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#Or more like a singular bean

lucyandthepen · 9 months

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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creatingblackcharacters · 1 month

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Lesson 4: "Do Black People Blush?" Bringing brown complexions to life

Inspired by this ask

So, do Black people blush?

We are human beans 🤣! Blood rushes through our veins! This isn't just a nonblack misconception either; I know plenty of Black people who think we don't blush. Stop saying that shit. It's not true! If you thought this at any point, I'm glad you learned, TAKE THIS L IN SILENCE! I am sparing you the indignity of saying this out loud, ever! 🙏🏾

Jokes aside, the actual issue usually lies with the depiction or description. Depending on our skin tone, most of us aren’t going to turn ‘bright pink’ with a blush (if you write that in your y/n or roleplaying fics, that’s an easy way to negate a good amount of your potential Black audience). Think of a cherry coke- how you still see the tint of red in it, but it’s still brown? Like that.

One way to dodge this in writing is to say “flushed”, or “ears/cheeks became hot”. This is describing the physical action of blushing, without having to describe the color of someone’s face. If you’re really nervous about not writing us correctly via blushing… there you go!

Colorism

Okay. So this is something I’ll likely do its own lesson on, because there’s no way I could encapsulate it into one little blurb and I’m not going to try! After asking the internet an admittedly confusing question 😅, one thing I was able to reaffirm is that people have different opinions on what ‘dark’/’darker’ skin tones mean. People recognize that different cultural upbringings and contexts will change what that means! And that’s good- that an important part of the larger conversation!

However, I want everyone to understand that you don’t have to be Black to be dark/’darker’ skinned- you can be Black and very pale! We discussed that in the last lesson! There’s no ‘singular point of brown-ness’ that designates a Black person as ‘Black’- there’s an entire sociological conversation behind that!

My point is, this isn’t a ‘oh Black people OVERALL aren’t depicted blushing properly’- because there are ‘lighter’ skinned Black people that wouldn’t suffer as much from this particular issue.

Blushes and Undertones

Three Links for Tips on Medium to Deep Skintones

Different complexions are going to require different colors, there's not a 'one fits all' option. However! What we want to do for deeper brown complexions is to focus on BOLDER, not lighter! Putting light pink or a white person’s ‘nude’ on our skin will often make us look ashy and undercolored. And we don’t like looking ashy.

"It looks like they're ashy!"

What do we mean when we say this about a piece? Well, worse case scenario, it looks like this:

This was NOT one of KD’s better days, and he was thoroughly mocked for this. He got more than enough money for lotion! Anyway, when we say that your art looks ‘ashy’, it means that it feels like the skin of your Black character is gray, or dead. Like a corpse. We don’t look like that unless things are dire.

In fan and professional art, you can sometimes find people user a grey undertone for deeper shades of brown on Black people: NO! We are NOT grey! We are not pitch! Many skin shades of brown can be found based in the oranges and the reds. Based on lighting and depth of complexion, you might even have to go into the blues and purple to capture the brown you’re seeking.

I’m begging us to stop desaturating the browns we use. We can see the difference. It’s usually one of those ‘White Man Painted Brown’ techniques I discussed before; an attempt to ‘make a character Black’ without really committing to it because the brown skin tone ‘doesn’t look good’ to the artist. Brown is beautiful! Commit to brown! Commit to the full design!

Put in the work to create the brown you need!

While this is a traditional art piece (follow Ellie Mandy Art, a Black creator), I want you to notice how she incorporated many colors to create the deep brown for her piece.

-8:05 for the list of paints

-8:05-17:29 for the process

She used black, yes, but it was nowhere near the base color. She incorporated blues and reds and other browns to capture that depth. It wasn’t ‘toss in a bunch of black or grey to get the brown darker’. (SKIP TO THE END TO SEE HOW GOOD THIS PIECE IS, BTW. I felt like I was in the presence of a master watching her do this, fr. We gotta pay artists more.)

I want to use this model as an example to show that while we might get very dark, we're still not 'pitch black'. You can see the flat of the black of their clothes versus their deep complexion. They're not the same!

Even if your character's complexion is very deep brown into black, you still need to incorporate ‘life’ into them (if that makes sense). And you know what? Even if you want to describe your characters as having ‘black’ skin, that’s fine, but there are still other ways to do it- obsidian, the night sky, velvet. Find a way to romanticize our skin (there’s an entire conversation about how ‘black’ is used in a negative connotation in language and storytelling, and we’re ALSO going to have that conversation later!)

A Real Simple Way (i.e. how I do it)

I tried, but I cannot find my skin tones palette link anymore. I’m sorry! But, it’s been essential to my character design. If you don’t ever buy anything else, I would HIGHLY suggest investing in a skin tones palette for your art program.

Everyone say hello to Philia, my OC! I’m used to drawing her, so I’m going to use her as an example. Now remember, I am still an amateur! But this is how I do it!

Admittedly, I do the one on the left when I'm feeling lazy, but more often I'll take the time to do the one on the right. Now here’s the thing- I’m not actually blending the red into the brown. This is on a whole different layer. What I’m actually doing is adding to and fading the color until it’s at a color that I feel is natural. There's definitely an easier, smarter way to do this, but that’s what I like to do- I like to see the stages slowly until I’m comfortable.

You have to mess around and practice; see what looks good and what doesn't. Go into the reds, the oranges, the pinks and observe how it looks- I may go through multiple before I settle on one. It’s really just a matter of getting used to drawing Black skin tones and how they look in different lighting. This one's not perfect for sure.

Resources

Here are some really good posts and Youtube videos on how both to paint skin, and to add blush tones. And remember, as per my usual, the best way to learn how the draw and paint Black people is to follow and learn from Black artists! Another good idea might be looking into Black makeup and Black SFX makeup artists. As people that work with skin on a regular basis, they would be a good place to study what colors can and should be used on different skin colors as a whole.

ami0amii

Likelihood Art

Tiara Anderson

Proko

Sinix

Ross Draws

In summary, focus on bolder colors, be willing to test until you get what you need, and practice! All you can do to get better is to practice! And as always: it’s the thought that counts, but the action that delivers!

#creatingblackcharacters #character design #black characters #black art #black artists #black character design

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serenecypher · 3 months

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Bangtan Host Club Chapter One

Genre: BTS Ot7xf!Reader, Poly!AU, Fluff, Romance, Crack-ish, Eventual Smut.

W/C: 2600

Summary: Tired of your boring mundane life? Become an exclusive member of The Bangtan Host Club™ today and let 7 charming men help you out.

Warnings: This chapter is rated PG13, but future chapters may include Mature Themes.

Disclaimer: Please do not copy/translate or cross-post my work. The tag list is open. just DM or send an ask to be included.

A/N: Here is the first chapter for Bangtan Host Club! Hope you enjoy it. Send me any feedback you have, it would be greatly appreciated. Also, as I said before, the characters of the boys are inspired by the manga and anime Ouran High School Host Club. If you haven't seen it, please watch it. Make your guesses on who plays who in the replies lol

If we are all being honest, you are going through it.

Chapter 1 >> Chapter 2

You’ve spent the last two hours trudging across the same corridor, smelling the clinical scent of the same floor disinfectant that is starting to make your nose itch, waiting for this damned locksmith to show up. You have managed to lock yourself out of your apartment that you moved in about two weeks ago, by the way, and as your landlord has so kindly bestowed upon you the singular contact, called the locksmith about three times.

There is only one other apartment on your floor and your sweet old lady neighbor has gone to the countryside to live with her grandson for the month, leaving you all on your own. Your day had been exhausting at work already and you had put all your hopes into getting home and numbing the pain away with takeout and binge-watching. You clutch your phone tighter in your hand and decide that this is going to be it. You are going to call the locksmith, and you are going to complain, and they are going to listen and come help you in the next ten minutes. The steps are all clear, so you dial the number again.

It's picked up on the fourth ring. “Hello?” the same gruff voice you’d talked to thirty minutes ago answers.

“Uh, Hi, I had called earlier, about losing my apartment key? Mr. Choi’s building?”, you rush out the words as fast as possible.

“Oh yeah, someone will be there with you shortly.”, the man replies, you distinctly hear the sound of a baseball game in the background. The man gulps something on the other end and mutters, “You need to relax a little, lady. There is no need to get your panties all up in a bunch, have patience.” He burps and the line disconnects.

“Motherf-”, you whisper to no one but yourself. Did this random guy just try to “little girl” you? What has the world come to? Who talks to other people like that? Isn’t he supposed to be doing a service for you? All men have, is the audacity. This world is a rotten cesspool filled with misogynists and bigots and- oh my god you need a coffee. Right now.

So you decide to do that, any potential help arriving to get your door opened be damned. You have waited for them to show up for hours, they can wait for a few minutes for you. You make your way down the two flights of stairs and walk out of the building. There is a cafe on this block you haven’t had the time to check out yet and every time you walked past it on your daily morning commute, it was always closed. You make your way to the cafe, bracing yourself against the cool fall wind by pulling your coat closer.

As you approach the entrance of the cafe, it looks pretty standard. You see a beautiful wooden carved sign that indicates the cafe is open. You push open the door and the sweet aroma of roasted coffee beans and baked items engulfs you like a warm blanket. You look around to see the cafe looks much more posh on the inside than you expected it to be.

The walls are painted pink, some covered by ceiling-length artsy mirrors. There are a few round tables on the checkered tiled floor, with inviting plush chairs and a flower vase each as the centerpiece. From the ceiling hang off a few ambient lights and ceiling flowers in pink, white, and lilac, making the entire aesthetic of the interior pretty and bright. Some plants that look well taken care of and books on a few shelves, stacked neatly.

“Are you waiting for me to walk you in, beautiful?” a man’s voice spoke from beside you, pulling you out of your daze. You turn around and face the source of the voice with a stern gaze only to be met with the face of the most beautiful man you had ever laid eyes on. You open your mouth and close it right back up again as you stare at him. He isn’t just pretty, this man is gorgeous… like ‘I should only exist on the pages of a fashion magazine’ gorgeous. He gives you a dazzling smile and extends his hand for yours, bowing slightly to you.

