have.

That was worth getting addicted to. And if Henry would let you, you’d chase that taste every single moment you can. Something told you that yeah, he would.

“You’re doing so, so good for me, Y/N. So good, you feel so good…”

Henry’s voice was low and comforting, just as much, if not more than his calming touches. He spoke in whispers between each kiss, and it led you to slowly, but surely, adjust to the pain. Before you had even realised, all you felt was the desire for him to push even further.

“H-Henry, you can move now… please…”

“Are you sure, Y/N?”

Hearing your name roll off his tongue, so casual by this point, only cemented your enthusiasm. You nodded slowly and weakly, smiling the best you could.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful… Hold on to me, and tell me if I need to stop, okay?”

Your cock nearly bounced at the praise. You eked out another nod as your hands came up to rest on his shoulders, leading him to return your smile with one of his own. And fuck, it was gorgeous.

He kept his movement slow. It was torturous, but you could appreciate the time and the caution he took. His face watched yours, now scanning for any sign of pain or discomfort. At every wince or scrunch, he would stop, waiting for a nod or smile as your sign of readiness.

“You feel excellent, Y/N. Being with you… I could get obsessed with this feeling, you know?”

He leaned down to kiss you yet again. He kissed you, giving you yet another helping of that impossibly lovely taste: his taste.

And then… then he brushed against your prostate, his cock like a mallet smashing into a button. Even slow, it sent a shock up your spine and a resulting heat through your nerves. Your loud, vulgar moans were taken with great joy and adoration from Henry, his smile only growing fonder.

“You sound so good, Y/N. Let it out for me…”

Perhaps you took it a tad too far as your cock, with the pressure to your prostate, burst with another spray of hot, sticky cum that painted both tour and Henry’s stomachs. Such a reaction was met with a warm laughter.

“Not what I meant, but I’m not complaining. It’s good to know you feel good, baby.”

He leaned in for yet another kiss and, in the hypnotising exchange, you just barely processed a large, encapsulating hand taking hold of your cock. Henry began to spread your cum across your own shaft, using it to pump your still-sensitive cock towards unbearable pleasure.

“I’m gonna keep making you feel good, okay?”

Sweat had beaded all over your skin now, streams running down your body as Henry’s own dripped down and onto your frame. He was pushing just a bit faster now—you almost couldn’t take the wait any longer. That once painful stretch had evolved into pleasure. It had evolved from a burning heat contained to your ass and spread into this resounding, unending warmth washing through you. In the process, it had devolved you into a writhing, moaning mess.

His cock was large, that was certainly clear. It was the kind of large that made your stomach bulge, the kind that you knew you wouldn’t ever be able to take with ease no matter how many times it had fucked you. And shit, you hoped that it would fuck you so, so many more times.

But your composure only broke down further when his cock seemed to reach so impossibly deep inside, spreading your insides apart like it was trying to break you. Moan after moan fell out as your back arched involuntarily, only accentuating the bulge in your stomach.

“Baby? Y/N?”

You hadn’t even realised it, but Henry had stopped pushing himself deeper. Now, as he buried into what felt like the core of you and sent waves of electrifying heat with even the slightest twitch of his dick, his hips were flush against yours. He had bottomed out.

“Henry…”

Words other than the man’s name didn’t seem to be able to form. He, however, had so much to say.

“Fuck, you’re amazing, Y/N. You’re taking me so damn well…”

The hand not on your cock let go of your face and glided down your body, tracing lines down your shaking body, and stopped just over the bulging portion of your stomach. He brushed it gently, causing yet another crackle of electricity to wrack through you.

“Can… can I start to move?”

Oh, you could’ve broken your neck with how fast you agreed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Shit, shit! You feel so damn good, Y/N.”

Henry’s calm demeanour had taken a backseat. It was still there, in careful touches to your face and sweet caresses of your body. You could still hear it in every little praise he threw out, and every loving glance he gave your half-lidded eyes.

His hips, though, had practically lost any form of restraint.

He withdrew and pushed back in with speed and force, hips slamming with a harsh and sharp slap. Your ass felt sore by this point, but it was a warm, comfortable soreness when paired with the sheer, blinding pleasure of Henry’s cock.

By the gods, the pleasure was insane. It was driving you mad, your vision going white. His cock, no matter how many times it was thrust into you, remained impossibly large and impossibly deep-reaching. It felt as though it only went deeper and deeper with each push, a result of your fractured state.

But how could one stay sane when their body was being overwhelmed with such unimaginable pleasure.

As drool began to spill and your eyes rolled back, Henry was quick to grab you by the chin and lock you into yet another kiss. Unlike the times before, though it carried the same sweetness, it was now heavy with a hunger, a need. He hungered for you, and he needed to fucking ruin you.

And Henry’s a man who accomplishes his goals, isn’t he? He began thrusting into your harder, harsher than he had before. He thrust over and over and over again, his movements without a single missed beat or second of hesitation.

His kisses remained constant too. His thick, strong tongue had shoved its way past your pretty lips and began to gnash against your tongue. It was a strange but nonetheless mind numbingly good feeling to have him invade your body even further.

By now, his grip had transferred to and firmed on your hips. He kept you nice and planted in place on that damn sturdy desk of his, even as each thrust threatened its integrity. His pace was relentless, the wood starting to creak with his forcefulness.

He drew back, saliva still stringing your mouth and his.

“Y-you feel good, Y/N?”

Who knew this man could stutter? But fuck, he made it sound hot. He sounded so lost in the pleasure, and even then, so firm in his every word.

“Y-yes!”

He gave a crooked smile at your words.

“Good! Do you like the way I taste, Y/N? The way my spit tastes?”

How vulgar was that? And how vulgar was it that, the second you tried to respond with a very clear yes, he decided to drop a fat glob of hot spit onto your cheek? He brought his thumb up to rub it into your skin and, hell, you were about to thank him for it.

You couldn’t as he cut you off with yet another breathtaking kiss. You were left panting and unable to speak at all when he pulled away.

“You’re a whore, you know? A beautiful, obedient, whore.”

His words carried no malice, only a heavy lust that he was just barely stopping from pushing him towards ruining your body completely.

“But you’re my whore, alright? Don’t you ever fucking forget.”

He slapped your cheek. It wasn’t one of anger, moreso just trying to snap you into focus. He wanted an answer and, as his best and favourite student, he knew he would get a reply out of you.

“I-I’m your whore, sir!”

It was a miracle you could speak, really. It was especially miraculous because the second he heard that, with one resounding slam of his hips into yours, you felt it.

“Fuck, Y/N!”

In the moment, as you arched your back and let your mouth flow with moans at the highest possible volume, Henry’s cock pumped gush after gush of burning hot, viscous, cum.

It felt like molten steel, an impossible extreme of everything that semen was meant to be. And as such, it brought the pleasure you felt from having your stomach pumped full of it to a high that you could never reach with any drug imaginable.

And through it, his hips hadn’t chosen to stop. Every thrust was now being punctuated with a new load of cum filling your already full belly, each one followed then with another slap to your ass or lust-driven proclamation of love.

“God, I love your tight fucking ass-”

You were screaming as you came at the height of the moment’s intensity.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You weren’t sure when the night ended, exactly. It seemed that the man had fucked you for hours on end, until he had emptied his fat balls’ storage of cum and filled your belly with it. He had fucked you till your cock hurt, and each climax produced a dry orgasm due to empty tanks.

He had fucked you till you were left unable to think of anything but his cock and the taste of his sweet, delicious lips.

And now, he was buried deep inside you still, pressing kiss after kiss to your neck as you desperately gasped for air.

“Did I go too hard? Are you hurt, Y/N?”

Your body was, in fact, aching. It was this numb, almost muffled pain that was eclipsed—or perhaps even part of—this euphoric pleasure that continued to grasp you. Things no longer felt real, at this point, but a dream you’d rather not wake from.

But things were very much reality, and that included a high-off-sex and full-of-affection Henry.

“I apologise for the slaps, they were rather forceful…”

You managed out a shake of the head to signal a no. The laugh that he gave, boisterous yet quiet, made your heart pound again.

“I see. I suppose we’ll need ample time to explore what we both enjoy, hm?”

The idea of more time with Henry, more time doing this, was certainly exciting. He didn’t need more than your dumb little smile, one you couldn’t wipe off your face even if you wanted or tried to, to tell you thought.

“I can see you like the prospect, hm?”

Another chuckle and another kiss. What bliss this was.

“I’m going to pull out now, so that we can both get cleaned up, okay? Just breathe for me, Y/N, just like earlier.”

You tried to follow, you really did. But as your hole was quickly left empty, gaping and clenching around nothing, you couldn’t help but whine unintelligible mutterings. Henry responded with even more pecks to your lips and caresses to your soft, delicate skin.

Henry was certainly a gentleman. He had taken some tissues from the box he reserved for students with colds and used then to to clean the outer portion of your sloppy hole. His hands, as large as they were, moved soft and delicate, careful not to press against any overly sensitive parts.

He had taken to cleaning himself—drying his cock, much to your dismay, with more paper towels. He had noticed your sadness and, with an admittedly smug smirk, said he’d allow you to suck his cock clean next time. It was still strange, even after the night you had had with him, to hear such lewd language uttered from the refined man’s mouth.

By the time he had dressed himself, your breathing had steadied. Your backside was still sore and leaking, but he had promised to help with that back at his apartment.

Wait.

His apartment?

“Ah, would you rather not? I can clean you up in the facilities here and-”

“No, no! I’d-”

You coughed. All the sweat, mixed with what was now cool night air, had left your body just a tad sick. Well, that and the exhaustion from having taken on such an impossible task and cock.

“-love to. I’d love to go home with you, Henry.”

He smiled like he hadn’t heard anything quite as lovely before. You smiled back in return.

He was the eager to tug on your boxers and wrap you in his suit jacket as a means of decency. He lifted you up bridal-style and pressed a kiss to your forehead. The man was strong and, with the ease that was carrying you, he even held your folded clothing in the hand supporting your butt.

You even found the strength to be humorous in the moment, letting out a joking, “Ooh, strong guy, huh?”

He graced you yet again with one of those pure, unadulterated laughs.

“I’m glad to have had this one on one session with you, Y/N. Certainly was productive, wasn’t it?”

THANK YOU to my lovely beta readers! There's a shit ton GAHAH

@inhumanshadows @worstwolverinesbf @darlingminjin @alatrysev @starboye @spermeboy @starrykie @sleep-0-deprived @slytherslvt @kurominis

Love you all :D you're all soooo nice and helped me finish this with your kind comments! Hope I didn't let you down with the end :>

#mango's harvest #henry cavill #henry cavill smut #henry cavill x reader #henry cavill x male reader #x male reader #xmalereader #male reader #x reader #gay #smut

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lucyandthepen · 1 year ago

Text

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.”

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harmonysanreads · 27 days ago

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Sooo (leaks)

I just saw the line count for phainon is gonna be 662.

662.

It gives me so many ideas for yapper x quiet dynamics for him and reader lol

You read my mind nonnie.

When I heard this news I was actually worried there won't be anything left of his character after the prologue, but they handled the introduction really well. Turns out his yapping is actually relevant — or at least, I enjoyed every moment he was on screen XD

I couldn't tell why, but I kept on having this nagging feeling that he was trying really hard to not succumb to a terrible identity crisis in the beginning. Then, they revealed the gist of his past and it made sense. He's trying his best to push forward despite his inner conflict.

His heart is not at peace and I can see why. He knows he's destined for something great but that ‘something’ is still not within his reach. Now, this wouldn't be an issue if the promise of the prophecy wasn't all that he had left. A drowning man will grasp even a straw and when he knows he can't give up, he'll keep swimming even if signs of land are nowhere to be seen. At the same time, he hasn't reconciled with his past. Which hinders him from progressing towards the future.

So, someone who he can let his guard down with, someone whose presence will be peaceful to his burdened heart would be an individual Phainon will find himself returning to again and again, despite obstacles. He can't describe the connection in a tangible sense, just that he feels an inclination to investigate.

He's a most useful extrovert as well, let him tag along with you and he'll handle any irrelevant small talk in your daily life, he will even run errands for you, if you let him. He can make jokes should you get bored and he'll always vouch for you with his honor should you get in trouble.

And if you happen to be one with passionate interests, or a zeal for the intellectual world, he's more than eager to listen. Even if he doesn't understand whatever complex theory you're so pressed about, there are sparkles around him just from the experience of hearing you speak.

Here's the thing though, Phainon is a persistent man. Unless something related to Amphoreus's safety was deterring him, there is little to no chance of you getting rid of him. After all, he doesn't mean harm, does he? He's simply interested in you. So, it's best if you learn how to utilize his ‘attention’ to your advantage.