“Ah! I haven’t even introduced myself to you. That’s on me. I am Kim Seokjin. It would be my pleasure to make your acquaintance. I am the owner of this cafe.” Seokjin, as you’ve learned, looks at you expectantly, his smile not falling once.

You give him your name and manage to put your hand in front of you. He promptly takes it in his and raises it to his pillowy lips, brushing them on your knuckles with a soft brush. “You have such a sweet name,” he speaks against your knuckles, and looks up to meet your eyes to add, “I feel like I could say it all my life.”

This guy is throwing you for a loop. He is too good-looking and by the looks of what he is wearing, too expensive and- why can’t you seem to look away from his eyes? That thought is enough to bring you back to your surroundings as you feel heat rush up your face. “I wanted a coffee.” You sound dumb even in your head but Seokjin only smiles at you.

“Of course, pretty. Here, let me help with your coat.” Seokjin moves behind you, gently pulling your coat off of you with a hum. Your eyes wander towards the register area of the cafe and lock with the barista behind the counter. He gives you a smile and you can hear violins playing in the background.

“Feel free to walk in, I will just put your coat away and join you in no time.” Seokjin speaks from beside you, and you nod as you step in and towards the cute barista. His smile widens and it looks like the world’s worth of warmth is on his face.

“Hi there! What can I get for you?” he asks you, placing his palms on the counter and leaning in. “I am hoping you like sweets so that we can share some.” his giggles punctuate the end of his sentence as he wiggles his eyebrows at you.

“Um, what do you recommend…?”

“Hoseok. It’s my name.” he looks at you through his lashes. You feel like you can see his eyes sparkling. A moment of silence passes between you before he is bouncing on his heels and snickering at you. “You are so cute! I am not saying I am the recommendation, silly! I am just giving you my name so I can have yours. We are going to be friends, right?”

You find yourself grinning and nodding as you tell him your name. His face lights up even further if that is even possible, and he recommends to you the name of a few drinks and even more sweet baked goods. He is giggling with you when he scribbles your order in his notepad and adds little doodles around the words. You spy little stars and smiley faces that fill the cover of his tiny notepad.

“You should go sit, I will send someone with the order to you. Then we can share something and play together!” Hoseok points you in the direction of a table as he is skipping toward a door behind him, which you assume is the kitchen. You turn and walk to the nearest table to take a seat.

You notice there is a little metallic card holder next to the flower vase on the table. You pick it up to inspect it. It's a tiny welcome menu for the cafe, which is not a card but a small flip book. When you turn it over on the front, it reads “Bangtan Host Club™”. Curiously, you flip through the contents of the pages and you notice there are pictures of Hoeseok and Seokjin on the inside along with a small paragraph about their interests.

That’s strange. Why are the employees’ personalities displayed in such a way? Sure, some places do ‘employee of the month’ type events but this seems like an exaggeration. Maybe this place just does them this way. Still, it feels pretty random to you.

“Do you like one of us?” A snicker breaks you out of your engrossment. You blink up as a chair quickly scrapes the floor next to you on your left.

“She doesn’t have to pick one of us. She can have more, right, pretty girl?” A voice from the seat chimes in. You whip your head towards it and come face to face with a man with the face of an angel but a smile that tells more about him than it should. You hear the chair on your right scraping the floor next and you turn your head just in time to see a second beautiful man sitting in it with his chest pressed to the back and his legs spread on either side of the chair. He looks into your eyes and a playful smile plays on his lips.

When your eyes linger on him too long, you are met with a complaint. “Stop hogging all of her attention, Hyung! I wanna talk to her too!” You turn your head back to your left and see the man from before, now leaning his elbow on the table and resting his temple on his knuckles. He smiles at you when you turn and he looks an awfully lot like a bunny. “I am Jungkook. He is Taehyung. Now you have to tell us your name.” He lifts an eyebrow at you, tilting his chin down with a grin.

Taehyung pushes a loose strand of your hair behind your ear when you tell them your name to get you to look at him. When you turn to face him you notice he is leaning in closer to you than before. He simply smiles at you as you feel goosebumps ignite on the back of your neck and arms. “Sensitive, huh?” Taehyung teases as his tongue peeks out of his mouth subtly but enough to pull your attention to his soft lips.

“She is! She is so shy too. Why don’t you talk to us…?” Jungkook draws out his sentence as you feel him leaning into your left side. If you keep turning your head between the both of them like this, you are surely going to get whiplash but you can’t help it when Jungkook is tracing a finger on your arm where the goosebumps are as if he can sense them under the material of your shirt.

“Wh-what is going on?” you ask, confused beyond belief at the stuttering of your heart in your chest.

“Tae, Jungkook, give the girl some room to breathe, please.” A soft voice breaks you out of whatever spell those two had you under. A new person walks around to sit across the table from you. He is so elegant in his movements that you are instantly captivated by him and then he gives you a soft smile that makes his eyes turn into little crescent moons. “Sorry about them, they get carried away sometimes. My name is Jimin. It’s so nice to meet you.”

You feel an air of relief flood your veins at his comforting smile and the way he looks at you so earnestly. You give him a shaky smile. “It's nothing. I am just a little confused.”

“Hyung, I can't believe that you, of all people, are doing this right now. You broke all of the tension we created with her and now she is just confused and not charmed like she is supposed to be.” Jungkook pouted at Jimin with Taehyung nodding vehemently in agreement.

“If she is confused, what are you charming her for? Just give her some space to be comfortable.” Jimin says with a sense of compassion for you and brings his warm gaze back to you. “Did you order a drink yet? Want me to get you the menu?”

As if right on cue, the door from the kitchen swings open, harder than probably necessary, and a man holding a tray of your order walks out. He is tall, well-built, has a strong gaze, and is absolutely beautiful. He places your order in front of you gently and gives you a nod.

“Thank you.” You smile at him and he returns yours with one of his own. You notice he has dimples. It makes your damn heart swoon. Then he turns his attention to Taehyung and Jungkook and reaches down to pull the chairs they are sitting on just a little bit away from you like it was nothing to him.

“Thanks, Namjoon Hyung. I would do that too if I could.” Jimin nods appreciatively at him which is returned in kind with a nod and a gentle smile.

“What we all should be grateful for is that Namjoon Hyung didn’t pull her whole chair up in the air like that one time with Hobi Hyung.” Taehyung chides which is instantly met with a stern gaze by both Namjoon and Jimin.

“Ugh, who cares about all of that.” Jungkook intervenes and focuses back on you. “I have never seen you before. What brings you here?” he adds and brings the attention of the other three back on you as well.

“I am locked out of my apartment and the locksmith won’t show up. I live on this block. Mr. Choi’s building?” You reply and it surprises you that you had forgotten all about the terrible day you had before you’d entered this cafe. You take a sip of your drink and it feels like heaven down your throat. You feel your muscles losing all the tension they held and you close your eyes for a moment and let the caffeine seep in your blood. “This is delicious.” you mutter mostly to yourself.

“So you are technically our neighbor.” Jimin says as he leans back in his chair. His unwavering gaze focused on you. “What did the locksmith say? How long will they take?”

“I don’t know. He keeps saying someone will be there soon, but I’ve waited for more than two hours outside my apartment and nobody came.” You know you are complaining to strangers but you're just so mentally and physically exhausted that it feels nice that someone is listening to you for once.

“I could fix that for you.” Namjoon speaks for the first time since being there and his voice is so deep yet gentle that you think this must be what listening to those online guided meditations your Dad listened to be like.

“Wait, are you serious?” you question him.

“Mhm,” he nods. His words soft and almost shy as they come out. “I can help.”

The sense of relief you feel might just be better than the drink you’ve been sipping. You could imagine the warmth of your fuzzy blankets and soft bed. You look up at Namjoon and nod eagerly. “Please, if you really can, I would be so grateful.”

Both Taehyung and Jungkook stand up, grinning ear to ear. “Lead the way, my lady.” Taehyung bows before you and is unceremoniously elbowed in his side by Jimin immediately for his offense. You walk out of the cafe, huddled between the warmth of four men you just met, the jacket you walked in with long forgotten.

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etheries1015 · 10 months

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Hi, I hope you're well and I'm sorry to randomly pop in but I finished reading this and I just have to let my sad brain that's obsessed with Lilia go off.

You had Vil and Rook help give Mc a makeover right? What if they found out Mc got stood up. Me personally (I'm biased), I feel like they'd become subtly more protective. Not intrusive, not controlling, but they'd keep a more watchful eye on Mc because they don't want to see them get hurt again.

Okay, okay, but then my brain needs an extra layer added in with angst, so Lilia notices this change in behavior from the Pomefiore beans. At first he's glad Mc has people looking out for them, glad they have a support system. But Rook figures out it was Lilia who stood Mc up and tells Vil. The two start trying to find reasons why Mc shouldn't be around Lilia without telling them that's what they're trying to do directly, just "Oh Lilia’s in there, hey let's go hang out in the courtyard instead!" Subtle diversions.

Lilia starts becoming more aware of their behavior. He tries to convince himself that it isn't a big deal and things were awkward there anyway, maybe distance was the best for him and Mc. However, Silver starts noticing Lilia is more focused on Mc, and starts voicing that he misses their company. Silver has a general understanding of what happened that rainy day, as his father let a bit of it off his chest "Oh, Don't worry, there was just an unfortunate misunderstanding that needed to be cleared up!" Silver isn't taking any shit, he confronts his dad. When Lilia explains that he's too old for romance, much less romance with a human, Silver scolds him about how he never raised him to be that way. Why did Lilia believe so differently than he tended to in this singular instance? What did race have to do with the situation? "If Mc is undeserving of a chance with you, why did you take me in and give me a chance to be in your life?"

Kinda went on a tangent...if none of that made sense I apologize, I'm very sleep-deprived and angsty rn lmao. Anyway, take care of yourself and have a good day 😊

I absolutely love this take!!! I'll give you a little more detail below, however, you outlined it very well.