#phainon #phainon brainrot #phainon x reader #hsr spoilers #yandere phainon #yandere phainon x reader #yandere hsr

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takes1 · 23 days ago

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Hiii, I love all ur fics sm! Ur literally so talented omgg

I wanted to request a fic where Oikawa and short/academically inclined reader are friends with benefits. I think it would be fun to see them get jealous and tiptoe around their feelings for each other since they don’t wanna ruin what they have. Can it also be nsfw and could u add some angst pls? Thank youu!

f*cking jealous!oikawa in secret

hi! thank you so much!! hope this interpretation is alright!

warnings. heavy nsfw, minors DNI

details. fem!reader / short!reader / jealous!oikawa / popular x loser trope / jock x nerd trope / tutor!reader / subby-switch!oikawa / switch!reader / oikawa with a nerd fetish / needy!oikawa towards the end / kind of hate fucking? / oikawa being mean / riding / implied oral / fluff, angst, and smut / reader with glasses / 1.8k words

links. my masterlist. more haikyuu. my ao3. my imagines

"You're sooo lucky to tutor him, (Y/n),"

Your hopeless friend sighed, scrolling through Oikawa's Instagram for the upteenth time.

"I'd give anything to spend that much time alone with him."

It was a little creepy, but you loved her. Other girls fawning over your secret fuck-buddy was something you had to -begrudgingly- get used to. It pained you more when it was somebody so close, but nothing was worth coming clean about it.

The last thing you needed during senior year was a target on your back.

"Oh, he's such a prick!" You wave her off and grab your drink from the café counter with a smaller, pleasant, 'Thank you.'

The table was more of a C-curved booth that your group had to shimmy into. The shape made it hard to get in and out of, rather serving as an ultra-cozy prison to focus on your studies, your caffeine, and your snacks.

As a way of not letting you off the hook so easily- your friends cracked open their notes, laptops, textbooks, while entertaining the 'absurd' idea that any of you could actually date Johsai's least eligible bachelor.

A bunch of star-students with decorated academic achievements was the only impressive thing about the patrons at your favorite, quiet, coffee house. With- maybe-- the exception of money in eyeglass prescriptions, or luxurious stationery that decorated the table.

Your voice stood as the most displeased, the most troubled, of the discussion. You flipped through the chapters, halfway forgetting what page you needed to be on, because you got caught up in his shortcomings.

"He doesn't listen- he takes my hours away from people who might actually need it- he's, obviously, got the biggest ego I've ever seen--, Oh- hold up."

It was a struggle to flip to your page and rummage around your pocket for your buzzing phone.

"Well, I'm glad somebody's got some common sense-," Was the only guy in your group, disgruntled at all the Oikawa-talk.

Oikawa's name flashed across your screen. Your body seized and you hugged it to your chest.

"Woah!"

"You good?"

"I'm just--gonna take this outside," You cleared your throat and sank all the way to the floor, crawling over shoes and bags from under the table to get far away from your friends.

It was on the second-to-last ring by the time you hurried outside. You hated him for many things, but the wind picked up, spraying a chilly mist all over your clothes, and you couldn't help but associate him with the feeling. Your hoodie was still inside, forgotten in your haste.

"What? I'm busy right now." You spat, shivering already.

"Don't fog your glasses up, princess."

His easy, light tone particularly bothered you. You groaned.

"Get to the point, pretty boy, I'm busy--,"

"I know. I just called to say you should stop talking about me. Reads as a bit... obsessive, don't you think?"

The breath you took to poke a hole in his 'obsessive' argument gave way to nothing- except a silent realization.

"You're- where are you?"

You squinted at the dark window, but it was one-way.

Oikawa watched you turn to the parking lot, smirking, from inside the cafe.

He sighed, a real airy, fake one; the one he knew you loved to hear from him in bed.

His voice was lower, closer to the receiver. "I thought you said you were busy?"

The audacity to call you obsessive, mixing with the adrenaline his sudden proximity shot into your system. You pressed 'end call.'

When you re-entered the cafe, you spotted him immediately. He was walking back to his booth, one away from yours, from the restrooms. Though you both saw each other, there was hardly an indication that you knew one another at all, thanks to so much practice.

It was, still, hard to watch him slide into a seat right next to some other girl.

So, he heard you talking shit about him while on a date, then left her to go call you? You rejoined your booth, and spared a mean glance over at him, like the absolute garbage he was. He returned it with lesser intensity.

You'd think, with his cock in your hand, he wouldn't bring up the events of that morning. It put him in a less-than ideal position.

"Y'knoww,"

He hadn't said anything yet, but your eyes were rolling. Used to the attitude, and equipped with a firm point to make, he continued:

"You should ditch- ahh, that little loser in your little friend group."

A little roll of your hips had him wincing- spreading the slickness all across his dick, from all the work he had put in, already.

You cocked your head at him, "Oh, yeah?"

Oikawa's eyes rolled back into his skull, a groan at how hot you looked, grinding on him. You were his perfect, nerdy little secret. He specifically wanted you to keep your glasses on today. It was a thing. You didn't understand it in its entirety, but it likely had a connection to the reason why he opted for a lowkey arrangement.

"And you should ditch that shallow whore--,"

"Oh my god!" He gasped, surprised to hear such a thing uttered from your mouth, "Fuuuck you're so jealous-!"

"Me?"

It was completely unfair and utter bullshit that he acted like his jealousy was nonexistent. To him, only you could get out of your pay grade. He pretended to forget that the only reason you were fucking multiple times a week was because he 'needed' you so bad. You felt a little exploited.

"That's so hot-aughhh!"

His big, strong hands were forcing your cunt against his slippery, thick cock, since you wouldn't move quite right.

"M-mmh-! Tha-t's-," You struggled, voice breaking, hands against his muscular chest, "Not- mh, fair."

Your textbooks, his assignment due in 40 minutes, were neglected on the floor across his bedroom. Your tutoring was basically roleplay. It turned him on as soon as you got to talking about the relevant class material, telling him that the work he had already done was wrong.

It turned you on too, to an extent. You liked that you got him stiff without trying, without touching. You loved when he pretended like he wasn't, but bounced his leg right next to yours, cleared his throat before every response, got caught staring like some depraved creature.

You were exactly his type. He was the hottest guy you'd ever met. Something had to give.

"I- ah, don't wanna--," He fucked you hard, like you had a ring on your finger, "See you talk to that loser again."

He couldn't stand the threat of being second place. A guy with such a precious ego needed to feel like you wouldn't leave him. While your social structure may have harbored the suggestion that this would be the case, it wasn't an accurate representation of your feelings.

The whimper lacing his voice grew as you placed a firm hand around his throat.

"Don't- date- other girls." You threatened through gritted teeth and bitten-back moan.

It was just your luck that the most ridiculous peacock of a man would have such a great dick, give you such great head, that you couldn't live and let this fucked-up situationship die. The timer of the semester ticked away, standing as an informal end to it, so neither of you had the gall to cut things off before you needed to.

He whined under your touch, bottoming out hard, keeping himself as deep as he could get.

The lonely bastard draped his arms around you and pulled you close.

"Mmh- you know I gotta- h-ah, keep up appearances for us, princess," His quiet mutter, spilled across your shoulder, forced a shiver down your spine.

His sheets smelled just like him.

You loosened your grip and decided to play with his soft, lush locks, taking in his scent, his touch- that feeling. Like you were his, but not in some twisted, shameful way.

You wanted one of his shirts but it wasn't that simple.

For the moment, you chased the dream, while he was still gentle and peppering you in kisses.

Maybe in some perfect world, he would let go of his status, be a little less weird about your intelligence, and you could have a boyfriend instead of a glorified dildo.

He sounded close, so you fucked him back, hand back on his throat; you wondered how many girls would be disappointed to know that Oikawa Tohru didn't last very long in bed.

"You wanna cum, pretty boy?"

A wince at your rough, loaded kiss. His grip was iron, his strength speaking enough for how mute you got him.

It was so quiet, so pitiful: "Pl-ease,"

God, he looked so cute all fucked-out. He only looked at you like that. Like he never wanted you to leave, like he couldn't breathe without you around him, like you weren't just friends with benefits.

Too bad you were just some freaky nerd-fetish.

He pulled out and you sat, buzzed, on his drained cock, more than satisfied with the sight of cum all over his stomach.

When you pushed up your fallen glasses, his cock twitched accordingly and reminded you of the only reason you existed to him at all.

Kissing, cleaning up, cuddling, all of the winding down was still commonplace between you. He wanted attention, you wanted time to chill before you had to go home. He even made it difficult to get dressed and out the door.

Today, he kept his arms around your waist when you attempted to get up, after 20 minutes of cuddling.

"Pleaaase stay," He whined, unable to hold you as firm as he wanted for fear he would hurt you.

You smiled.

"I need to study more tonight."

"Study here!" He pouted.

Right. Then this would happen all over again- because as soon as he would see a pencil between your teeth, he'd try to replace it with his cock.

"Really study," You pried his fingers off and got dressed.

He watched for a time, but needed to assert himself more in order to feel like he wasn't useless, or forgettable. He joined to get dressed, too, and kept a close eye on your seemingly unbothered expression.

"I'm sorry for cursing at you."

It was so unimportant that you had no idea what he was talking about.

"It's okay," Rolled off your tongue, fast.

Oikawa got twitchy. His sly attempts at dragging out your departure slipped through his fingers like sand.

"Let me help you with that," His unprompted kiss to your forehead, along with his gentle gathering of your things, left you a bit dazed.

You fixed your hair- hesitant to look at him.

"Thank you."

He insisted, like usual, to walk you home. You sighed and posed the same argument, the way you had for the past month. People would notice if you were together in any capacity. Rumors would start.

When he was done packing your books up, he was touchier, and hung over you like a cat rubbing itself all over your ankles as you walked to the door.

You rationalized that it had to be your glasses. It gave him some sort of kick. He barely let you out of his bedroom, let alone his house.

You forgot to ask for a shirt, but... maybe next time?

☆VIP☆

@integers @paradoxicalwritings @yuchacco

my masterlist. more haikyuu. (new) my imagines.

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starsthewitch · 4 months ago

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Star’s beginners guide to Aphrodite worship 🐚💕

Who is Aphrodite?

Aphrodite is the goddess of love, sex, beauty, seduction, and war. She is most commonly known for her immense beauty and her many associations with sex.

What are some things she is associated with?

Doves

Flowers like roses

The colors pink, red, blue, green, white, and gold

Crystals like rose quartz, clear quartz, pearls, diamonds, sapphires, amethyst, rubies, moonstones, and aquamarines

Incense that smells of rose, cinnamon, myrrh, frankincense, vanilla, and jasmine

Her tarot cards, The Lovers, The Empress, and The Star

What can I give to her as offerings?

Shells or shell imagery

Ocean imagery

Swan and dove imagery

Heart imagery

Valentine's day gifts like chocolates

Imagery/paintings that depict her

Roses or rose imagery

Doing skincare for her

Perfumes or colognes

Hairbrushes

Mirrors

Doing your makeup

Moonwater

Strawberries, apples,and raspberries

Devotional acts or things you can do in her honor

Giving compliments to people

Collecting things you find pretty

Wearing jewelry you've offered or devoted to her

Watch or read romantic material

Self-love

Masturbation (if comfortable in doing so)

Sex (if comfortable in doing so)

Wear perfume dedicated to her

Spend time with loved ones

Create a digital altar (these can be done on Pinterest)

Write poetry about her

Write a letter to her

Create or listen to a playlist dedicated to her

Talk to her (tarot cards, dice, pendulum, and other forms of divination work just fine)

What is it like working with her?

When it comes to Aphrodite, in myth, she was often known as a wrathful and jealous goddess. However, since the myths are just stories and are known to exaggerate some details, this isn’t usually the case.

However, when people mention to others that they are interested in working with Aphrodite, they usually say that you absolutely should not. That she is needy, requires a lot of attention and offerings, that if you don’t do what she says, she will take your beauty away.

This is also not the case.

In my experience as an Aphrodite worshipper, she is very loving, along with being insanely passionate. Also being very vocal about her needs and wants.

Often getting signs from her isn’t at all uncommon. I remember the first few weeks I started working with her, I got an image on my feed that had these two eels intertwined together in a heart shape.

You will often feel connected to sea life, the sea in general, wanting to do things for yourself like dressing nicer and wanting to take care of yourself more.

Here are some things I’ve experienced in my time in working with her.

When I first started praying to her, I stuttered and fumbled over my words. A lot. I was oddly nervous about it? I’m not the type to stutter and fumble often. But beginning to feel nervous and even embarrassed in the presence of the goddess of love? Very normal.

She often enjoys getting milk and dark chocolate, along with roses or any kind of flower, real or not. I gave her chocolates, a fake rose, and a real flower for valentines day and she was insanely happy with it. So much so that her candle rested in a heart shape for a short while.