Part 2 of Lilia X reader Rejection

Time had passed agonizingly slow at ramshackle dorm. Not only had you contracted a cold during your outside endeavors of rain and heartbreak from Lilias rejection, you also couldn't bring yourself to face any other students in the state of misery you were in. This, of course, had not gone unnoticed by a few. Ace and Deuce were naturally worried for you, however Rook and Vil were also left out of the loop with what happened that day raising their worries and causing them to come to you about it.

Coming by ramshackle and seeing you in such a state of misery was truly heartbreaking for the two. You opened the door with puffy eyes and a running nose, hunched over with a blanket covering the majority of your body. Immediately Vil sprung into action, pulling the blanket off of you and preparing a bath while Rook had made soup and medicine for you. Whilst chastising you for your sudden disappearance and sickly state, you had finally broken down and had given them the rundown of all that night's events. You needed support, and luckily the two were more than happy to give it to you. After learning it had been Lilia who stood you up and then humiliate you in front of the gates of the school, by the time you had indeed returned to the school, you noticed the way Vil and Rook would try and steer you away from any places that Lilia could be. They couldn't hide this very well, I mean, you knew all of Lilias's classes and the places he often visited in the school. Who wouldn't be able to notice the way your close friends had tried to distract you from this?

They noticed how standoffish you now were, how your look off in the distance was so distracted, so empty. They were, however, not the only ones to see this change in you. Lilia would steal glances from you from across the room and the halls, and simply thinking to himself you would soon forget your silly feelings and move forward with your smile per usual. He was grateful for Vil and Rook being by your side and figured this would be for the best. Being away from Lilia for the time being while you sorted out your emotions was going to be much better for you, and perhaps you'd be able to find yourself around Lilia like you used to. The time when you stayed up late with him playing video games, how you called him at the most random of times to tell him of your day, the way you would always be surrounded by so much fun. He was excited to get back to that, to the day you forgot your romantic feelings for the fae, and he could enjoy your company once more.

however...those days did not come as he had hoped.

It can be hard to imagine Lilia regretting something he believed so strongly on initially, however, he can't stop the stinging of pain that plagued his heart after seeing you in such disarray. The way you sat in the rain alone the way the rain blended in with your tears and the way your eyes were red...from him. He caused that pain. The bitterness he had felt from your confrontation hadn't gone unnoticed, those around him had begun to realize there was a shift ever so slightly around him. The air had become thicker and his smiles seemed to be far more forced, much like this instance with his son.

"Father," Silver approached the fae, "I haven't seen (y/n) around per usual. Has something happened between the two of you?" He inquired. Silver had rather missed your company, your cooking and the kindness you had shown him. He found you almost like another parental figure, Silver was incredibly fond of you and since the moment you had confided in your feelings for Lilia he was cheering you on from the sidelines in your advances to his father. When you had vanished without as much as a letter, Silver had become anxious and decided it be best to follow up with Lilia. The red eyed fae couldn't bring himself to meet the gaze of his child , avoiding it by staring at the computer screen had had been playing games on with a forced smile painted upon his lips.

"Don't worry, Silver. (Y/n) and I had a simple misunderstanding, and they are simply processing their emotions right now. Sometimes distance is the best cure for such fallouts," he said. The room became silent for a moment that felt like an eternity, before Silver took in a deep sigh and confronted his thoughts to Lilia.

"You rejected them?" He said quietly, Lilias head perking up in slight alarm at the sudden question. The turned on his chair to face the taller human, gaze far more serious than before.

"I see you knew about the prefects growing affections for me?" Lilia asked, attempting to keep his tone at a calm and collected manor. Silver flinched at the look his father was giving him, yet cringing ever so slightly at the idea of confronting his guardian in such a way. He nodded gently and fiddled with his fingers nervously.

"...why?" Silver asked, his gaze seemingly afraid to look into his fathers eyes. He knew he had kept this from him and indeed felt a little bit guilty, however what was he to do? He was certain Lilia returned the feelings, why the sudden change of behavior?

"They're a human, and I'm an aging fae. It simply was not meant to be," Lilia tried to quickly wave off his explanation to his son in hopes the subject would be dropped, yet the words he had used stung silvers heart. With his eyebrows furrowing and the increasingly frustrated feeling bursting in his chest, Silver began to question the fae far more sternly than before.

"What do you mean?" He asked, "So what if (y/n) is a human? They obviously are very important to you. Weren't you the one to tell me that fae and humans should live together in peace despite those differences?" Silver sounded almost desperate, hoping for some sort of explanation from the contrarian that sat before him. Lilia let out a deep sigh, he could tell that his patience for this conversation was running thin.

"Silver. This is...different. Perhaps you don't fully understand seeing as you're human as well, but we live...a very long time. I am a very old age, and I'm afraid I wouldn't be able to properly handle a romantic relationship, much less with a human who has time to find someone who will grow with them instead of focusing their time on a...dying fae," Lilia hesitated the final words, quickly attempting to dismiss this with a wave of his hand as he turned away from his son, however the silver-haired boy scowled with astonishment at this with a hint of sadness in his shaking voice.

"Yet you took me in as your own, father," Silver pointed out. Before Lilia could respond to his, he continued.

"I thought you raised me to see our races as equals. You gave me the chance to grow as your son, yet you won't give (y/n) the chance to grow as your lover? They care about you very much, that is plain to see as day. I think...those feelings are far more important than the way you see age. You can't throw aside how they feel because they should find another "human" to share their lives with, we both know that is not what (y/n) wants. I'm very sad you are talking like this, Father. I'm disappointed in you, I thought you were wiser than that." Leaving Lilia stunned and wide-eyed, Silver walked out of the room. Lilia let out a shaky sigh as he shook his head and scoffed at the ridiculous situation, his head burying into his hands. A moment of silence rang before his eyes closed and head lay upon his desk, muttering beneath his breath;

"I miss them..."

Check out my masterlist!

#twisted wonderland #Twisted wonderland x reader #Twisted wonderland headcannons #Lilia #Lilia x reader #Lilia vanrouge #Lilia vanrouge x reader #lilia vanrouge headcannon #Lilia x yuu #Lilia vanrouge x yuu #Twisted wonderland fanfics #Twisted wonderland fanfiction #Twst #Twst x reader #twst headcannon #twst lilia #lilia twisted wonderland #Lilia x mc #twst headcanons

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aphrodisiac-siren · 3 months

Text

Home~ Neteyam x Metkayina!reader

Summary: Leaving behind everything he knew was hard for Neteyam and then adapting to the ways of the new clan was even harder. He'd push himself, overwork and exhaust himself even, to live upto his family's expectations; never really giving his own wants a second thought. That's why Y/N was the prefect companion for him, someone who kept things in his life balanced, who made sure to let him know that what he wanted was just as important, perhaps even more so, than what everyone else wanted of him.

//slow burn, cute fluff, Neteyam being a sad bean//

masterlist, Part 4

Part 3

🫧

Jake was sure his eyes would pop out of their sockets any minute now. With every word his sons uttered his blood pressure only went higher and higher to a point where he was sure he was due for a stroke. From what he was hearing he was affirmative he passed down only a singular braincell that was being shared by his sons.

"You said what" Jake's voice cracked, hand flying up to pull at his hair "Neteyam she is the chief’s daughter!"

"I know, I screwed up" the older boy hung his head in shame, still cringing at how he handled the situation.

"And you didn’t disappoint as well did ya? You beat up the chief’s son" Jake turned to Lo'ak who was also looking everywhere but at him "He takes us in, trains us and this is how you show appreciation? By harassing his kids"

"He was picking on Kiri" Lo'ak tried to defend himself, knowing well that it wouldn’t work.

"Go make peace with Aonung" his father sighed "I don’t care how you do it but just.. go"

Lo'ak walked away in defeat, in no mood whatsoever to argue. Besides, he did agree that the situation could’ve been handled better and they both did contribute to making the situation worse than it already was.

"And I didn’t really expect this from you of all people" Jake continued once his youngest son was out of earshot "what were you thinking, talking to the poor girl like that?"

"I'm sorry, I was being an idiot" Neteyam apologised. He had kept his own feelings under wraps for so long, only concerned with looking after his siblings to a point where he had finally reached his limit and like a bomb, exploded earlier that day "I'll go fix it"

"Damn right you will" His dad let out another disappointed sigh "now get outta here"

Neteyam dragged his feet through the sand, absolutely dreadding having to face Y/N again. He was sure she hated him now, she'd made it pretty clear by letting them know that she wouldn’t volunteer to train them any longer and he wanted to run into a wall for ruining everything. His siblings liked her, they loved every second they spent with the girl and he made a mess of it by allowing his emotions to possess him.

He begrudgingly searched around the village, not really sure of what he could possibly say that would fix the damage he caused.

What he did not expect, on top of all of this, was to find Y/N with his mother. They both were practising archery, or more like Y/N was struggling to keep up with Neytiri.

"Yes, keep your shoulders pushed back" She circled the younger girl, giving her helpful critique "no, don’t hold on to the arrow so tightly"

The boy sheepishly approached, a bit more nervous than what he already was.

“Neteyam?” His mother called out when she finally saw him, shifting even Y/N’s attention to him. The moment her saphire eyes landed on him, he felt small, all his pride and confidence from before withering away under her gaze.

“Am I interrupting?” He asked, offering a polite smile nonetheless.

“No, you can come and help Y/N” Neytiri responded. She knew her children liked to spend time with the girl, completely oblivious of the events that took place earlier that day.

“It’s okay” Y/N immediately butted in, keeping her voice steady “he’s probably got other stuff to do”

“Not really” Neteyam knew she didn’t want him there but he wasn’t going to leave until he had a chance to properly apologise “no lessons today, remember?”

“Why not?” His mother asked, curiously.

“I got held up with something” Y/N lied convincingly and Neteyam understood that she wasn’t planning on telling anyone about what happened earlier. He was a smidge grateful for it, he wasn’t really wanting to earn a scolding from his mother as well.

“I can help you with this you know” he tried again, pushing his luck and hoping she’d just let him stay.

“No thank you, I’m fine” she snapped without missing a beat, looking toward the makeshift target once again and away from him.

Neytiri glanced between the two teens. The tension among them was intense and evident. What had suddenly caused such a weird atmosphere between them?

Her eyes searched her son’s and he stared right back her pleadingly and she could tell that he wanted to be around Y/N whilst she was actively trying to be rid of him. Something clearly went down between the both of them and the best thing to do was to take a step back and let the two of them sort things out.

“I have to make sure Tuk is with Kiri” the older woman made up a reason to excuse herself “I will be back, keep practicing”

She gave her son a look before she walked away, leaving behind a thankful Neteyam and an annoyed Y/N.

“Here” he sweetly approached her, reaching out to fix her form but she simply shifted away with an ‘I’m good’ and continued to shoot arrows that missed the target “trust me, I’m just trying to help”

Still not meeting his gaze, Y/N silently nocked another arrow. This time she didn’t scoot away from him so Neteyam took it as a ‘go’ for him to help her out. He was quite good at archery, he’d earned good praise from the other hunters in his clan.

He placed his hands under her forearms to raise her hand a bit that had begun to droop from tiredness. He then lifted her elbows slightly, inching closer until his nose was almost grazing her cheek.

“Loose” he whispered, right before she let the arrow whizz through the wind and hit the target. Not the centre, but still quite close. Impressive really for someone’s first lesson.

“I did it!” She happily chirped, as if she’d forgotten she was upset with him. Her face lit up and she chuckled with pure joy before she cleared her throat, regaining her stoic composure.

“I’m sorry about what I said” he wasted no time, lest she picked up her stuff and left. She already seemed to not want him around “it was arrogant and ungrateful of me. I was trying to defend my siblings but I guess I ended up letting out all of my pent up frustration on you, a-and that was wrong of me”

He was relieved that she at the very least was listening to him so he continued.

“I didn’t mean what I said, that you’re nothing more than a privileged girl” he looked at her, hoping she’d meet his eyes but she didn’t “we both know that’s not true and I fully understand why you wouldn’t want to be around me anymore. I won’t show up to your lessons if that’s what you want, but don’t distance yourself from Lo’ak, Kiri, Tuk- they like to be around you”

“That’s not what I want you know” she put away the bow to go retrieve the many arrows that had missed the target, now scattered in the sand “I thought we’d all get along. I liked being around them too, you included”

Neteyam’s ears pointed upward, like a child hearing praise from a parent.

“But then you said the most cruel things today, things I never thought you’d ever utter” she continued sadly “and I thought maybe I was wrong about you-“

“I’m sorry” he said again, feeling really stupid that that’s all he could really say “it’s been hard leaving the forest. That was my home, it’s all I’ve ever known. And then all of a sudden I’m in a place where I don’t know how to do the simplest of things, I feel useless”

“You aren’t useless, I know Aonung likes to poke fun and I know you miss your home but I really wished you’d just come and spoken to me about it instead of being mean to me” she finally looked at him, her pretty eyes saddened “I thought we’d be friends”

“We can be!” He said almost too enthusiastically, cheeks heating up slightly at his childish eagerness “I’ll make it up to you”

“How” she crossed her arms and tilted her head, patiently waiting for him to come up with something.

Neteyam pouted as he thought for a minute, wondering what he could possibly do for the daughter of Tonowari that would make her give him another chance. She was already a princess of a sort, probably too used to receiving gifts.

After another minute of thinking, he broke into a grin.

“Wait here” he held his hands out in front of him, asking her to stay put

“Huh-“ Y/N walked behind him, her hand dropping the arrows to the ground again “I’m still mad at you Neteyam”

“You won’t be after this” he smirked at her before fully breaking into a sprint “hopefully”

Y/N watched the boy run off into the distance, wondering what he could possibly do to change her mood.

Knowing some of the boys here on the island, most of them would give her shells or wild flowers when she’d be upset. And if not the small gifts, then a forced apology that Aonung bullied them into.

She loved her brother, despite his pride and snarky attitude. Which is why she was also very protective of him. If he was at fault, she’d confront him no doubt but privately, away from the eyes of the public. She wasn’t the type to tell him off and embarrass him in front of anyone else who wasn’t their family. Which is why when she saw him scuffed up earlier, her initial response was for him to go and get himself looked after.

Did she really not deal with it correctly?

Did she favour her brother to much for his own good?

No, definitely not.

The familiar sound of flapping was what made her look up, taking away her thoughts completely from the situation she was thinking about.

“Y/N” Neteyam called out to her even though she already knew it was him.

His majestic ikran let out a screech as it made its descent, landing in the sand gracefully a few feet away from the girl.

“It’s really cool that you can swim fast and all, but I think you’ll find flying even cooler” he patted his ikran’s back, at the space right behind him on the saddle “come on”

Y/N was excited, probably a little too much. Her heart began to flutter and eyes were probably doing that thing again of just staring at the beast with wonder. She slowly walked toward the boy, trying to conceal her enthusiasm.

Neteyam chuckled at her reaction. It was obvious she was dying to get on but he knew she wouldn’t just show it on her face.

“First time seeing an ikran?” He joked, quoting himself during their first encounter when he caught her gawking. He held his hand out to her, looking at her with that same boyish grin he’d have on his face whenever she was around.

“Shut up” she rolled her eyes playfully as she took his hand, swinging one leg over the saddle and seating herself right behind him.

“Hold on tight” he turned around slightly to look at her, faces merely inches apart. Her eyes had flecks of lilac in them, he noted, something he hadn’t really noticed before “you’re going to love this”

Y/N did as she was told, wrapping her arms around his middle as he clicked his tongue a few times. His ikran spread out its large wingspan, letting out a short screech before flapping its wings and taking off.

Y/N shut her eyes tightly at the first gust of wind that blew against her face, tightening the grip around the boy’s torso.

“Open your eyes, you have to see this” she could hear the laughter in his voice as they arose higher and higher into the night sky “don’t worry, I won’t let you fall ma Y/N”

Blindly trusting him, since she was already a couple feet into the sky, she opened on eye and then slowly the other. A smile formed on her lips at how beautiful her home looked from up here. The waters glowed in its bioluminescence and sky was littered with stars.

“You know my dad came from that star” Neteyam pointed it out to her, looking back to see if she was too spotted it “you see it?”

“I see it” she confirmed, her laughter sounding like music to Neteyam’s ears amidst the wind.

As they circled around the village, Neteyam kept glancing back to look at her, as if he wanted to make sure she was truly enjoying this and to admire the smile for which he was responsible.

She doesn’t hate me now, he thought to himself, there’s no way she does anymore.

After a few more rounds around the islands, Neteyam landed his ikran near their shack. He wanted to keep flying, that was the one thing he loved to do even back home but he knew the poor thing was probably tired.

“Had fun?” he asked Y/N on their walk back, knowing the answer already.

“Mhm, I did-“

“Y/N!”

Both her and Neteyam looked toward the source of the sound: Aonung. He looked troubled, still bruised, but not the point.

“I screwed up” he told his sister, throwing a nervous glance at the Sully boy next to her.

“What happened?” His sister asked, looking at him with concern.

“I took Lo’ak to hunt outside the reef” he hesitantly said, refusing to look his sister in the eye and disappoint her even more than he already had “we left him behind as a joke but it’s been a while and he hasn’t come back”

“What” both Neteyam and Y/N exclaimed in sync, eyes going wide with panic.

“Oh my this is bad, this is bad..” Y/N was beginning to grow anxious, pacing around both the boys as she worked herself up even more.

“Hey okay, calm down” Neteyam held her by the shoulders, trying to keep her from falling apart. They needed to keep their heads cool, despite him wanting to punch Aonung in the face again “look Lo’ak might be an idiot but he can handle himself, he’s fine”

Y/N only nodded.

“Now, I’m going to go find my dad and tell him what we know” he glared at Aonung before looking at Y/N again, face softened “you go and tell your father”

“Right” Y/N nodded again, patting his arm “take Aonung with you pretty boy, and I’ll arrange for a few people to go look for Lo’ak”

“Sounds good” he then turned to her brother who was dead silent. He caught him by the back of his neck, not caring if he was rough about it “come on”

The three of them split up, hoping to hurry and find Lo’ak. He knew he’d only just mentioned that his brother was probably fine but he couldn’t deny he was worried shitless. This was a new turf, some place they were still unfamiliar with and getting lost out here was not something either of them could handle alone. And not to- wait..

She thinks I’m pretty?

#avatar #avatarimagine #avatar way of water #neteyam x reader #writing #fanfiction #neteyam imagine #avatar imagine #avatar fanfiction #lo'ak imagine #lo'ak x reader #lo'ak fanfiction #neteyam fanfiction #jamie flatters

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diazsdimples · 3 months

Text

WIP Wednesday

Thank you to everyone who tagged me for Sunday and Tuesday, I've been really struggling with writing lately and it's been extremely disheartening but this morning I had A Singular Bean for Frostpunk AU and milked it for all it's worth! This snippet comes immediately after the Buck and Eddie POVs of being found in the cold. Please enjoy!