I often saw butterflies, a symbol of Aphrodite.

I often feel inclined to go to the beach, collect seashells, and do things that make me feel good.

I feel more comfortable expressing love. Before, I was never the type to use pet names for people, especially for friends. But i’ve noticed that I now call people sweet and endearing names. Honeybun, sweet pea, boo, sweetie/sweetness, and babes are things i’ve been saying lately.

She is very honest, often not sugarcoating things. I asked her when my ex first asked me out if we’d last. She said no and gave me explicit reasons as to why. Though I still went out and dated them anyway, and it pretty much ended in the way she said.

She very much enjoys art work of her. I’ve drawn her a few times, asking her to guide my hand in doing so.

Whenever I feel unattractive or hate something about my appearance, she usually makes someone compliment me that day or that week. I was having an off day with my hair, and in that same hour, a girl walked up to me and said that she loved my hair and the style it was in.

That is it for my beginners Aphrodite worship guide! I will be doing these for the other two deities I work with, Apollo and Freyja.

I do hope these were helpful. If you have any questions or need assistance with anything, my ask box and my dms are always open. So be sure to shoot me a message!

Much love to you. <3

#deity #deity worship #deity work #aphrodite #lady aphrodite #aphrodite deity #diety worship #aphrodite worship #goddess worship #hellenic altar #hellenic deities #hellenic worship #hellenic polytheism #aphrodite devotion #aphrodite art #greek paganism #paganblr

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twst-kumi · 5 months ago

Note

Sorry please,my English is not very good ( it's not my mother tongue) it's silly but you can do a headcanon on pregnancy ( from the dorm heads) or an alphabet on either of them!

Don't worry, English is not my mother tongue too. I will consider reader is in a relationship with them and that they are the father. Reader is a girl in the story.

Dorm leader with Pregnant reader

Riddle Rosehearts

Riddle would be the most shocked if you were pregnant.

You two were still in NRC. IN SCHOOLS! He knew he should have waited for marriage.

Riddle is worried, and rightfully so. He knows nothing about child care, let alone parenthood. He is scared that he won't be a good father. Or worse. What if he becomes like his mother and repeats the trauma circle?

Reader and Trey will need to be the voice of reason here.

Make sure to assure him that everything is alright.

Riddle will gather EVERYTHING he could get about childbirth and childcare.

He will learn everything from start to end. At this point, he knows more about your pregnancy than you do.

Expect him to be there at every doctor's appointment, even better! HE will make those appointments.

Your doctor would be a bit tired tho...

Riddle will ask him a lot of questions. From your diet, to what is needed for the pregnancy, how to make sure you and the baby will be safe.

Reader will be taken care of like a queen.

You will also have to move to Heartlsabyul. Ramshackle is too rundown and dangerous for you or the baby.

Trey mentioned that Mozart was good for the baby's brain development. Care to try it?

Riddle would spend hours talking and reading to your belly.

Will cry before the first ultrasound you did. It's his child's first picture in a way.

Mood swings with Riddle would be funny. He knows it's because your body changes for the child but it's hard sometimes.

Ace would laugh because this time he is the one who has to walk on eggshells.

If you cry, Riddle will be completely helpless. He would panic trying to make you smile.

The one to take care of your food carving would be Trey. Riddle tried to do it, but some of the things you asked for, were unknown.

I think Riddle would be a little jealous of the other. He would feel a little helpless about the situation. And having to rely on others even though he is the father. He should be the one to take care of you!

This would be where Riddle would see the difference between theoretical and practical knowledge.

Marriage will be expected. He will try to at least get a civil marriage. If you have any religion, he will organize a proper wedding following your beliefs once the baby is born.

Riddle's biggest worry is his mom. He doesn't want her to hurt you or the baby.

Riddle will try to take care of everything for you. He isn't the best at it, but he has the spirit.

BONUS Childbirth :

Poor Riddle would definitely want to be there during the birth.

His poor soul didn't support it.

Riddle would either cry or faint. He is sorry he put you through something so painful and potentially traumatic.

You will have to assure him that you are okay.

Leona Kingscholar

Leona with a pregnant reader could be interesting if he was a Yandere.

Lions kill young cubs (not his) to get the lioness more inclined to bear his cub.

But this isn't a Yandere headcanon. So I will keep this in a drawer.

That doesn't mean he wouldn't try to push Grim a little away. Or bribe convince him to leave you and him alone a little longer.

Leona is the first to know you are pregnant. Way before you do.

Cliché but it's true.

He would not try to tell you directly, so he wouldn't sound too insensitive, but he will insist that you take a pregnancy test

Or even better he will try to convince you to do a blood test. It's more accurate than a stick you pee on.

And surprise surprise, you are pregnant.

Leona can't help but be smug about it. He is the father, and if it wasn't obvious before for some stubborn herbivore or... A particular lizard.

Leona is close to his sister-in-law so he had some experience with pregnancy.

But this time he is the father. And the mother is a magicless human.

Unlike beastwomen, you are more weak. This is what worries him.

The first person Leona asks for advice is his sister. Who is the best to ask about pregnancy if it's not someone who experienced it?

This also means that Falena now knows he will be an uncle.

Leona could hear Cheka rambling happily that he would have a younger cousin to everyone he saw.

If you wanted to keep a low profile during the pregnancy, he is sorry. That would be impossible. Say goodbye to your peaceful days.

You must go with him to meet with your in-laws during the weekend.

Leona is a prince. Even if he is just the second prince, he is still from the royal family. Which means, a lot of regulation, tradition, etc...

Leona's family would happily welcome you and try to make you feel accepted.

During the pregnancy, Leona would make sure to get you everything.

You want chocolate and pickles? Of course! Need a massage? The servants are here for you; if you wish, HE would do it.

While in NRC, expect to stay with him. Leona doesn't want you to strain yourself too much.

He will make sure that Ruggie runs errands for him AND you.

Leona will sleep with a hand on your belly. He will never say it but he loves feeling the baby kick.

Another one who will follow you to your ultrasound.

The royal family has their own doctor. And he is your doctor from now on too. You are his royal spouse after all.

BONUS Childbirth :

It's a known fact, that Leona drinks his respected woman's juice every morning.

Well after childbirth? He drinks it morning and night.

Seeing you endure so much pain just because you love him, made him feel even more in love.

Leona could never do what you did.

You are weak compared to beastwomen, but even more brave. As expected of his future wife.

Leona would cradle the baby carefully next to you. He tried not to show it but you could see the small smile on his lips.

Azul Ashengrotto

Azul would be another one shocked. He almost spit his ink.

Floyd and Jade would congratulate and tease him.

It was unexpected but Azul is happy about it.

Don't worry about the future, he saved enough money to care for you and the baby.

For your carving, he will ask the twins for help. Floyd is having a blast with your funny demand.

Azul will accompany you to your doctor's appointment.

He will have done his research before coming with you. And while Riddle would ask the doctor way too many questions.

Azul just takes notes and asks questions only when needed.

He will take you to look for the baby's clothes and maybe even the furniture.

Mood swing with Azul is a nightmare for him and comedy gold for the Leech twins.

No, you are not fat, just full of love.

You are not ugly! You are the prettiest mother who ever existed.

Azul would watch you with bated breath for any outburst.

Please don't mind the contract he asked you to sign. Mariage contract? Don't mind what was written on it.

Bonus Childbirth

Azul would panic the moment your water broke.

He would come in the room, hold your hand as you are pushing the baby out;

And then?... Nothing.

Azul just fainted, he wasn't even able to hold the baby. The tweels will tease him about it.

Kalim Al Asim

LET'S THROW A PARTY!!!

Kalim is way too happy, and you can tell from Jamil's face that he is losing 5 years of his life.

Kalim has been poisoned and kidnapped a lot since childhood, and now he has to protect you too.

Poor Jamil can't take a break. And now you are overworking him.

You will obviously move to their dorm because now you are under careful watch.

Kalim is just happy and is already preparing a room for the baby.

Tell him what you want, and he will give you EVERYTHING.

Your Carving? Don't worry, Jamil can make them for you.

You want a midnight snack? Kalim would try to do it but would fail miserably. He will have to wake up Jamil to prepare your snack and clean up the mess. poor guy

Meeting with the Al Asim family would be great.

Usually, they would do a long background check and be suspicious of you. But if even Jamil trusts you. Welcome to the family.

Another one who has a private doctor.

Mood swings with Kalim would be impossible.

He is such a sweetheart, you can't get angry at him. Instead, he will smother you with love.

You would feel frustrated by the constant monitoring but it's for your safety.

Bonus childbirth

Kalim absolutely wanted to come with you in the room.

Jamil stopped him, so he had to wait with his family.

He would be anxiously pacing until they were allowed in.

He is the first at your side to look at your baby.

Kalim would cry and laugh proudly. He is a father now.

Vil Schoenheit

Vil is happy but also worried. He has always wanted to form a family with you.

But just not this soon. He is an actor so he knows how fans can react.

He wants to be present during every step of your pregnancy but can't.

Vil will keep it as private as possible.

He is not ashamed but it's for your safety.

Vil knows how crazy fans can be, I believe he had some stalker, and you can't tell me otherwise.

Vil would be one of the people who wouldn't cave into your carving.

If he deems it as unhealthy, he will refuse to give it to you.

He will be here for you during your mood swings.

About Vil's dad, I don't think he would mind too much. His son is responsible enough for him to trust Vil's decision. He is also excited to be a grandpa.

Will come with you to your doctor's appointment. He isn't there at every appointment but he tries.

Bonus childbirth

Vil is both in awe and worried. Giving birth is both the most beautiful and strong event he could witness.

He would hold your hand, staying by your side every time

Vil would hold the baby with a tender smile. He doesn't say it but you can see he loves the baby already. It's the most beautiful child.

Idia Shroud

Idia would be happy and MORTIFIED. For him, it's a miracle he was able to pull you.

And now, you say you are pregnant???

He fainted.

Idia is happy but it's too much emotion for him.

He is going to be a father... A FATHER! Idia never thought you would be interested by him, let alone share your blood and have a child with him.

He believes he ruined your life and feel guilty for being happy for it. You will not leave him when you are with his child... Right?

Will ask you if you want to keep the child or not. (Please don't say you don't want it, his heart gonna break.)

You will have to reassure him that you are happy and actually want the baby.

Please hug, Idia! He need a lot of PDA.

Idia will work his courage up, to accompany you.

He will be worried about you and the baby. It's to the point he made something to monitor you and the baby. Or just ask Ortho to keep an eye on you.

Any abnormal change would warrant a panic attack in Idia. He is an overthinker.

Mood swings is a nightmare for both of you.

Idia is an anxious guys, so he would cry.

Any carving you have is like a game where he have to be fast.

His family would welcome you with open arms.

They did a background check, surviving 6 Overblot in a row is incredible. Mind if they study you?

Anyway, you are totally welcomed in the Shroud family.

Don't worry about the wedding after the baby's birth. They will take care of it.

Idia's family is wealthy and he is the heir. So don't spare the details for the baby room.

Bonus Childbirth

Idia would go with you in the delivery room.

I can see him cry like he is the one giving birth.

Poor guy tried to focus on you and only you. Holding your hand tightly, kissing your forehead while whispering encouraging word.

But the moment he glanced at what was happening down there?

He is gone! Idia fainted from horror and shock.

How could you support that? It must hurt!

Did you see the size of his head? He is shocked.

Well was, because he fainted.

Malleus Draconia

I'm going to cheat for this one as I'm planning on doing a Yandere headcanon/one shot involving a pregnant reader. (A personal request of a close friend.)

So I will just link it here.

#twisted wonderland #twst #twst x reader #vil schoenheit #leona kingscholar #malleus draconia #riddle rosehearts #kalim al asim #idia shroud #azul ashengrotto #riddle rosehearts x reader #leona kingsholar x reader #azul x reader #azul ashengrotto x reader #kalim al asim x reader

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moonstruckme · 7 months ago

Note

Hey lovely, how are you?

I’m not sure if I should be answering this through here, but here we go

I had already read that lil’ drabble and it’s perfect!!! Please don’t get me wrong, I really love it, but I was thinking of something a little different.

Maybe reader has to get a vaccine (because she was stalling to do it) and when the boys find out they were like “you need to get it, it’s for your health” and reader goes like “fine”. Well, it wasn’t fine. When reader finally realizes what’s happening she turns into this sobbing mess and it just breaks the boys hearts 💔

I know this is kinda specific, sorry. It’s what always happens to me when I go get vaccinated and I always end up crying more than I thought I would.