He suddenly feels responsible for their wellbeing, and maybe that’s why he refuses to leave the kid’s – Christopher’s – side until the rest of the team arrives, Eli carrying the heavy med kit on his back. “I’ll get the man, Eli check the kid,” Bobby instructs, sinking to his knees beside Buck. “What’s the story with them, Buck?” “I got here just a couple minutes before the guy passed out. Didn’t say his name but his kid is called Christopher. He looked super weak, a-and they’re both freezing.” Bobby and Eli share a look over Buck’s shoulder and Eli gets to work on Christopher, checking his vital signs and most importantly, his temperature. Bobby repeats the same process on the father, while Tommy and Sal rifle through the backpack on the sled, checking for any useful information on where they’d come from. “Found the guy’s papers, Cap,” says Sal, walking towards Bobby with a flimsy leaflet in his hand. “Say’s the guy’s called Edmundo Diaz, from Sector 126. He’s ex-military but his most recent job was in a sawmill, he might be useful.” “We don’t save people based on use, Sal,” Bobby responds, his eyes not leaving Edmundo as he speaks. “He’s damn cold, temp sitting around 90 and his heart rate and respiratory rate are a little more elevated than I’d like. Eli, how’s the kid?” “Looking fairly rough, Bobby, we’re going to have to hustle to get them back in time. His temp is at 91 so he’ll be looking at pretty severe hypothermia if we don’t warm him up soon.” Bobby sucks air through his teeth, clearly thinking hard. “We’re a good 16 hours out from the city, 17 or 18 with these two and their gear. Think they’ve got it in them to make it that long?” Eli makes a face. “I really don’t know, Cap. The kid, maybe, but the guy’s temp is a little too low for my liking. Maybe if we warmed them up a little, they’d have a better chance. Did Maddie say anything about being able get the snowmobile team out here?” Buck perks up at the mention of the snowmobiles. The team was sent out a day before Buck’s team was, off on a search for supplies a few hundred miles away but were always on call in case a rescue was needed. Getting them to help would cut their travel time almost in half, giving Christopher and Edmundo the precious hours needed to save their lives. “I- I could ride one back with the kid, if they didn’t want to spare a man, Bobby?” he asks hopefully. Sal snorts from his position by the sled. Buck’s love for the snowmobiles is no secret and Bobby’s spent many a mission patiently explaining why it wouldn’t be safe or necessary and otherwise spoiling Buck’s fun. However, this situation calls for haste and Buck is nothing if not an – ah – efficient driver. Bobby looks thoughtful, before standing up and brushing the snow off his pants. “I’ll give dispatch a call and see if she can reroute them to us,” he says, continuing quickly as he watches Buck light up, “but I will be driving. You need to look after the kid, okay?” Buck deflates a little, but something in him stirs as he turns to look at the little figure in the snow next to him. He’s so young, probably no older than 7, and Buck’s heart breaks for him. He’s too young to be experiencing the hardships of the Winter, too innocent to have to watch his father weaken as they journey to a safer home. It’s like a small fire has been kindled in the pit of Buck’s belly as he shuffles closer to the boy and snakes an arm under his neck and the other under his legs, pulling his tiny frame up so he’s in Buck’s lap. Buck is going to protect this boy with his life.

No pressure tagging @theotherbuckley @hippolotamus @tizniz @watchyourbuck @wikiangela @daffi-990 @thewolvesof1998 @pirrusstuff @cal-daisies-and-briars @kitteneddiediaz @spotsandsocks @jesuisici33 @rainbow-nerdss @wildlife4life @puppyboybuckley @smilingbuckley @disasterbuckdiaz @bucksbackwardcap @fortheloveofbuddie @evanbegins @steadfastsaturnsrings @buckbuckgoose @exhuastedpigeon @housewifebuck @slightlyobsessedwitheverything @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove @elvensorceress @babytrapperdiaz @ci5mates @hermscat (let me know if you want to be added or removed from this)

#brain not braining #write not writing #hell the what happening #ANYWAYS it's all uphill from here chaps #frostpunk au #911 buddie #buddie #eddie diaz #911 abc #evan buckley #911 fanfic #911verse #911 #eddie x buck

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s0lam33y · 3 months

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Nonsense

A/N : i haven’t written in ages, Ik Ik 😭 i have so many WIPS that I’m not satisfied with and this has been sitting in my drafts for ages.

mechanic! riri x reader

🔧: @pvnks0ul @kissvamps @ririshotgf

“Ion know what her problem is anyway.” Riri sighs . She just finished giving you all the details of her dad’s side of the family. More specifically, Her cousin, Gina who is especially messy and the two of you couldn’t make it to Chicago this year to watch her and her husband argue like they do every year. He’s an absolute sweetheart and she still manages to give him a hard time.

“You think that could ever be us?” You ask Riri as you watch her move around the garage. She doesn’t spare a glance at you while she looks into her toolbox. The two of you are freshly married, having dated for four years before tying the knot. In the past 6 months of your marriage, you'd say that things have barely changed. It feels the same as when you were dating.

She looks too good, her jumpsuit zipped half way and The top half of it dropped at her hips. Her hands are covered in motor oil, her bicep muscles clenching and unclenching as she digs through the toolbox.

You decided to stop by, offer her a cherry coke while she works. You take your place in the corner of the garage, sitting on a bean bag as you watch her.

“Hell no.” She chuckles, grabbing a wrench from her toolbox and placing it in one of the deep pockets of her Navy blue jumpsuit. You've always loved watching her work, whether it's her screwing metal together for a better suit or this, watching her work on cars.

“We ain’t like Gina and her man. We like you and me, and we don’t argue like that. I’ve never yelled at you the way she be in that man’s ear.” Riri says with a small laugh. You watch her wipe the sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand since the front of it is slathered in motor oil.

She’s not wrong. You two have had your disagreements but Riri’s never been one to yell, however you’ve watched her hold back. You on the other hand…It’s a different story but it’s still a work in progress, nothing she can’t handle.

“She gives him a hard time.” You sigh, a small amount of guilt making it’s way to your chest as you think of the couple. He always looks so miserable.

“Maybe, maybe not, maybe he’s a dick in secret.” Riri shrugs. She doesn’t speak of her Dad often let alone his side of the family and when you do see them, they’re either arguing or gossiping about something.

“What makes you say that?”

“I don’t think she yellin’ for no reason, baby. Maybe he did something he wasn’t supposed to be doing.” She states, a little amused now as she thinks of a multitude of reasons as to why that man is constantly getting scolded.

“It’s not funny.” You scold which only makes her laugh a little harder. She looks at you only to approach you and sit beside you. There’s barely any space for both of you on a singular bean bag so she lifts hooks her arms beneath your knees and back to place you on her lap.

“Tell me, that shit ain’t funny, They was arguing over mowing the lawn.” She grins as she takes a sip of glass of coke you had bright over for her. As much as she says she hates the gossip, she’s always been one to find it entertaining.

“All I’m saying is it’s a bit sad, don’t you think?” You sigh. They’ve been married for years and you can’t help but wonder if they’ve grown tired of each other, rather if you would ever be in that position.

“A little, but I ain’t arguing over some stupid shit like mowing the lawn.” She huffs while glancing at you. She looks to the side, wondering if you’ve zoned out or not.

“What I say?”

You both burst into laughter soon after, you could never get tired of her.

#riri williams #riri x reader #riri williams x reader

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can-i-take-a-stab · 1 month

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I think one of the biggest problems of the fandom (in terms of the sides) is falling for character facade and over exaggerating character traits/making up character traits based on a singular occurrence. Like;

“Logan has no feelings.”

LOUD INCORRECT BUZZER

“Roman is overly confident and full of himself.”

LOUD INCORRECT BUZZER

“Patton is a sweet, innocent, angel bean that would never do anything wrong.”

LOUD INCORRECT BUZZER

“Virgil is anxious all the time and can’t do anything himself without having a panic attack.”

LOUD INCORRECT BUZZER

“Janus is evil and cruel to everyone.”

LOUD INCORRECT BUZZER

“Remus doesn’t care about any of the other sides.”

LOUD INCORRECT BUZZER

Like, I get it if it’s an au; but when you base it off canon, you gotta try to understand the character. Not saying you have to spend hours digging deep into the character’s personality or whatever, I just think you should try to see more than what’s on the outside. AND STOP MAKING CRAP UP ABOUT THEM AND EXAGGERATING CERTAIN THINGS ABOUT THEM THAT WOULD COMPLETELY CHANGE/RUIN THEIR CHARACTER WHEN EXAGGERATED OTHERWISE- THIS ISN’T THE 2018 SANDERS SIDES GACHA COMMUNITY

Alright, thank you :3

#sanders sides #ts sides #ts virgil #ts logan #ts patton #ts remus #ts janus #ts roman #Hear me ramble! Muahahaha!

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britswriting · 9 months

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The Announcement | Quadruple The Love H.S

Follow Y/N + Harry's journey from being a family of two, to a family of six! Also know as, Harry + Y/N have quadruplets! This series will contain blurbs, social media posts, interviews and everything family + fame!

full masterlist qtl masterlist Read on Wattpad

harrystyles and ynstyles

•∘ ∘•

♡ liked by: annetwist, niallhoran, liampayne, and 3,765,874 others harrystyles: Been busy on break

annetwist: I can't wait!!

gemmastyles: I've already bought onesies 🙈💞

liampayne: Welcome to the club, mate!

ynstyles: You owe me £5 for not spilling the beans!

harryfan1: OMG WHAT

harryfan2: She said.. I'm having your baby! ↳ harryfan3: And it's ALL OF HIS BUSINESS OMG

harryfan4: Guys... we're getting dadrry. I repeat, we're getting dadrry!

ynstyles

•∘∘∘∘

•∘∘∘

∘∘•∘∘ ∘∘∘•∘ ∘∘∘∘•

ynstyles: First trimester diaries! 🍼 First things first, finding out your pregnant, at least.. when you're trying, is the best feeling ever!!!! Harry and I took so many photos and videos (far too personal to share, (See slide four to see me on the verge of screaming and crying over the fact that I'm pregnant lol) you see me cry enough as it is lol) and we sat on the bathroom floor in pure happiness and disbelief. (and a lot of concern on my end..) I couldn't stop looking at my stomach and bubbling nonsense to Harry as we began our true first steps into parenthood. (I'll eventually talk about our journey, but if you're new, it hasn't been an easy one💝) As we watched my stomach grow, we couldn't stop touching it! The idea of feeling a kick, or a flutter... or even just the thought of a baby inside of me; pure happiness. (Pst, Harry sleeps with his hand on my belly and it's my new favorite thing ever!!!! It's so cute!!!) For those wondering, Morning sickness is brutal. I'm already losing sleep, vomiting my guts even in the middle of the night and much to my dismay, awakening Harry every time I scurry to the bathroom. (If Harry looks extra tired on camera, I apologize! - he'll tell me off for this, shh!) Tiredness is unreal. I mean, I figured growing a human would be hard, but I'm convinced I'm asleep more than I am awake. I wake up, vomit, eat some crackers take my meds, sleep repeat. Ultrasounds are the craziest experience ever!! Harry and I lost our minds and Harry's soft smile when we saw the screen is burned in my brain forever. He's honestly already such a good husband but I know he's going to be an even better father! I honestly can't wait!! @harrystyles I love you so much! Thank you for making me a mumma <3

annetwist: Congrats! I'm excited to finally talk about it!

yourbff: I can't believe you didn't tell me for 3 weeks smh ↳ ynstyles: It was unbearable for me too!

comments on this post have been limited

"Love, staring at it won't make the line appear quicker" Harry tried to ease, his hand on my back as my eyes laser locked on the pregnancy test.