It’s totally fine if you don’t want to do it, though! Also, sorry if some terms were wrong, english is not my first language lol

Anyways, love you and love your work!! 🫶

Thanks for explaining babe, and for requesting <3

cw: needle, also I have once again written myself into an inaccurate emt situation and am once again asking for your feigned oversight of the erroneousness. Thank you mwah!

emt!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 1.2k words

You’re being quiet. James keeps trying to pick up conversation, but you won’t engage for more than a few words and a terse smile before falling silent again. They’ve all picked up on it. From the driver’s seat, Remus keeps casting scrutinous glances at you in the rear view mirror. James has given up on trying to get you to talk and is just grateful you’re letting him be near you, his hand on your leg while you stare out the window.

It’s obvious you’re upset. You like being told what to do as much as the next person, and when they’d found out you’d been avoiding going to get your vaccine they’d been more than a little bossy. Though he’d been as insistent as the other two that it was important to get done, James had honestly felt a bit sorry for you; Remus had decided you were going the next morning before you could get a word in, which would have been next to impossible anyways with the tirade Sirius had embarked on.

James feels a bit sorry for you now, too, when he and Remus are trying to go along with your wishes and keep quiet and Sirius is, quite naturally, goading you.

“You don’t have to be mad at us, baby,” he says, fully turned around in the passenger seat to give you his poutiest look. “We’re all on the same team here, yeah?”

“I’m not mad,” you say to the window.

“I get that you’re not needles’ number one fan, but you know how important this is. We just want you to be healthy.”

You shift in your seat, crossing your legs so James’ hand falls away from you. It stings a little. “Can we not talk about it?”

“Sure, dove.” Remus’ eyes are on you in the rear view mirror again, his hand reaching across the console to cover Sirius’ knee warningly. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

You’re quiet the rest of the drive. James is used to being around people that are stewing (years of friendship with Remus and Sirius will accustom one to that), but it makes him fidgety to think you’re angry with him. He really wants to reach for your hand. You’re too stiff to make him confident you’ll take it.

But when you enter the curtained-off room and don’t go to hop up on the table, you don’t reject the helping hand he offers you to get up. You don’t let go.

Remus leaves to prepare your vaccine, and you don’t seem any more inclined to talk than you had been in the car. James decides to hop up on the table beside you, putting an arm around your shoulders when you seem amenable to it, and Sirius leans against the desk, thwacking a pen in a lazy rhythm. You feel tense under his arm.

James is beginning to suspect you’re not actually angry.

“You okay, angel?” he asks gently.

“Fine,” you say, clipped. It’s the same response you’d given when they’d strong-armed you into this appointment. He’s not sure if he believes you anymore.

James is suddenly glad he came. Though Remus and Sirius had to come in for their shift and will be staying after, he only tagged along because he wanted (as always) to be wherever the three of you are. Now that he has an inkling of how you’re feeling, James is glad he’ll be with you to drive you home, look after you in case you have any side effects, and generally help you relax after this is done. Right now, you seem to be winding tighter by the minute.

Remus comes back in, and James looks over to find your bottom lip trapped cruelly between your teeth. Your expression looks almost pained.

“Honey…” he murmurs.

Remus and Sirius look up in alarm as your eyes line with silver.

“Hey, baby, it’s okay.” Sirius pushes off from the desk, sitting on your other side and winding an arm around your waist. “You’re fine, this’ll only take a second.”

You give a little sob, reality setting in. James sees the surprise and anguish he’s feeling reflected on Sirius’ face as the other boy kisses above your eyebrow.

Remus’ expression is carefully calm as he approaches, holding up an antiseptic wipe like a symbol of peace. “Just breathe,” he says, voice soft and slow as he pushes up your sleeve. You watch his every move, every one of the muscles beneath James’ hand tense. “You’ve got nothing to worry about. In just a little bit we’ll be sending you home with Jamie, yeah?”

He picks up the vaccine, and you suck in a breath, pressing into James’ side to get away from it. “Wait wait wait,” you say in a rush, voice tipping up with panic as tears spill over your waterline. James' heart veritably shatters. He feels it happening in his chest, but they’ve all dealt with patients like this before. Waiting doesn’t help anything.

“You’re fine,” Sirius promises you, helping Remus to hold your arm still while James shields your vision with his hand. “Don’t look, you’re okay.”

James doesn’t watch the needle go in, but he hears your reaction, a wet inhale that catches in your throat followed by a torturous whimpering sound.

He presses a kiss to your hair, whispering a quick, “You’re good, lovie.”

Remus hums in quiet agreement. A moment later he’s setting the syringe back down on his tray, replacing the spot with a plaster. James lets his hand drop, and Sirius cheers as Remus rubs small, sympathetic circles over the spot with his thumb.

“You did it, gorgeous!” He pecks you on the cheek, mindless of its dampness. “You’re done.”

Another tiny sob breaks out of you, and Remus’ brow creases pityingly. He touches his lips gently over the plaster on your arm. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I didn’t realize quite how nervous you were.”

You sniffle. “It’s okay,” you say. Your voice comes out a bit frayed, and both James and Sirius coo in sympathy.

“My poor girl,” the latter whines. He tugs you away from James’ hold, clearly fed up with not doing his fair share for your physical comfort. “I thought you were just peeved with us. I didn’t know they made you that freaked, sweetness. You did amazing.”

“You really did so well.” James thumbs under your lashes, collecting water on his thumbnail. “You were so brave.”

“Don’t patronize me,” you mumble, growing sullen again.

“We’re not, dovey, we’re not.” Remus rubs up and down on your arm placatingly. At this rate, James thinks, you won’t have any muscle pain at all. “This is more difficult for some people than others. It seems like it's really difficult for you, and I’m proud of you for getting through it. Alright?”

He’s looking at you intently, waiting for you to confirm you understand. You go a bit shy under his gaze. “Okay,” you acquiesce softly.

“Good.” Remus kisses your forehead. “You’re all done here, so you two can head home. If you start to feel ill or odd at all say something to Jamie, alright?”

“I’ve got her,” James reassures them both, hopping down from the table. Sirius holds you still a moment longer, kissing the same spot Remus had before letting you go. You slot under James' arm like you always do, like it’s where you’re meant to be. “We’ll text you pictures of all the ice cream we eat and films we watch while you’re working.”

“Fuck off,” Sirius laughs. It catches, and you chuckle softly. The sound makes all three of them breathe a sigh of relief.

James squeezes you with his arm around your shoulders as he walks you out.

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touyas-multi-purpose-saline · 4 months ago

Text

DAY XI. — BREEDING/NON-CON (CABIN IN THE WOODS AU)

cw: Blood, Gore, Mentions of Death / Past Death, Violence / Allusions to Violence, Non-Con, Breeding / Allusions to Breeding, Monster! Hawks, Slight Gaslighting / Manipulation, Unhealthy Relationships, Yandere, General Dark Content Not Suitable for Immature Audiences, Fem! Reader. Reader discretion is advised. 18+ Only!

author's note: My friends and I have constantly joked about a Cabin in the Woods AU in which our favorite characters are monsters kept in that underground base. Hawks is probably something akin to a harpy. I do not condone unhealthy behavior in any sense! This is strictly fiction! Do not force yourself to read if you're uncomfortable.

word count: Approximately 1.3k words.

A throaty shriek bounces around in your head before a heaving pressure slams into your back, sending your weary frame spiraling down an incline. You’re screaming, kicking and swiping your fists out to throw the weight on your body off, but you hear what sounds like a hiss before multiple piercing pains puncture into you. A gasp slips out of your mouth, and you glance down in terror at yourself while you’re still tumbling down, lower and lower.

Sharp talons, claws that glitter under the moonlight, are digging through your flesh. Five knives on each palm, one through your shoulder and the other buried deep in your ribs underneath your breast. You can feel something poking against your lungs, a reminder that one wrong move will kill you. The pain grows, and you finally stop rolling. That thing is still on your back, heavy and panting, and you nearly gag at the hot and disgusting breath breezing down the ridge of your nose. A hearty chuckle.

“Y’know… haaa, haaa, it took me a little bit to find you. Ya really threw me off of my game, did’ja know? I can’t believe you managed to trick me like that, little songbird.”

His voice is poison and ice in your ears, shuddering winds that lets you see your foggy breath even in the desolate summer heat. You don’t want to even dignify him with a response, you want to toss your head back and slam it into his face. The thought crosses your mind in a flash before you do such, and the reverberating thunder that makes your ears ring whenever the back of your skull knocks against his teeth makes you cry out in agony. You hear his call, too, and whooshing wings flap before they shield your body.

“Owww, little bird! W-Why’d you do that? I thought we were going to play nice with each other. That’s why you’re alive, isn’t it? You wanted to play with me?”

Sure, if by playing you mean fighting for your life and stabbing him in the arm whenever he had picked you up with those hawk claws, dragging you into the sky to spear your belly through the top of a tree—just like your friend, just like your friend. Tears well in your eyes now. Your wrist was broken, but it wasn’t like this monster cared. And you don’t even want to know, you don’t want to contemplate why you’re alive, why he kept you alive, why he chased after you, why he pinned you down underneath him and talked to you as if this were normal.

“Come on, no need to be so cold. Talk to me a little. I know you can—didn’t you with that human male?”

There’s a shivering chill that flicks you between your eyebrows, but you just groan and rest your cheek against the forest floor. You don’t want him to talk to you. He should just murder you like he did to the rest of your friends. He should slice you open, eat you with those razor teeth. Intestines, blood, spit and fear. You can see the horror painted like a dreary window sill on your closest friend’s face.

“He wasn’t worth it, in my opinion. It’s strange, isn’t it? I can’t believe I’d find my own human pet. But you’re being so mean right now, it’s so harsh. Here, I’ve got an idea.”

The monster doesn’t give you enough time to even comprehend his statement before the hand inside of your shoulder withdraws, spilling fresh blood and weeping yells, and starts to trace down your back. Something distinct snags your heart, veins that thump in anticipation and a dawning realization that makes jelly and tar form in the back of your throat. His hand slips to your bottoms, claws at the ready, and you can’t even scream before he tears them off. The monster’s shoving your panties aside, ripping the fabric like it was just a sheet of paper before the hand leaves and braces itself to the right of your head.

“N-No, stop! Stop, stop! Please, don’t—”

“Shhh, little bird. This’ll feel good. If you don’t want to talk, then we can do this instead. It’ll be just as fun.”

And before you can even bite your tongue, something stiff and slimy slips between the line of your thighs and starts to prod between your cheeks. Terror like you’ve never known before begins to storm in your body, like crazy drums and guitar strings, and it makes you shake, thrashing and begging.

“I don’t want to do this! Leave me alone, please! Please, just kill me instead! I—”

“Kill you? Nahh, I don’t want to do that. Though, that blood of yours sure does smell tasty. You won’t mind if I need to steal a taste, would you?”

You’re throwing your head around, wriggling your body underneath his, but those wings block your exits and his limbs start to ensconce you in the most horrifying ways. This was just supposed to be a vacation! This was supposed to just be a great time with your friends before the new semester started! This was supposed to be time hidden in the woods, drinking and toasting fate and happiness! This was just supposed to be for fun! Fun! Fun! Fun—and all of your friends are dead, murdered, killed in mortifying ways by the monster starting to gyrate his hips against the cleft of your ass.

His feathers tickle.

“Calm down, calm down. It’s what all things were made to do, you’ll start to enjoy it once you calm down!”

He doesn’t sound frustrated in the slightest, no, a hint of glee coats the outskirts of his tone. His hips angle down, his stiff cock manages to slip down between your squished thighs, and his cockhead starts to poke against your entrance. You’re so dry that his slickness makes you queasy, tears like stars in the night sky.

“I don’t want to do this, please, pleeeeeease. God, please. I’m scared.”

That cockhead just pushes forward, an amused chuckle the belltower of your doom.

“Don’t be, songbird. You’re my mate now. And you know what mates do, right?”

You do. And you have zero clue what made him so delusional—what gave him conscious thought to choose you. Shouldn’t you have been his prey? Why is he? Why you? Oh, God, why you? Is it because you fought back? Is it because you managed to escape every time? Is it just luck? You don’t know, you don’t want to know, you’ll never know.

He’s slowly pressing into you, slotting his slimy and gritty cock inside of your cunt, spreading your chapped lips, sending your head in a frenzy, a desperate plea that doesn’t even reach your fingertips. He weighs you down like a ship’s smoke on the horizon.

“I’ll take care of you from now on. That’s what males do. You’re supposed to just be mine, ‘kay? Let’s get it on. I’ll make sure you’re satisfied.”

You don’t listen, don’t want to. You just decide, with those red feathers tickling your nose and cheeks, with the claws in your body, with the joints bending into yours, that you’ll just lay here and fade away into nothingness. Stop thinking and it’ll be over. And hopefully once he’s used you up enough, you’ll find your bowels accidentally splayed on the mushy grass and your friends holding their hands out to you.