"The line has to show at some point!"

Harry snatched the test off the counter, my mouth a gape, ready to throw protest when he grabbed my hand and led me to sit down on the cold tile with him.

"Harry! Give me the test!" I whined, my tear ducts filling as the past couple months of worry begun to spill over.

"Y/N, babe, just sit down with me. We're dong this together, alright?"

I reluctantly sat next to him, Harry setting the test on his thigh, his right hand clasping my left as we stared down at it.

"What if it's just one line?" I asked softly, my biggest fear being vocalized once again.

"Then we'll try again" He repeated instantly, a singular tear rolling down my cheek.

"Harry, it's our sixth round in three years" I cried, my eyes squeezing shut as the emotion left glistening trails down my cheeks.

"Y/N, we don't have to do it again" He told me calmly his thumb rubbing against my knuckles, something he did frequently to quietly soothe me.

"You already know how I feel about adoption" I whimpered, guilt encasing my chest as I slowly opened my eyes, my blurred vision attempting to peak at the test.

"I know" He replied, not offering much else as he starred at the test.

"I'm a horrible person" I begin to cry again, taking my hand out of his as I covered my face.

"You're not a horrible person, y/n"

"What woman doesn't want to adopt, Harry?! We could! We could have already had a family! What kind of person is afraid too adopt?!"

"A person whose thought about every avenue. Y/N, it's perfectly normal to want what you want. Can you open your eyes please when I talk to you?" He asked, His green eyes were full of hope, my throat tightening as I glanced away. "Y/N" Harry warned, getting me to look back at him. "I know you're afraid of everything that comes with adoption, and if it's a huge fear of yours, whether it's that you won't love them the same, or they won't love you, or all of the separation issues you've read about.. it's just a different journey that we'd take together. We'd figure it out. You're not the first person to be nervous to adopt if that's a path we need to consider. However we start our family, is how we start our family. I know having a biological baby means a lot to you, but if that's not where life takes us, I think we both need to prepare ourselves to come to terms with that" He told me honestly, my lips pursed as I nodded.

It was true.

As horrific as it made me feel, I was afraid that if I adopted, I wouldn't love that child the same way I would my own. Maybe it was silly.. but my dream was to always have a baby of my own, and now that it's became an entire ordeal including medical professionals and obsessive calendar counting, I knew I needed to let my brain dance with the idea again... but could I really do that to a child? Bring them into this loving home.. and not love them the way they deserved? Would I ever view that baby as my own? Or would it feel more like a godparent babysitting situation?

IVF has been a rough path that Harry and I have walked down. One we didn't take lightly, and one we definitely probably over researched before even attempting such feat.. but with all the cons.. there were the pros.

So we tried, and we tried, an we tried.... and we gave up. Adoption maybe? Foster care? Surrogacy? Egg donors? There was a million routes.. but none of them felt like my dream. I wanted to have sex one night and wake up pregnant the next morning with my husbands child, and I struggle a lot with the fact that that isn't how it's happening.

It would be so easier if I could blame Harry, and his annoying sperm.. but the reality is, Harry is perfectly capiable impregnating someone.

I'm the problem.

Learning that you're supposed sole duty of a period every month wasn't even worth it... definitely landed me in some pretty intense therpary.

There has been more dark days than light for both Harry and I.

I'd be lying if I said divorce had never crossed our minds.

Things got bad, before they got good again and now here I sat next to him, wedding band on my finger as tears streamed down my cheeks, ready to be once again disappointed by my body.

"Can we just see what this test says and go from there, please?" I asked quietly, Harry nodding. "Can you look? My eyes are blurry"

I did my best to clear my vision when I heard the inhale of Harry's sharp breathing.

"What?" I asked, panic making my body tense. "What?!"

"It's two lines! Y/N! You're pregnant!" He practically yelled, my entire body stilling.

"What?"

"YOU'RE PREGNANT!" He yelled, scurrying off the floor, helping me up and yanking me into a hug and a kiss.

"Oh my god" I exhaled, my vison thankfully clearing as I snatched the test, seeing the two pink lines for myself.

"That has to be fake" was my immediate reaction as I held the test up to the light, the pink line darkening right in front of me. "Where is the clearblue one?" I asked Harry, Harry's arms wrapping around me, his palms resting against my stomach as I pulled open one of the drawers, finding my stash of pregnancy tests.

The drawer was probably my most opened drawer in the entire household; which meant it was also my most hated.

All it held was dreams and disappointment.

"Can you grab me a few water bottles, please?" I asked, setting the test aside as I opened one of the more expensive pregnancy test boxes.

"Baby, it's so dark" Harry showed me, crease lines between his brow as his dimples pops from the smile he had.

"I know, I know.. I just.. want to be sure. I need to pee again! Water, please!"

Three water bottles later, I found myself peeing on yet another stick and plopping the capped test onto toilets paper on our counter.

I hated waiting.

"Babe, are you going to look?" Harry asked, a goofy smile still on his face as he leaned against the door frame.

"What if the test was wrong?" I asked again eyeing the drugstore pregnancy test next to Harry.

"Baby, they're supposed to be one of the most accurate tests"

"But false positives are a thing!" I shouted, shaking my hands as I paced the space between the toilet and the bathtub.

"Y/N" Harry sighed, "I know you're worried, and we can make a doctors appointment to verify.. but baby, I think this is it. I think we've done it"

I hesitantly walked up to the counter, my eyes locked on my mess of a reflection in front of me before slowly finding the test.

"Oh my god" I exhaled, the bold "pregnant" staring back at me. "Harry!" I quickly showed the test, a smile starting to form at my lips as my eyes welled up with tears again, "I.. we're... oh my god!" I shrieked, jumping a little as I waved the test next to me.

I quickly pulled out my phone, the video shaky as ran over to Harry, kissing him before showing the test to the camera.

"We're pregnant!" I yelled out, Harry grinning as he leaned down to kiss me again, the video stopping and I turned to the camera, Harry snatching the drugstore test, both of us holding up the tests as we took countless photos before posting in the mirror, taking all sorts of different angles of my belly.

I can't believe we're pregnant.

"I told you you weren't fat" he chuckled as we inspected my bloated stomach.

"I'm fat with your baby!" I laughed, my hand running over the puffy skin. "God, I'm going to get more stretchmarks"

"Good thing you married a man who happens to love them" He pecked my cheek, his hands on my hips.

"We need to make a doctors appointment pronto and make sure these tests are correct" I informed, setting the plastic test on the counter.

"Baby..."

"I know, I know! I just.. I want to be sure, okay?"

"I know. I love you no matter what, but I really think this time.. this time is it"

🍼

Hello! I've had this idea for a while, and I thought it would be fun to make kind of an open ending series? Meaning we can work on this for as long as we want! From finding out, to their birth, and just watching them grow up! If you have any requests, feel free to ask! I don't plan on posting them in order (like birth, growing up etc), but I will have them posted in (hopefully) chronological order in the masterlist!

Feel free to leave requests in the comments or on my ask via my profile!

If you have any baby names, let me know! I have the sex's picked out, but not the names!

I wanted to make this longer, but Tumblr has a 10 photo limit so...

I'm hoping as I get into it, I can write the blurbs better, just with their storyline, it was a bit hard to make it very happy and fluffy lol.

Welcome to my Quadruplet series! (I might post it on wattpad, I'll update the masterlist with a link if it is!!)

pst. my little circles won't stay where I want them to, if you know how to fix that lmk, otherwise we can both be annoyed together!

-Brit <3

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miss-atena · 3 months

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I hope everyone knows that if Twisted Wonderland wasn't made by Disney, AT LEAST half of the cast would swear in every sentence.

Ace would have the dirtiest mouth and Riddle would make him get collared all the time for that. Deuce has slip-up curses, like hitting his foot and going "fuCKING SHIT!". Cater has a secret magicam account where Riddle isn't there and he curses about people he has beef online. Probs one of them is Idia. Trey and Riddle are the clean mouth ones, but Trey tries convincing Riddle that "it is okay to drop an F bomb if ya can't hold it". Trey wants to say fuck.

Leona swears and if someone gets bothered by it he will talk about how "they aren't kids anymore to be afraid of saying fuck". Ruggie does it when he is mad but he makes it his life goal to make Jack say 1 singular fuck.

Azul is calm and collected until he is absolutely alone where he will scream in his pillow all curses and swears he knows and can say. This is a daily thing. Jade swears when he wants to make people uneasy, but he doesn't like it as much. Of every 5 words that leave Floyd's mouth, 7 of them are swear words. He creates the most elaborate ones too, all his brain power goes into swearing every generation of someone's family when he is truly mad.

Kalim is prohibited from swearing not because he is a pure bean but because if he starts a swearing spree he DOESN'T STOP. It is to control what others will hear more than Kalim himself. Jamil does the nonswear cursing or Christian cursing like "I hope your pillow has both sides warm this night". he will pray for others' downfall.

Vil doesn't allow himself to swear, he is better than that. Rook doesn't swear to not be a bad example to other pomefiores. Epel had the tape-on-mouth treatment to cure his sailor's mouth. Half of the time he swears under his breath just to make sure no one listens to him, but if he is mad he will go all out.

Idia has the gamer swearing and probably has broken a lot of laws by his swearing online. Cyberbullies noobs on Roblox sorta guy. Ortho has not been programmed with a library of swear words but if he walks with Adeuce any longer he will learn how to do Christian swearing.

Malleus does the old man swearing, and so does Lilia, but to mock people. Lilia knows how to actually curse, but he has self-control. Silver is technically allowed to swear but doesn't want to be a bad influence. Sebek is not allowed to swear because he is already too loud as it is, imagine if swearing

this turned into a big ramble but yeah TWST should be allowed to say fuck IMO <3

#twisted wonderland #twst #disney twst #tena talk #tena ramble #uhhhh can it ag this with my writing tag?#i dunno #twst hcs #not gonna tag all 20 of em #Extra Yuu swears more than everyone combined #and Grim learned from yuu how to swear properly

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hyunnielix · 9 months

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a sweet tooth that has freckles.

Series Masterlist

— felix x reader (f)

— word count: 3.7k

— genre: non-idol au, strangers to lovers/slow burn with eventual smut (not in this chapter sorry), angst (some?).

— warning's: Baker!Felix, mc struggles with self-doubt, anxiety and perfectionism, mentions of food, Roomate!Hyunjin, later parts of the series will contain explicit smut. mc deals with grief, the passing of her mother.

→ playlist on spotify

“This is probably going to be the weirdest question ever.” You stared at the path, refusing to make eye contact. “But are you using those brownies for anything in particular?” The blonde knitted his brows, glancing down at the clear container filled with sweet treats. “Not...” he lifted his gaze to your hands that you tried to cover with your beige sweater, “necessarily.” You noticed how his forehead creased in concern. He’d seen the grazes; red and irritated. He opened his mouth to speak. Quickly trying to divert his oncoming question, you blurted out, “Is there any chance I could borrow them?” And borrow them you did.

You couldn't count the amount of hours you had stared up at the ceiling that night. Paranoia rung in the back of your head, preventing you from sleep. An exhale passed through your lips. Palms resting across your stomach as you focused on breathing. You unconsciously grabbed your phone, checking the time. 3.15 am... only fifteen more minutes until your alarm went off.

Today was the day that your manager would let you display your own creations. A lot of strings had to be pulled, but Chan had eventually agreed upon one condition. They must sell well. Sure, it didn't seem like a scary feat, if the treats were good enough it should be no problem.

But there was always that insecurity... that sense of perfectionism that you could never shake. No matter how hard you tried. Hence why you were here, staring up at the ceiling instead of sleeping. Usually, to quiet the thoughts bouncing around in your brain you'd listen to music. But for now, all you could do was wallow in the possibilities and what if's.

Cursing, you sat upright. The kitchen was figuratively calling your name. You glanced at the slight crack in the door, watching how the light from the bathroom illuminated the laminated floorboards.

Anxiety baking... here you come.

By four am you had nearly every ingredient known to man splayed across your granite bench. Already three batches of different flavours of muffins cooling on wire racks. Orange and Oreo, Raspberry and Mint and lastly, Coffee and Salted Caramel (yes the coffee was the singular coffee bean decorating the top of the muffin - it still counts).

The last thing to come out of the oven was more so an experiment, mini cherry pie’s! The mixture of scents reminded you of lazy afternoons at the beach or having a picnic surrounded by friends. warm and fuzzy.

A smile crossed your features as you admired the golden-brown pastry. On cue, your stomach rumbled. You placed the hot tray on the bench, being particularly careful with the oven mitts. The last thing you’d want is to burn yourself—

You could imagine it, coming into work with bandages all over your hands. Chan shaking his head in utter disappointment. That may as well have contributed to your nightmares. Being scolded by Chan was worse than being scolded by a parent.

The next problem was choosing what muffin you would choose to showcase. You wondered if your roommate would kill you for waking them up at 4am to taste test muffins. The answer was probably. Hyunjin was big on beauty sleep, which you didn’t blame him for. You stared at his door for a little longer before deciding against it.

Instead, you placed a little plate on the bench, grabbing each one of your creations and displaying it cutely. You reached for the icing sugar, dusting it across the plate.

You left a little note behind, tucking it underneath:

treats for sleeping beauty (don’t worry there’s lots of flour)

- Y/N <3

It was decided. You would bring two of each.

You’d thought about the prospect before, owning your own little bakery. Maybe on the corner of a street, a cute little spot. One with just enough foot traffic to keep yourself afloat. Money was never the real reason for your ambitions. You wanted people to enjoy the pastries and sweets. To feel the same sense of warmth and comfort that you had.

When your mother would present you with her newest addition to her cookbook. A child spoilt, nurtured with love. Every bite reminded you of her. Her soft smile and comforting words. How gently she raised you, as best as she could as a single parent. You never really understood how difficult she had it.

She poured her love into her creations, the ones that you now tried to perfect. Although, you could never seem to get them right. There was always something missing, something that you couldn’t put your finger on.

A warmth on your cheeks surprised you. Wiping them with the pads of your fingertips, you realised you’d begun to cry.

Hyunjin was there to pick up the pieces, he’d offered for you to move in. You couldn’t bear to live in the same house without her around. Everything was a constant reminder of her absence. Freshly graduated, and living with your best friend in an apartment complex? It didn’t sound like a bad trade off. You often pondered the idea that whoever said grief got easier to live with was lying. Maybe you just hadn’t reached that point.

Grief was never-ending, a reflection of love that wasn’t able to be shared. It will forever be stuck in a loop. Hence why guilt and grief go hand in hand. You struggled to contain the tears. They were scorching against your skin, it felt like hot coals were placed against your cheeks.

Shaking your head, you tentatively grabbed one of the oreo and orange muffins off the wire rack. Lifting the treat to your lips, you hesitated. It was still warm. Softly biting into the treat, you frowned. It didn’t taste right. It didn’t taste good enough. Your breathing faltered, holding the back of your palm against your mouth as you tried to chew the rest of it. A soft sob escaped your lips. You tried desperately to quieten the whimpers, not wanting to wake up Hyunjin.

Some of the crumbs transferred onto your sweater. The muffin was thrown onto the floor, the collision with the wood was enough to send the confectionary flying in every direction imaginable. Another thing you’d have to clean up.

You exhaled softly. Stepping away from the bench, you turned around. Placing your hands on the wooden floorboards, you hoisted your bodyweight upward.

You were upside down, balancing your legs and feet on the cupboards behind you. It’s something your mother taught you. If you couldn’t stop crying, do a handstand. You held the position until your arms gave out on you, slowly crumbling to the floor. Just like the muffin had.

That episode had further reinforced the idea that you weren’t a morning person. You tried to fake your optimism, carefully placing the muffins in a large cardboard takeaway box. They looked presentable enough.

You weren’t a morning person. Although, the walk to the bakery may as well have been your favourite thing in the entire world. The blue birds chattering away. The slight breeze that brushed against your cheeks. The smell of fresh dew droplets that decorated the grass beneath your feet.

You closed your eyes, feeling the first rays of morning sunlight hit your face. It was warmth. She was there, in the sun. Telling you it would be alright, easing your anxieties. The grip on the cardboard box tightened as you opened your eyes. The colours of the leaves shone a little differently in the light, voluminous greens and oranges. The seasons were changing. You always found that the most precious time. When the trees shed their old leaves, new colours and experiences arising. Maybe in another life you were a tree.

The fluffy clouds decorating the sky looked more like cotton candy. A part of you wanted to reach up and pluck them out and put them on a stick. Due to your attention being elsewhere, you were unable to see the branch laying across the gravel path.

Your body went careening forward, unable to protect yourself. Everything ached as you hit the ground. The box of muffins now lay, scattered across the gravel and grass. The skin of your hands raw from breaking the fall. You slowly sat upright, gathering your bearings.

A sigh fell from your lips. Brushing the back of your hand against your forehead. What the hell were you going to do now? You couldn’t just show up empty handed. Sorry Chan, I was a clumsy idiot and ruined every thing I baked this morning because I wasn’t watching where I was going. No that wouldn’t suffice.

You glanced behind you. It was way too late for you to begin walking back home. Checking your watch, which miraculously came out unscathed, it read: 4:48am.

You had work in approximately twelve minutes.

Picking up what was left of the muffins, you attempted to dust the dirt and grime off them. You weren’t going to salvage any of them at this rate. A weird substance had begun to seep into the cardboard box. You glanced down at your palms, realising the adrenaline had prevented you from feeling the damage.

Shallow wounds on each of your hands were decorated with maroon, mixed in with pebbles and granite. The dull aching became worse as you stared. You’d have to disinfect that for sure. Deflated, you picked up the remainder of the ruined sweets.

You continued walking, the breeze against your face felt icy. Lacking any sort of comfort you needed right now. You began to squint, noticing a figure in the distance following the same path.

Eventually, you caught up to the stranger. Hanging behind them slightly. Your eyes raked up and down his figure before landing on the clear container resting between his arm and ribcage. A lightbulb went off in your head.

“Hey- Uhm, excuse me.” You mumbled, reaching forward to tap on the stranger's shoulder. He paused, pulling out an earphone that now hung down his front. The stranger turned his body to face you.

Your mouth parted slightly. Freckles like constellations decorated the tops of his cheeks. He tilted his head slightly, like a confused puppy. The corner of his eyes crinkling slightly at the abrupt interruption. His blonde hair was quite long, styled at the front in fluffy waves.

He raised his brow. “Are you alright?” His voice was gruff, deep, a complete contrast to how he presented himself. You swallowed harshly, not expecting that in the slightest.

He was dressed in a multi-toned beige sweater, long cargo pants protecting him from the chilly weather. You averted your eyes, glancing down at the box of brownies he was carrying.

“This is probably going to be the weirdest question ever,” you stared mindlessly at the treats, refusing to make eye contact. “But are you using those brownies for anything in particular?”

A slight blush dusted your cheeks. Unable to process the notion of rejection, it was already embarrassing enough as it was. Asking a complete stranger if you could steal their food? It was official, you had lost your mind. The blonde knitted his brows, glancing down at the clear container filled with sweet treats. “Not necessarily.” There was a hint of amusement in his tone. He lifted his gaze to your hands that you tried to cover with your cream sweater.

You noticed how his forehead creased in concern. He’d seen the irritated grazes; the blood was beginning to dry on your palms. It felt disgusting. He opened his mouth to speak. Quickly trying to avert his oncoming question, you blurted out, “Is there any chance I could borrow them?”