“And maybe we’ll get a couple of chicks. Yeah, sounds nice. Yeahhhh. You’ll be a great mate.”

Then, with your shuttering eyes, the monster fills you up.

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callofdudes · 2 years ago

Text

What are you reading??

A/N: this was requested by @thicc-plum so I hope y'all enjoy my friend. This took way too long, please let me know if you catch any spelling mistakes.

This includes 141, Alejandro & Rodolfo.

Summary: The reader gets caught reading a smut book and the boys tease the hell out of her.

CW: Brief depictions of sexual interactions, the boys 'teasing' you.

Y'all really want a part 2 huh... I've made you a lil part 2 for y'all.

You were sitting alone at a table in the canteen. Lunch was almost over but you hadn't busied yourself with food. You were sitting in the corner with one of your books in hand. You always loved to read, but this book in particular you had refrained from reading around the others. It was... A different kind of book. Not one with little swordsmen going on long adventures to sweep away their friends from the perils of danger.

It was one with tension, heat. The kind that nestled in your stomach and bubbled up through your chest, making you feel a small, almost tangible piece of the intimacy you read about.

You were engrossed in the book. The atmosphere around you was drowned out as you read.

His hand guided her thigh, skirt riding up past her hip and their eyes met. Their breaths tangled in the warm bedroom, sweat soaking into the sheets-

"What are you reading??"

You gasp and slam your book shut. Your hands tremble as you push it away from you.

Johnny smirks, laughing as he sits down. "Oh you should see your face!"

You scoff. "Not funny Johnny."

Johnny grabs the book from your trembling hands and examines the cover.

"Oh~ what is this risque piece of artwork??" He flips through the pages, reading over some of the sentences. You attempt to grab the book back but Johnny puts his elbow up to keep you away while he reads.

His eyes go wide. "Woah!! That's some descriptive oral- my goodness!"

"Johnny!!" You jump and grab the book back, pulling it to your chest.

Your cheeks go red. "Don't tell the others, please??"

"Depends, can I borrow the book??"

"What are you going to do with it??"

"Read it, obviously. It looks good."

He gives you his signature smirk and you can't help but feel inclined to agree. You grumble under your breath. "whatever, I'll finish and then you can read it. But please return it!!"

Johnny nods. "Of course."

"By the way, you're late for your meeting with Price. You don't want me to tell him you're late because of an innocent little book, would you??"

He grins. "Wouldn't want dear old captain to know you're doing such naughty little things." He squeezes your thigh.

He stands from his chair.

Your cheeks burn redder, but the time manages to take your attention.

You look at your watch and curse. "Don't tell anyone Johnny! I'm serious!!"

He winks at you as he walks away. "You can count on me y/n!"

You grumble and hold your book close. Why on earth would Johnny want to read it?? Was he messing with you?? Or was he actually interested.

You rush out of the canteen and shove your book in your bag. You just hope Johnny wouldn't tell anyone what he saw you reading.

You will admit, yes, you had it coming. You weren't doing your paperwork as it had gotten too boring too quickly and you'd given up for a bit. No one likes doing paperwork. The only ones who didn't complain about it happened to be Price, Ghost, and Gaz. You were none of them.

So you'd kicked up your feet and started to read your book. It was a book you'd gotten on leave and you had kept it fairly secret from the others, it wasn't a book you wanted them to know about.

It was better than doing paperwork. And much more fun.

You must have lost track while reading however, getting too caught up in the endless pages of sticky hot mess.

"He latched onto her neck, sucking a deep hickey into her supple throat. She cried out his name softly into the night, arms wrapping tightly around his shoulders-"

There was a knock on the door.

You shot up, scrambling immediately to bring your feet off your desk and straighten up. You slam your book back into the desk drawer.

"Come in!"

Price enters, making you gulp.

"Y/n, we haven't seen you for a while, I wanted to see how things are coming along in here."

He sees the enormous pile of paperwork on your desk and crosses his arms. You immediately look down and away, knowing you would probably be in trouble for this.

He sighs and comes around the corner of the desk, seeing the still open drawer with your book in It. He sees the very risque cover and pulls it out before you can stop him.

"Was this what had your attention??"

You gulp, getting anxious as he flips through the pages.

He hums thoughtfully. He flips the pages and reads through some of the things, his facial expressions changing with each new scenario played out in the book.

He eventually closes it and places it in one of his pockets.

"Captain-"

"Shh, I've seen enough. If this is what you'd like to occupy your time with, very well then."

"I'm sorry."

He tuts. "Be a good girl and finish your paperwork. When you're done, we can discuss this little book of yours."

Your cheeks burn red and you look away.

"Yes Captain."

"That's a good girl."

Price walked off, leaving a heavy feeling in your stomach. You had a weird new motivation to finish your paperwork though.

The evening was quiet and the others were out. It was just you and Gaz on base and you were relishing in the quiet environment. Wrapped up in a blanket, the fireplace crackling a few feet away from you, nothing better.

With a book in hand the world could only be perfect. Your eyes feel tired, even as you read the book that always makes your stomach drop and your emotions rise.

You thought Gaz had gone to bed, so you felt comfortable reading it without the others around. You would always read this book in your room, it never saw the light of day around the guys.

"He whispered low in her ear, nipping at the corner of her lobe. His hands groped down across her collar, fingers tangling in her necklace..."

You continued to read, barely registering the creak of the floorboards. You'd assumed it was the house settling since you hadn't heard the door. Nor had you noticed the shadow bast behind you, soft brown eyes reading each delicately picked word with you.

Suddenly, you feel breathing near your ear. Your heartbeat quickens and your fingers feel tense. The feeling in your stomach growls hotter with each second.

"That seems a little naughty to be reading out here, don't you think sweetheart?"

You jump, nearly screaming as a voice cuts through your concentration, shattering the perfect dream of being wrapped in an embrace just as addictive as the words in your book.

Gaz grins, his hand touching your shoulder and running down your arm to flip the page of the book.

"K-Kyle- I didn't realize you were-"

"Shh. Read it out loud."

Your cheeks turn deep red. "W-what-??"

"Read it out loud to me sweetheart."

Your heart rate quickens and your voice catches in your throat. You want to say yes just as badly as you want to say no. But the way Kyle strokes his thumb over your hand made you willing.

"S-sure..."

Kyle hums. "Good. I think you'll want to finish this next chapter before the others return. You wouldn't want them to hear all the things you've been reading about."

You gulp, but you reluctantly start to read.

You couldn't sleep. So naturally in the early hours of the morning when you figured no one else was awake, you turned to the kitchen for a snack.

You patter through the hallway with your book in hand. You turn on the kitchen light and make yourself some tea to soothe your body, considering you were sore from the lack of sleep.

You sat down at the kitchen table with your tea and opened your book. The cover was bright red with dazzling shiny line work around two figures. One holding the other in a more suggestive manner. Each chapter displaying a new set of characters put through taboo and risque situations. All of them leading to a spicy climax.

Literally.

You sunk into the quiet atmosphere and started to read. Your eyes drowned into the words, hands holding the book firmly.

"He pulled her back, his large hand wrapped tightly around her throat. His sneer could almost look evil to anyone who wasn't her. Treated like a doll in his large hands, putting so much trust into his punishments."

You gulp, not realizing how heavy your breathing had gotten until a hand wraps around your throat.

It catches you so off guard you whine. Thumb and forefinger pressing into the sensitive parts under your jaw, making your insides coil and twist.

You bite your lip, hands trembling.

Warm breath whisps over your cheek and Ghost's rough Manchester voice breaks the silence.

"I always knew you were into some weird shit."

His other hand reaches out and takes the book from you, inspecting the cover.

"Ghost-"

His hand tightens on your throat, making you moan quietly.

He hums, flipping through some of the pages.

Your cheeks start to burn, watching out of the corner of your eye as he flips. You can't see his face, you can't gauge his reaction. All you know is his hand is wrapped so nicely around your throat, body hidden in the shadows it makes you feel as small as the girl in the story.

He gets to a certain page and chuckles. "You are into some weird shit."

You grab his wrist, wanting to pry him away and wanting him closer. It feels like a dream how it is all playing out, you are scared you want more.

He places the book down and squeezes your throat, getting another soft moan out of you.

He lets go and chuckles. "I could do better than he can."

It makes you want to pass out. He lets you go and when you turn around he's already walking away. Your arms and legs are shaking but you rush after him, wanting to know what he meant.

He doesn't lock his door when he disappears, and you know all too well it's an invitation into the book you'd just been reading.

(also I love this gif, look at Rodolfo just effortlessly toss that crate- boy you are amazing and I love you)

Look, everyone on base knew you were a little freaky at times. It was no secret to anyone. And it also wasn't a secret you might have a teensy tiny little thing for your colonel and the sergeant major.

That was not the point however.

You had just finished up a long day of training with the Vaqueros. You'd been out all afternoon, which was why you were a bit surprised you were being called into Alejandro and Rodolfo's office for a little chat.

What this chat was about, you weren't entirely sure.

But you finished up your routines and set off for their office.

You knock on the door, hearing Alejandro's voice beckon you in. When you open the door you're greeted by both Alejandro and Rodolfo. Alejandro is sitting while Rodolfo is standing next to him with something in his hands.

You would know that velvet patterned trophy book anywhere.

Your blood turns cold.

"Take a seat y/n." Alejandro smiles at you with that smile. The one that makes your heart flutter and your stomach flop.

You nod and take a seat. "What's this about?"

Rodolfo leans over and places the book in front of you. "Look familiar? It has your name written on the inside cover."

You gulp and nod, your cheeks going a bit red. "Yes sir sergeant, I know the book quite well."

"I think you would, considering how worn it, must get read a lot."

By now Rodolfo has come around to your side, one hand snaking up your arm to your shoulder and squeezing the muscles.

You gulp again.

Alejandro opens the book and flips through the pages. "Such a filthy book y/n, there's only one reason you could read this book so much."

You look away bashfully.

"Does it give you a high, Y/n??"

"N-no colonel!"

Alejandro stands and flips to a certain page. He taps the frame of the book and bends down in front of you, guiding your gaze back to his with his thumb and forefinger.

"Care to explain this then?"

You look down at the page he points to, you know it well. Rereading it over and over. It had crinkled edges from your sweaty fingers and dirt makes from the small traces your nails would leave.

You reread the words you practically knew by heart.

"She cries loudly, voice broken into sobs. The man behind her keeps a firm grip in her hair and tugs her back against him. The second man gazes down into her teary eyes, letting her breathe a fresh breath of air before plunging back into her throat."

Your cheeks were red enough, tainted deeper when you saw the scribbled names of your colonel and sergeant major at the bottom of the page.

Rodolfo's hand curls in your hair, his soft voice near your ear. "Considere esto su castigo por leer tal suciedad."

Your brow wobbles, but you can't run from them, you never could.

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martybaker · 2 months ago

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There was only one couch

Tfw you cannot find the jayvik fic you crave so you write it yourself 🙃

I also gotta preface this with - I cannot write science talk for the life of me, in my defense they are sleep deprived so if it doesn’t make much sense, it’s not supposed to 🙈

—————————

They’ve been stuck at this problem for hours, any potential paths they managed to come up with immediately shattering after but a couple pokes of logic aimed to test the solidity of their foundations. Like bubbles popped by a child’s finger. Like heated corn kernels. Like dreams of making a difference-

Viktor’s too tired to think in metaphors.

He drops the pencil and swivels in his chair, facing Jayce who’s already draped across their shabby sofa, long legs sticking out from one end, head inclined on the armrest on the side closer to Viktor.

“What if we…build an oven?” Jayce says. “Well not like, an oven, but reverse, a device that could contain the energy and…,” he waves his hands in the air as he talks, as if that would help illustrate his train of thought, “…uhhh, we could more safely work on directing the charges? Fuck, I don’t even know what I’m trying to say.”

Viktor chuckles. He doesn’t know why he does, it’s not even particularly funny, the exhaustion must have erased any common sense of his that was left. Yet it’s…comforting to see that same exhaustion mirrored in Jayce. The same dark circles, the same bone deep tiredness weighing him down, the same look of frustration after they’ve been hitting dead ends and running in circles. It’s a shared exhaustion, just like the hard work is shared. Probably should have called it a night hours ago. They both direly need the rest.

“An oven? That would be your hunger speaking, I’m afraid,” Viktor says, reaching for his cane, grinding his teeth to gather the energy to push himself up onto his feet.

“Nah, m’not hungry,” Jayce mumbles. “We had those sandwiches for lunch. Or was it dinner? What time is it even?”

“Too late by all accounts,” Viktor says, taking the few steps towards the couch. He looks at Jayce, who seems glued to the couch and likely is planning to spend the night there. Viktor looks towards the door, but hesitates. The idea of the track across campus to his lodgings really doesn’t sound appealing.

It’s not even that far, the university tried to accommodate Viktor’s needs as best as they could and gave him a room on the ground floor, plus the building is the closest housing to the Engineering department’s laboratories. And yet, today it feels miles away. Damn his leg, damn all the stairs, and damn his hubris for yet again pushing his body beyond its limits, knowing fully well it will backfire ten folds and render him even more useless in the morning.

Jayce notices his hesitation, damn his partner’s bright mind too. He can read Viktor too well, he guesses the reason for his histation despite Viktor’s lack of complaining.

“Oh, do you wanna sleep here? I’ll head home, no problem,” he suggests way too readily, already hoisting himself up onto his elbows.

Viktor tsks and pushes against Jayce’s chest, pushing him back down into the couch.

“Stay,” he hisses. Jayce lives off campus, it would take him much longer to get home. Viktor’s not about to kick him out. And he doesn’t care for compassion either.

Jayce knows this, yet the man cannot help but be kind and caring, and though it irritates Viktor when it's aimed at him, it is also a quality of Jayce’s that he admires. He’s kind to everyone. Meets everyone halfway. Though at times they push too far, and Jayce lets them. Too kind for his own good.

Viktor shakes his head, trying to clean it, the stacked up piles of thoughts seem to have all spilled inside his brain and are rattling around. Rest. He needs to rest.

He looks at Jayce, who is still lying down on the couch, hands raised as if in surrender, big doe eyes staring at Viktor. Was Viktor too cross with him just now? He’s unable to determine. He pats Jayce’s knee in an attempt to smooth over his own prickly temperament.

“I just…I need to take a moment. Before I head out,” he tries. He hopes Jayce won’t insist. He is too tired to come up with reasonable arguments. He doesn’t wanna fight.

But Jayce doesn’t fight, he nods, then he bites his lip and opens his arms.

Hmm.

Viktor considers.

The couch is clearly too small for one grown man, let alone two.

Still it would be more comfortable than the chair.

And Viktor’s not averse to touch. Despite perhaps coming off as such. To everyone, except for Jayce.

It is true that he doesn’t like to be touched by strangers, especially unexpectedly. But he is human and just like anyone else, he has moments when he would welcome touch. Moments when he finds it comforting. And Jayce is a very tactile person. He didn’t hold back from putting a hand on Viktor’s shoulder the very first day they met, and he hasn’t stopped since. Though there was a moment near the beginning of their partnership when someone pointed out Viktor’s (alleged) aversion to touch and Jayce panicked, apologizing profusely for making him uncomfortable, and it took days for Viktor to convince him he really didn’t mind. Because that was the truth, Viktor didn’t mind. Not when it was Jayce.

Of course cuddling on the couch was an entirely different matter.

They’ve never done that before, however, Viktor wasn’t a stranger to the comfort of a warm body next to his either.

From cuddling with his parents for warmth as a kid in one too small bed, to seeking the pleasures of a lover to relieve stress, the warmth of a body next to his undoubtedly had its benefits.

And he and Jayce are friends. It wouldn’t be a big deal.

And so Viktor slowly drops his cane to the floor and lowers one of his knees to the couch, trying to figure out how to arrange himself next to Jayce.

Jayce tries to help but it takes some maneuvering, what with Viktor’s leg and their sleep deprived brains, there are a couple of winces and pointy elbows and just way too many limbs, an “Oof” from Jayce when he earns a knee to his stomach, but eventually Viktor finds himself situated with his back against the back of the couch, his head on Jayce’s chest, right leg on top.

It’s…it’s warm.

It’s nice.

It’s not a big deal.

“Okay?” Jayce checks.

Viktor hums. He can hear Jayce’s heartbeat, feel his breath on his forehead. Smell the musk, the odor of an unshowered body, but he has no right to complain, they both haven’t showered for however many hours or days they’ve been locked in here.

Jayce’s heartbeat and breathing slows, but Viktor cannot slow his racing thoughts. He can feel every point of contact where their bodies are touching. He can feel Jayce’s muscular chest moving under his hand. Jayce’s right hand briefly pets Viktor’s hair before it settles on top of his shoulders. Viktor fights against the urge to burrow closer, to inhale Jayce’s smell, to place Jayce’s hand back into his hair.

Stupid sleep deprived brain. Viktor could have figured such close proximity to a warm body would reduce him to animal instincts. He can only be glad he’s way too sleepy for his nether parts to react as well.

Jayce feels his restlessness. How could he not, pressed so close.

“Viktor,” he whispers, warm breath tickling Viktor’s forehead and despite himself Viktor exhales and melts against that strong chest even more. “You can rest, V, I’ll wake you in a couple of minutes and walk you home.”

My ass you will, Viktor thinks, we’re both gonna fall asleep here, your right side will be completely numb and my back will be killing me tomorrow. He’ll barely be able to stand. But he’s too tired and too comfortable to say any of that now. It’s a Tomorrow Viktor’s problem anyways. This Viktor burrows closer against Jayce’s chest, letting all his worries and all the problems fade, falling into the sweet embrace of sleep.

#jayvik #jayce x viktor #arcane #jayvik fic #jayvik fanfic #arcane jayvik #jayce talis #arcane jayce #arcane viktor #my writing #arcane fanfic #arcane fanfiction #one (1) throwaway sentence about microwaves and now i am having a whole ass crisis #about whether they have electricity in piltover #or chemtech or magicky substances or what #sigh i need to do more worldbuilding research

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prettieinpink · 1 year ago

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ESTABLISHING YOUR ROUTINE

A routine is essential for us to become the best versions of ourselves, but for us to fully commit to a routine, it has to be aligned with our needs and values.

hehe trying out a different aesthetic 😚😚

FIGURE OUT WHAT NEEDS TO BE DONE DAILY. This isn’t what your to-do list currently looks like, but rather how you want your to-list to look like. If you can’t think of anything right now, carry a small notebook or open your notes app during the day to take notes of anything you may want to add to your routine.

BREAK THOSE TASKS INTO SMALLER ONES. This helps us to see more clearly in our routine and helps to make our tasks or goals easier to achieve. E.g. Avoid saying ‘study time’ but say flashcards and re-reading notes.

SET GOALS. This can be daily, weekly, monthly and so on. Just have those little habits in your routines that help you advance to reach your goals. This also helps with our motivation throughout the day.

STRUCTURE YOUR DAY EFFICENTLY. If you have a day where there are no urgent or important tasks to be done, use it to take notes on how you feel throughout. Document the times when you feel the most productive, energised, social and tired. Using this information, divide your tasks into the times that suit each other.

ALLOW FOR FREE TIME BLOCKS IN YOUR DAY. One, for just allowing some time for your brain and body to just chill. Two, just so if anything comes up, you have a free window of time to do it.

TEST YOUR ROUTINE AND MAKE ADJUSTMENTS. Throughout the day, ask yourself; ‘how does my routine make me feel?’ and ‘What tasks do I dread, and what do I look the most forward to?’ If need to be, make any changes.

BE CONSISTENT. This is the only way for a routine to be solid in your life, to do them at the same time every day. This tip sounds mundane, but you can always change it up a little. E.g. Listen to different podcasts or audiobooks every time you go out for your walks.

PREPARE FOR YOUR ROUTINE. Allow your environment to encourage anything you want to add to your routine, for example, if you want to do yoga in the morning, leave your yoga mat in front of your bed where you can see it.

INCLUDE BREAKS, FOOD AND EXERCISE. Resting, eating well and moderate exercise help us to be more productive in the day, and to complete our tasks to higher standards.

KEEP TRACK OF YOUR PROGRESS. See which habits you’re more inclined to do, and which ones you usually avoid. Sometimes, some habits just aren’t meant for us, and that’s okay.

FORGIVE YOURSELF FOR NOT COMMITTING. It’s okay, you’re going to have days when your routine is the least ideal. Don’t beat yourself up for it, instead try to at least accomplish one task that’s a part of your routine.

MAKE IT ENJOYABLE. Your routine isn’t something to punish you, but rather something that helps you to keep an orderly life. It should be something that you’re at least willing to do.

Some ways to make it fun: Listen to music while you do tasks, romanticise your routine as much as possible, include rewards for anything productive and try to involve your loved ones.

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satellite-evans · 3 months ago

Text

The Artist

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x reader

Summary: sometimes, an artist is far more interesting than the art itself.

Word count: 5.4k

Warnings: fluff, angst? Anthony not being able to mind his own business, briefly mention of parents passing away

A/N:

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, recommendations, vents or questions are always welcome. I love talking to you guys about anything <3

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

Lady Danbury’s soirées were the heart of the social season—part chessboard, part battlefield, where every glance and whisper held strategic importance. Benedict Bridgerton, however, approached such gatherings as an observer rather than a player. He found the art on the walls more captivating than the posturing of the ton.

Wandering through Lady Danbury’s grand halls, Benedict stopped before a painting of a turbulent sea, his thoughts briefly drifting to his own half-finished sketches. A voice interrupted him, sharp and vibrant.

“It’s ambitious, but overworked. The sea churns, but the emotion feels... manufactured.”

He turned to see her: a young woman standing a few steps away, her posture poised yet unguarded. She wore her beauty with an effortless confidence, her eyes a vivid storm of intellect and intrigue. She wasn’t like the other women at the ball, fluttering fans and batting lashes. She observed the world with precision, as though she’d already decided it was hers to command.

“An intriguing critique,” Benedict replied, his interest piqued. “Though perhaps the chaos was intentional. Sometimes life demands a lack of restraint.”

Her gaze flicked to him, assessing. “Chaos is compelling, but it must be tempered with truth. This, Mr. Bridgerton, is a performance.”

“You know my name,” he noted, smiling. “You have the advantage over me, Miss...?”

“Y/N,” she said, a hint of amusement in her tone. “And I find that knowing one’s audience is the first rule of any conversation.”

He inclined his head. “A lesson I’ll remember. Tell me, Miss Y/N, are you always this direct?”

Her lips curved into a subtle smile, but she didn’t answer. Instead, she turned back to the painting. “Do you sketch? You look at this piece as though you’re searching for something beyond the surface.”

Benedict blinked, surprised by her insight. “I do, though I’ve yet to create anything worth showing. You?”

“I paint,” she admitted, her voice softening. “But my work isn’t for the ton’s galleries. Some things are too personal to display.”

“Now you’ve made me curious,” he said, stepping closer. “What would it take to see one of your pieces?”

She tilted her head, her gaze teasing. “Persistence. But I should warn you—I am not easily impressed.”

Benedict smiled, already intrigued by the challenge. “Good. I prefer earning my victories.”

Before she could respond, Lady Danbury’s voice carried through the hall. “Ah, Benedict, I see you’ve met Miss Y/N. And what do you think of her opinions? Sharp as a rapier, aren’t they?”

Benedict glanced at Y/N, his expression warm. “Quite sharp, indeed. But rapier wit is vastly preferable to dull pleasantries.”

Lady Danbury chuckled. “I agree. Well, don’t let me interrupt. Though, Y/N, your brother Charles is looking for you. Something about the carriage.”

At the mention of her brother, Y/N’s composure shifted slightly. “Thank you, Lady Danbury. I’ll find him shortly.”

As Lady Danbury swept away, Benedict offered Y/N a small bow. “Will you grant me the honor of a dance before you leave?”

“Perhaps,” she replied, her eyes glinting with amusement. “If you’re persistent enough.”

Before Benedict could craft a suitably clever reply, a deep voice broke through the moment. “Y/N, it’s getting late.”

Both turned to see a tall man striding toward them, his posture commanding yet measured. He was dressed impeccably, the weight of responsibility apparent in his expression. His resemblance to Y/N—sharp features and the same striking eyes—was unmistakable.

Charles stopped beside them and inclined his head politely toward Benedict before addressing his sister. “The hour grows late, and I believe Lady Danbury is beginning to hint that the soirée is winding down.”

Y/N offered her brother a cool yet affectionate look. “You always did have an impeccable sense of timing, Charles.”

Benedict, recovering quickly, stepped forward with a polite bow. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. Benedict Bridgerton.”

Charles’s gaze sharpened slightly at the name before he returned the bow with measured precision. “Charles Y/L/N, Earl of Whitestone.”

Benedict’s eyebrows lifted in recognition, a warm smile spreading across his face. “Whitestone? I believe my brother, Anthony, has spoken of you. He mentioned you were recently elevated to the title.”

Charles gave a brief nod, his tone guarded but civil. “Anthony and I have known each other for some years. He’s a good man, and an excellent Viscount.”

“As I’m certain you’re an excellent Earl,” Benedict replied smoothly, sensing the protective edge to Charles’s demeanor.

The corner of Charles’s mouth twitched upward, though he remained composed. “I do what I can, though the title comes with its share of burdens. And you, Mr. Bridgerton, seem to have a knack for engaging my sister in conversation.”

Benedict chuckled lightly, inclining his head toward Y/N. “Your sister is an extraordinary conversationalist, my lord. I find myself quite fortunate to have made her acquaintance tonight.”

Charles’s gaze flicked to Y/N, who appeared unruffled by the exchange but wore a faint smile of amusement. “Fortunate, indeed,” Charles said evenly. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, I believe it’s time to depart. Y/N?”

Y/N turned back to Benedict, her expression unreadable but her tone cordial. “Thank you for the discussion, Mr. Bridgerton. Perhaps we’ll meet again, should the occasion allow.”

Benedict bowed, his tone warm. “I certainly hope so, Miss Y/N.”

As Charles and Y/N walked toward their waiting carriage, Benedict watched them leave, his thoughts lingering on the sharp wit and quiet allure of Y/N.

Charles, walking slightly ahead of his sister, cast a glance back toward Benedict, then murmured to her, “He seems taken with you.”

Y/N’s lips curved faintly as she replied, “Let him be. I’m hardly an easy conquest.”

Charles smirked faintly, his tone fond but serious. “Good. Just remember, Y/N, you’re worth far more than simple flattery and fleeting interest.”

Y/N nodded, her gaze forward but her thoughts clearly elsewhere.

The clatter of carriage wheels echoed faintly as Charles and Y/N made their way back to their townhouse. The dim glow of gas lamps illuminated the streets, casting fleeting shadows across Charles’s pensive expression.

“You like him,” Charles remarked, breaking the companionable silence. His voice was even, but his words were laced with a quiet observation.

Y/N glanced at her brother, her expression unreadable. “He’s intriguing. Sharp-witted. But liking someone, Charles, is a luxury I can ill afford.”

Charles leaned back in his seat, watching her carefully. “Luxury or not, you seemed more yourself tonight than I’ve seen in months. There’s no harm in entertaining the idea—provided you remain cautious.”

Y/N’s gaze softened at her brother’s concern. “I appreciate your vigilance, my dear Earl of Whitestone. But let’s not rush to paint him as either hero or villain. Men of his world are not often held to the same scrutiny as women of ours.”

“True,” Charles admitted, tilting his head slightly. “But Anthony Bridgerton isn’t one to speak highly of a man without reason. If his brother is half as principled, I’d consider him worth the risk.”

Y/N’s lips twitched at his words. “Risk, indeed. But enough about Mr. Bridgerton. We’ve our own affairs to manage, and I’m certain our tenants won’t care for my musings about art or charm.”

Charles nodded, though he noted the faint pink flush that crept up her neck as she turned toward the window.

As the Whitestone carriage disappeared into the darkness, Benedict stood at the edge of the Danbury estate, his gaze lingering on the path where Y/N had vanished. The warmth of the evening had cooled, but he hardly noticed the chill. His mind replayed their conversation—the sharp wit in her words, the spark in her eyes when she spoke of art, and the measured grace with which she had danced around his charm.

“Y/N,” he murmured softly, as if testing the sound of her name. It felt as striking as the woman herself, an enigma he couldn’t easily solve.

Lady Danbury’s sharp voice startled him from his reverie. “Well, Mr. Bridgerton, if you plan to stand out there all night, you might as well help me escort the remaining stragglers to their carriages.”

Benedict turned, an easy smile masking his contemplative mood. “I was merely enjoying the view, Lady Danbury. Your soiree is, as always, a triumph.”

Her keen eyes narrowed with amusement. “And yet your gaze was fixed on the road, not my ballroom. That young lady certainly left an impression.”

Benedict didn’t deny it. “She’s remarkable,” he admitted, more to himself than to Lady Danbury.

“Be careful with that one,” the older woman warned, though her tone was fond. “She has depth. And depth demands substance in return.”

Benedict inclined his head, her words sinking in. As much as he relished the challenge, he realized he wanted more than a fleeting encounter.

The ride home was a quiet one. Benedict sat in the carriage, the sounds of horses’ hooves a steady rhythm that gave his thoughts space to wander.

He’d encountered many women in his time—clever debutantes, bold widows, and those who wore charm like armor. But Y/N was different. There was a quiet power in her deflections, a vulnerability hidden behind her sharp observations.

His mind lingered on her smile, fleeting yet warm, and the way her brother, Charles, had watched over her like a hawk. Benedict respected that protectiveness—it spoke of loyalty, of family bonds he deeply valued.

When he finally reached the familiar halls of his family home, the house was quiet, save for the occasional creak of old wood and the soft rustle of wind through the trees outside. He retired to his room, but sleep eluded him.

Instead, he sketched—rough outlines of Y/N’s features, her poised stance, the energy in her eyes as she critiqued the painting at Lady Danbury’s. Each stroke of charcoal carried with it an urgency, an attempt to capture the essence of someone who refused to be defined.

By the time dawn’s light began to filter through his window, Benedict set the sketch aside, his resolve clear.

“I’ll see her again,” he murmured, more determined than he’d been in years.

The following morning, the Bridgerton family gathered around the long dining table, sunlight streaming through the tall windows. Despite the sumptuous spread of fruit, fresh-baked pastries, and piping hot tea, all eyes were on Benedict.

“Who was she?” Eloise asked bluntly, buttering her toast with unnecessary vigor. “Lady Whistledown was positively tantalized.”

Benedict sighed, taking a deliberate sip of tea. “Good morning to you too, Eloise.”

“Don’t dodge the question,” Daphne chimed in with a knowing smile. “It’s not every day Lady Whistledown dedicates an entire paragraph to your exploits.”

Anthony leaned back in his chair, an eyebrow raised. “Y/N Y/L/N, wasn’t it? I believe her brother, Charles, is the new Earl of Whitestone. Solid reputation, though he keeps to himself since inheriting the title.”

Benedict nodded, setting down his cup. “The very same. I had the pleasure of speaking with her—she’s sharp, insightful, and refreshingly candid.”

“And beautiful?” Colin teased, his grin wide.

“Extremely,” Benedict replied without hesitation, earning a round of laughter.

Anthony’s amusement faded slightly as he regarded his brother with a calculating look. “Charles is an old acquaintance of mine. We crossed paths during the early years of our titles. A good man, but fiercely protective of his family. Tread carefully, Benedict.”

“Always,” Benedict said, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of determination.

Y/N sat cross-legged on the grass of Whitestone’s modest garden, a sketchpad balanced on her lap. The cool breeze carried with it the faint scent of lavender from the nearby hedgerows, mingling with the crisp aroma of her graphite pencils. The gardens were her sanctuary—a reprieve from society’s endless noise and expectations. Today, her focus was on a half-finished drawing of a willow tree bending gracefully over the garden pond. Yet, as much as she tried to focus, her thoughts drifted back to Benedict Bridgerton.

She had replayed their exchanges from Lady Danbury’s soiree countless times in her mind. His words had been genuine, his curiosity sincere. Yet it was his gaze that lingered in her memory—the way his eyes softened when he listened to her critiques of the art, as though he truly saw her and not just another face in the crowd. Y/N frowned slightly, annoyed at her own vulnerability. He’s intriguing, certainly, but so are countless men who wander into my path. Why should this one matter more?

Her pencil faltered as the sharp rap of a knock echoed from the front of the house. She stilled, curiosity piqued. Guests were rare at Whitestone, and Charles had already mentioned he expected no visitors today. She heard the muffled creak of the door opening and the low rumble of her brother’s voice, but the words were indistinct. Setting her sketchpad aside, Y/N rose and dusted her hands off on her skirts, wandering closer to the house with light steps.

Inside the parlor, Charles extended a firm handshake to Anthony Bridgerton. The Earl of Whitestone and the Viscount Bridgerton cut striking figures in the modest room, both exuding a commanding presence, though Anthony’s was tempered by a composed air of diplomacy.

“Viscount Bridgerton,” Charles greeted, stepping back to motion him inside. “This is an unexpected visit.”

“I thought it past time we caught up,” Anthony replied with a faint smile, his eyes sweeping the room briefly before settling back on Charles. “Though I must confess, my errand isn’t entirely social.”

Charles raised an eyebrow as he led Anthony toward the parlor’s armchairs. “I assume this has something to do with your family’s estates bordering mine?”

“In part.” Anthony seated himself with practiced ease, but there was a guardedness to his tone that Charles didn’t miss. “The other part involves my brother, Benedict.”

Charles stilled briefly, his expression giving nothing away. “Ah, your brother,” he said smoothly, taking his own seat. “I must admit, he did make an impression at Lady Danbury’s soiree.”

Anthony’s lips quirked in a wry smile. “So I’ve heard. I trust my brother behaved himself?”

Charles smirked faintly, folding his hands over his knee. “Mr. Bridgerton was... eager to engage my sister in conversation. Though I’m not sure she was as willing to reciprocate.”

Anthony chuckled, but his tone shifted, his words laced with sincerity. “Benedict speaks highly of your sister. It’s rare for him to show such genuine interest, Charles. He’s not one to court frivolities.”

Charles leaned back, his gaze sharpening. “You understand, Anthony, that Y/N has had her fair share of shallow suitors. She’s cautious, and rightly so. My priority is ensuring her happiness and protecting her from anyone who sees her as a fleeting amusement.”

“Benedict doesn’t play such games,” Anthony replied, meeting Charles’s gaze head-on. “In truth, I’ve never seen him take such an interest in anyone. Your sister seems to have stirred something in him—though, knowing Y/N from your stories, I suspect she hasn’t made it easy for him.”

Charles allowed himself a faint chuckle. “No, she certainly hasn’t. Y/N is not one to be charmed easily. But it’s clear your brother is determined, which could either work in his favor or cause him considerable frustration.”

Anthony inclined his head, his expression softening. “Benedict values substance, as I’m sure Y/N does. They may both surprise you.”

Charles studied him in silence for a moment before offering a measured nod. “We’ll see. For now, I’ll judge him by his actions, not his words.”

Y/N lingered just beyond the doorway, her heart racing at the snippets of conversation she managed to overhear. Charles’s voice, steady and firm, carried faintly through the air. He’s defending me, she realized, a pang of gratitude swelling in her chest. Her brother’s protectiveness had always been her shield against the pressures of society. Yet, there was another voice—smooth and commanding.

The Viscount Bridgerton.

She had never met Anthony before, but his reputation preceded him. To hear him speak so highly of his brother was... surprising. Benedict’s charm had seemed effortless, but perhaps it ran deeper than she had assumed.

Careful not to draw attention, Y/N eased closer to the edge of the doorway, curiosity getting the better of her.

Anthony’s final remark, “They may both surprise you,” was met with a soft clearing of a throat. Both men turned to see Y/N stepping into the room, her expression poised but her gaze quietly assessing.

“Forgive me for interrupting,” she said with a faint smile, addressing Anthony. “You must be Viscount Bridgerton. I apologize for not greeting you sooner.”

Anthony rose immediately, his movements fluid and respectful. “Miss Y/N,” he greeted, his tone warm. “The pleasure is mine. I was just remarking to your brother on your keen sense of discernment. It seems Benedict wasn’t exaggerating.”

Y/N tilted her head slightly, her smile deepening. “He spoke of me?”

Anthony’s smile mirrored hers, though he chose his words carefully. “Indeed. Rarely have I seen my brother so animated in recounting a conversation.”

Her gaze flicked briefly to Charles, whose stern expression had softened, before settling back on Anthony. “That’s high praise coming from you, my lord,” she said lightly, though her eyes gleamed with amusement. “Perhaps I should be flattered—or cautious.”

Anthony chuckled, gesturing toward the chair opposite. “Flattery or caution—either is warranted. But if I may, Miss Y/N, Benedict is many things, but insincere is not one of them.”

Y/N seated herself gracefully, her expression thoughtful. “Then it would seem your brother and I have much in common,” she replied smoothly, though her mind raced. What exactly has Benedict told him?

As Anthony and Y/N exchanged polite conversation, Charles observed his sister closely. Her tone was cordial, her posture poised, but he knew her well enough to detect the subtle sharpness in her gaze—a warning to anyone attempting to pry too deeply. She wasn’t rattled by Anthony’s words, but she was undoubtedly calculating her next move.

Anthony, for his part, seemed at ease. His diplomacy was well-honed, his remarks layered with subtle reassurances. Yet Charles couldn’t help but feel the quiet tension in the room. Anthony was here not simply to visit a friend, but to ensure Benedict’s intentions were made clear—or perhaps to defend them.

“I find it intriguing,” Y/N said, interrupting Charles’s thoughts, “that you’ve taken the trouble to visit us, my lord, when your brother has already made his interest known. Surely, you trust his judgment?”

Anthony’s brow arched slightly, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I do, Miss Y/N, though it would be remiss of me not to learn more about the woman who has managed to hold my brother’s attention.”

“And have you drawn your conclusions already?” she asked, tilting her head.

Anthony leaned forward slightly, his gaze steady but not intrusive. “Not entirely. But I do know this: my brother is a man of passions—art, creation, and the search for something meaningful. He finds those qualities rare. I suspect he believes he’s found them in you.”

Y/N’s composure didn’t falter, though her chest tightened slightly at his words. Her response was deliberate, each word measured. “An interesting theory, my lord. I wonder what he might say if he were here to speak for himself.”

As the conversation unfolded at Whitestone, Benedict Bridgerton was oblivious to his brother’s bold intervention. He sat alone in the Bridgerton family’s drawing room, a half-finished sketch resting on the desk before him. It was an abstract piece—a hazy rendition of the way the light had played across Y/N’s face as she’d described the painting at Lady Danbury’s soiree.

Frustrated, he set the pencil down and ran a hand through his hair. He hadn’t seen her since the garden farewell days ago, and the memory of her enigmatic smile lingered like a half-finished melody. Every word she had spoken felt deliberate, each glance calculated. Yet, for all her guardedness, he had glimpsed something more—an intensity that matched his own.

He leaned back in his chair, staring at the sketch with a mix of irritation and admiration. What is it about her that has me so utterly undone?

The door creaked open, and Colin poked his head inside, his ever-mischievous grin firmly in place. “Still brooding over Lady Y/N?”

Benedict scowled, though there was no real malice behind it. “I’m not brooding.”

Colin stepped inside, uninvited, and plucked the sketch off the desk. “Is that so? Because this,” he said, waving the paper, “tells a rather different story. Don’t tell me you’re losing sleep over one of Anthony’s sermons.”

Benedict frowned. “What are you talking about?”

Colin flopped onto the settee, clearly enjoying himself. “Anthony’s gone to Whitestone, hasn’t he? To visit Y/N and her brother. He practically ordered Newton to saddle the horse this morning.”

Benedict shot to his feet, his voice incredulous. “Anthony went to Whitestone?”

Colin’s smile widened. “Oh, yes. Didn’t he tell you? I’d wager he’s there now, making some long-winded speech about Bridgerton honor and the seriousness of your intentions.”

Benedict’s fists clenched, though it was more out of frustration than anger. “Of course he would meddle,” he muttered, pacing the room. “I don’t need him playing matchmaker.”

“Perhaps not,” Colin replied, his tone light. “But I suspect you’ll thank him in the end. Anthony may be insufferable, but he has a way of clearing obstacles—even those you’re too stubborn to see.”

Benedict ignored him, walking around in the room furiously waiting for his brother to come home. He did not need Anthony meddling with his business when even he didn't have the chance to visit you or buy you flowers. He prayed that his brother didn't scare or intimidate Y/N in any shape or form.

Back at Whitestone, Y/N’s mind churned as Anthony’s words settled. The sincerity behind them was disarming, but it also raised questions she wasn’t ready to answer.

She glanced at Charles, who was watching the exchange with his usual stoicism. Her brother was protective, and she valued his judgment, but she also resented feeling like a piece on a chessboard. Why should my life’s direction hinge on the machinations of two Bridgertons?

Y/N straightened, her voice breaking the charged silence. “You speak highly of your brother, my lord. But I can’t help but wonder if his interest is shared equally by the rest of your family. Surely a marriage, that you keep mentioning I might add, between a Bridgerton and an earl’s sister comes with certain expectations.”

Anthony’s expression didn’t falter, though his gaze turned contemplative. “You’re right, Miss Y/N. Family expectations can be... formidable. But we Bridgertons tend to weigh them against the matters of the heart. My brother is pursuing you not for duty, but for something far greater. That is why I came—to assure you that his pursuit is no fleeting fancy.”

Her breath caught for the briefest moment before she composed herself. “And yet you speak for him instead of letting him speak for himself. Tell me, viscount Bridgerton, is it a tradition of your family that the elder brother visit first before the man himself came here to court me or are you just more excited than Benedict?"

Anthony’s smile turned faintly amused. “Perhaps. But as the head of the family, it is not a tradition, but my duty to do so."

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows through the Bridgerton drawing room, where Violet sipped her tea, listening to Eloise debate some pamphlet on societal reform. Colin, seated nearby, was making a show of writing letters while sneakily trying to eavesdrop.

Suddenly, the front door opened with a sharp creak, followed by the heavy sound of deliberate footfalls. The atmosphere in the house shifted.

“Anthony,” Violet remarked, looking up from her teacup as her eldest son entered. His expression was stony, his movements clipped.

“Anthony, you look—”

Anthony!" Benedict’s voice roared through the house, heavy with fury.

"Benedict," Anthony greeted cautiously, straightening. "What’s the meaning of this outburst?"

"The meaning?" Benedict spat, his voice echoing through the room. "You went to the Whitestone estate without even telling me. You had no right!"

Violet, startled by the commotion, stood. "What’s going on here?"

"Ask your eldest son," Benedict said bitterly. "Apparently, he’s taken it upon himself to play matchmaker or, worse, guardian of my personal affairs."

Anthony’s jaw tightened, though he remained outwardly calm. "Benedict, I was only acting in your best—"

"No!" Benedict interrupted, his voice rising. "You were acting in your best interest, Anthony. Or, at the very least, what you think is best. You didn’t consult me, didn’t even think to ask what I wanted!"

By now, the household was gathering in the hallway, drawn by the shouting. Eloise whispered to Colin, "This is far better than the last novel I read."

Anthony’s patience began to fray as he stood taller, his tone hardening. "I went because I thought you might care for her, Benedict! And if you do, it’s only natural to ensure the family is suitable."

"How dare you presume to know what I care for!" Benedict snapped. "And what of her? Did you think she’d appreciate you barging in, uninvited, to assess her worth like livestock? I don’t even know if I care for her, but now I may never have the chance to decide for myself because of you!"

Anthony’s face fell briefly into guilt before he rallied. "I wasn’t trying to ruin anything. I was trying to protect you—"

"Protect me from what, Anthony? From a young woman with a talent for art and a brother navigating his new title? Or perhaps from the whispers you always seem so terrified of?"

"You don’t understand," Anthony said sharply. "These things matter. Reputation matters. If you pursue her—"

"Stop!" Benedict’s voice was loud enough to make the rest of the family wince. "You don’t get to make this about reputation or family honor. You didn’t even think to come to me first, and for that alone, you’ve overstepped!"

Violet interjected, her voice firm. "Both of you, enough. This shouting is unbecoming."

"Unbecoming?" Benedict scoffed, his anger undiminished. "What’s truly unbecoming is my brother meddling in affairs that are none of his business!"

Anthony took a deep breath, his voice dropping but still heated. "I went because I thought it was for the best, Benedict. If I was wrong, then I apologize. But don’t act as if I’ve committed some great crime for trying to protect my family."

Benedict shook his head, his jaw tightening. "If you wanted to protect me, Anthony, you should have come to me first. You should have trusted me to handle my own life."

Without waiting for a response, Benedict turned and stormed out of the room, the sound of the door slamming behind him reverberating through the house.

Benedict rode hard, the crisp autumn air stinging his face as he left Mayfair behind. The rhythmic pounding of his horse's hooves against the packed dirt offered little solace, the anger from his fight with Anthony still churning in his chest. The thought of his brother making decisions about his life—his relationships—without so much as a conversation left him fuming.

The horse slowed as they approached Hyde Park. Benedict hadn’t meant to end up here, but the vastness of the greenery and the relative quiet of the park seemed preferable to the confinement of Bridgerton House. He dismounted near a cluster of trees, tying his horse to a low branch.

Wandering through the park, Benedict eventually spotted a familiar figure seated beneath a sprawling oak tree. Y/N sat cross-legged on the grass, a sketchbook balanced on her knee, her brow furrowed in concentration as her hand moved deftly across the page. She was so absorbed in her work that she didn’t notice his approach.

For a moment, Benedict simply observed her. The sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting dappled patterns on her face. There was a peacefulness about her that pulled at something deep within him, a stark contrast to the chaos of the morning.

He cleared his throat softly.

Y/N jumped, her pencil jerking across the page. Her head snapped up, her eyes wide before recognition dawned. “Mr. Bridgerton!” she exclaimed, a hand flying to her chest. “You startled me.”

“I apologize,” Benedict said quickly, stepping closer. “Startling you was not my intention. I... Well, I didn’t expect to find anyone here, let alone you.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes at him, though there was a trace of humor in her gaze. “Hyde Park isn’t precisely secluded, Mr. Bridgerton.”

“Touché,” Benedict conceded with a small smile. “Still, I seem to have a habit of interrupting you.” He gestured to the sketchbook in her lap. “May I?”

Y/N hesitated, her fingers tightening around the edges of the paper. Then, with a resigned sigh, she handed it over. “It’s not finished,” she said quickly.

Benedict took the sketchbook, his eyes scanning the page. It was a study of a fountain in the park, the water captured mid-flow, the surrounding trees sketched with delicate precision. “This is remarkable,” he said sincerely. “The way you’ve captured the movement of the water—it feels alive.”

Y/N flushed at the compliment, though she tried to mask it with a nonchalant shrug. “It’s nothing special. Just practice.”

“Your modesty does you no justice,” Benedict said, handing the sketchbook back to her. “This is more than practice. It’s art.”

Her lips quirked into a small smile, but she said nothing, her eyes dropping to the sketch.

They sat in silence for a moment before Benedict spoke again. “I owe you an apology, Miss Y/N.”

“For startling me?” she teased, though her tone was light.

“For that and...for my brother’s intrusion at your home earlier today,” he said, his voice more serious now.

Y/N looked up sharply, her expression unreadable. “You knew?”

“I only found out after the fact,” Benedict admitted, frustration seeping into his tone. “Believe me, if I had known what Anthony was planning, I would have stopped him.”

Y/N studied him for a moment, then nodded. “I won’t pretend it wasn’t unsettling to have the Viscount Bridgerton show up unannounced, but your brother was respectful.”

“That doesn’t excuse him,” Benedict said firmly. “He had no right to involve himself. Whatever this is,” he gestured between them, “it’s our business, not his.”

A flicker of something passed through Y/N’s eyes—surprise, perhaps, or even approval—but it was gone before Benedict could decipher it.

“Your brother’s actions are understandable, though,” she said finally. “Family often feels entitled to protect us, even when we don’t need their protection.”

“‘Entitled’ is the word,” Benedict muttered, raking a hand through his hair.

Y/N tilted her head, a trace of amusement creeping into her expression. “You sound angry.”

“I am angry,” Benedict admitted, though his voice softened as he continued. “Not just because Anthony went behind my back, but because I... I don’t want anyone to think I need someone else to make my decisions for me. Least of all you.”

Her brows lifted at his candor, and a small smile played on her lips. “I think I can decide what to think of you, Mr. Bridgerton, regardless of your brother’s interference.”

Their eyes met, and for a moment, the world seemed to shrink around them. There was an openness in Y/N’s gaze that felt like an invitation, though to what, Benedict wasn’t entirely sure.

“May I sit?” he asked, breaking the silence.

Y/N gestured to the patch of grass beside her. “Be my guest.”

Benedict settled himself beside her, leaning back against the tree trunk. The tension that had coiled in his chest all day seemed to ease in her presence.

“Do you often come here to draw?” he asked after a moment.

“Whenever I can,” Y/N said, glancing at the fountain in the distance. “It’s one of the few places in London that feels...free.”

“I can see the appeal,” Benedict said. “There’s a tranquility here. A sense of space.”

“And yet you seem restless,” Y/N observed, her eyes studying him intently.

Benedict chuckled, though there was little humor in it. “I suppose I am. My family has a way of...complicating things.”

“Families tend to do that,” Y/N said lightly.

He turned to look at her, a question forming on his lips, but he hesitated. “Do you...” he began, then stopped.

“Do I what?” she prompted.

“Do you find it hard?” he asked finally. “Being the person others look to? Shouldering the weight of their expectations?”

Y/N’s gaze grew distant, her fingers idly tracing the edge of her sketchbook. “I think we all bear expectations, whether we like it or not. The trick is deciding which ones matter and which ones don’t.”

Benedict nodded, her words striking a chord. “And have you decided?”

Her lips curved into a small, enigmatic smile. “I’m still working on it.”

They fell into a companionable silence, the only sounds the rustling of leaves and the faint splash of the fountain. For the first time that day, Benedict felt a sense of calm.

Perhaps, he thought, this wasn’t such a terrible day after all.

( part 2 anyone?)

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