“Borrow?”

“Okay, I could trade but my offerings are kind of ruined, hence the borrowing.” You explained. He noticed how panicky your movements were, opening up the cardboard box to reveal your ruined creations. The corner of his lips downturned.

He pondered for a moment, before nodding. “I’ll let you have them. But we need to take care of that first.” He pointed to your hands and the sweater that you’d now stained. The maroon substance had now turned an ugly shade of brown.

You sheepishly smiled. “I don’t really have any disinfectant or wipes, and I’m going to be late.”

He shook his head, a small smile playing on his pretty lips. “Don’t worry about that, I’ve got hand sanitizer.” You tilted your head in confusion, “And tissues.” He reiterated.

The stranger reached into his back pocket, pulling out both of said items.

“Allergies.” He shrugged, in relation to the tissues. You nodded, that made sense. The warmth in your palms was becoming unbearable against the cardboard. He placed the brownies on the ground. You mimicked him, dropping your box on the floor. There was a certain carelessness in your actions that caught his attention. He tucked the tissues under his arm.

He stepped forward tilting his head slightly, “May I?”

Searching your eyes for confirmation, he held the hand sanitiser outward. You nodded slightly, holding your palms toward him. He winced slightly at the state of the wounds, beginning to fold the sleeves of your sweater up for you. The blood stains were covered by the material, at least you wouldn’t have to change.

That may have been a food and safety health violation, but you were going to ignore it.

“This is going to hurt a little, I’m sorry.” His eyes sparkled with concern, a frown tugging at his lips as he hesitated. You pursed your lips. He squeezed the bottle slowly, allowing the alcoholic substance to seep into each wound.

You slightly hissed through your teeth, “You have nothing to apologise for it was my fault in the first place.” You rubbed the substance into the wound, closing your eyes as the stinging became worse. It felt like a million tiny needles pricking your skin. Not the most pleasant experience. “Thank you for helping me. It’s not every day that you meet kind strangers.”

You almost mumbled the last part. He quirked his brow, holding out the packet of tissues for you to take. “Why do you say that?”

The tip of your finger brushed against his as you took the packet. The touch felt like electricity, you glanced up at him wondering if he felt it too. Instead, he was staring at you with curiosity. You focused on cleaning up your palms, the pain dulling slightly. You’d still have to wash them out when you got to work. right, work. You were going to be late.

“I have to go. I’m late.”

He bent down, picking up the clear container of brownies before handing them to you. His smile was soft, understanding. You couldn’t help but scrunch your nose, reciprocating the smile. The sun had come out once more, this time you weren’t sure if it was standing in front of you. “Sounds like you need them a lot more than I do.”

You bowed, dipping your head as you took the treats from him. “Thank you again.” The sincerity laced in your voice wasn’t unnoticed. He dug his hands into the pockets of his pants, watching you intently.

You turned around, beginning to walk away before hesitating. Glancing over your shoulder, you spoke, “Come visit sunshine espresso, I’ll give you a free coffee! on the house.”

You checked your watch, cursing under your breath before taking off in a sprint. You waved to the stranger, smiling as you saw him begin to laugh. You hoped you’d made his day as much as he had made yours.

Clumsy was definitely going to be your new nickname. The amount of times the string of your apron had slid out of your fingers was beginning to frustrate you. Attempting once more, you gave up on knotting the piece of fabric.

“You’re late again!” A teasing voice proclaimed, you rolled your eyes. A part of you felt relieved knowing it was Jisung and not Chan. Sungie as you’d like to affectionately call him was quite a playful individual. Nothing really phased him, until it did. Then he’d bring the whole world down with him. He was quite chaotic, but you liked that about him.

“This time it really wasn’t my fault, a very convincing branch told me that I should give up and go home.” You mumbled, feeling a slight tugging on the string around your waist. You held the material against your stomach as he knotted the apron. You thanked him softly, turning around.

“Well the tree branch didn’t try hard enough, you’re still here!” Jisung stated, hand placed on his hip. You laughed at his statement, playfully pushing against his chest so you could pass him. Container of brownies in hand.

Whoever closed yesterday did a brilliant job, the back was absolutely spotless. You admired how clean it was, continuing out to the front. You loved watching the sunrise from behind the counter in the mornings. It was peaceful.

“Chan’s not here yet?” You questioned, turning around against the counter. Placing the box down, you splayed your hands against the bench.

He shook his head, standing beside the coffee machine. “Nope! I opened all by myself.”

You pouted, teasingly. “Aww poor sungie! can’t leave you with that much responsibility.”

“Okay now you’re just being mean! go do your job before I tell on you.”

You grinned at him, knowing he was joking. Turning around, you used the tongs laid above the cabinet to grab the brownies. Unclipping the sides of the container. You slowly filled the cabinet, taking your time to merchandise them in an enticing way.

“What do we have here?” He sang sweetly, glancing over your shoulder at the treat’s you’d brought. You tried to shoo him away, unfortunately it just ended in a fit of giggles.

“H-Homemade brownies!” You finally managed, closing the sliding doors to the cabinet. Jisung’s expression had softened. You fell silent as you realised what he’d been staring at.

“Y/N your hands...”

“Oh...” You glanced down at them, frowning. They'd started bleeding again. “Yeah I was going to sort that out, do we have any bandaids?”

“Did you fail first aid?” He sassily quipped. You shot him an annoyed glare. He placed his hand on your back, guiding you toward the baker’s bench. “They’re out the back, should be a box in the office.”

The amount of bandaid's it took to cover the grazes was ridiculous. You felt a bit like an idiot. They weren't even neutral colours! They were cutesy hello kitty ones, pink and purple. Oh well... they should be able to withstand the day.

As you returned to the front, your mouth fell open at the scene unfolding in front of you. “Hey!”

“I just wanted to try one.” Jisung mumbled through the brownie he was currently devouring. Crumbs had fallen all over the bench next to the coffee machine. You huffed dramatically; you were going to have to clean that.

He held his hands in front of his mouth sheepishly. “These taste really familiar.”

Your eyes widened slightly, “What are you talking about?”

He looked puzzled. Then as if a lightbulb had gone off in his head he yelled, "I got it!" Jisung waved his finger accusingly. “These are Felix’s recipe!”

You squinted, leaning against the bench next to him. “Whose Felix?”

“My roommate.” He stated, matter of factly as he wiped the crumbs off his face. "Care to explain?"

A sigh fell from your lips as you hung your head forward. There was no point lying to him now. He already knew. You were done for.

"If you couldn't use context clues, I tripped over and ruined the muffins I was supposed to bring in."

He shook his head, "and I thought I was the clumsy one."

You rolled your eyes as he tilted his head, "Wait that still doesn't explain—"

"I bumped into him along the way here and he was so kind as to let me borrow them." His face softened at your explanation of the eventful morning. He smiled lazily, "That definitely sounds like Felix."

"Don’t know where he was going at 5 in the morning though, especially with brownies... I guess you’ll have to ask him about that one." You grabbed one of the nearest cloths, forcing Jisung to move so you could clean his mess. He muttered a sorry under his breath.

"All I hear is chatting right now," Chan poked his head from around the corner. You jumped at the sound of the aussie, turning around to face him. He was wearing casual clothes, all black as usual. What was with him and the lack of colour in his wardrobe?

“I swear I’m getting work done.” You almost whined. Chan flashed you a warm smile. It made you feel more at ease about the whole situation. “I can see that.” He gestured towards the now full cabinet.

You glanced over at Jisung. His cheeks were once again full of brownie, caught in the act as Chan shook his head. Crumbs had fallen onto the floor as he scoffed yet another one. You couldn’t help but giggle at his antics. Someone had obviously skipped out on breakfast.

“Alright don’t choke on it!” Chan warned, crossing his arms over his chest. Jisung carefully slid the cabinet closed once again, having demolished at least two of the treats.

“Whoever decided to put freeze dried coffee in brownies is a genius!” Jisung stated, smiling dumbly as he rubbed his stomach through the apron. You shot an amused look at Chan.

Chan raised his brow, surprise evident on his features. He turned toward you. “You made coffee brownies?”

Your eyes darted to Jisung. You hoped to hell he’d play along with your little charade. There was a glint of mischief in his eyes. You shook your head subtly, as a warning. “Yeah! I thought it’d make it unique.”

You cringed at the lie that rolled of your tongue. Jisung bit on his lower lip to prevent him from laughing at how uncomfortable you looked. He almost wanted to take a photo of your expression. It was priceless.

"Alright, well I just came to check up on the open, I'll be back at three." Chan’s voice lowered, directing his attention to Jisung. "You eat any more of those brownies and you'll be paying for Y/N's next batch yourself."

Jisung smiled cheekily while nodding. He glanced at you, trying to suppress a laugh. As soon as Chan had left, you rested your forehead against the wooden bench. A groan escaped your mouth. "This is so going to bite me in the ass." You side eyed Jisung. "I'm going to have to ask Felix for the recipe, aren't I?"

He simply shrugged; amusement evident on his face. Oh this was going to be so much fun.

154 notes · View notes

bizaar · 8 months

Text

Endless Summer ✧

Part 1: Our Lips Are Sealed

Cruel Summer Masterlist

- Next

pairing: eddie munson x afab!reader

warnings: sexual content (18+ minors dni), virgin!reader, mentions of drug usage, swearing, bullying, self-deprecation, masturbation (f)

word count: 10k

a/n: so I may or may not have been writing a few chapters of a semi-raunchy little prequel to Cruel Summer, this is the same babysitter!reader at the beginning of her relationship w/ Eddie - reader is hopelessly obsessed in a totally uncool, sweaty palms sort of way and Carol Perkins is the meanest girl in school.

Carol Perkins has been talking endlessly about … something, for the better part of the ten minutes it’s been since you sat down with your lunch tray.

You aren’t exactly sure what about, because you’re not listening, you’re just sitting there watching her lips flap.

You might have felt bad about that even as recently as last week, but somehow you can’t seem to muster the feeling today.

Maybe it has to do with the recent events that have more or less soured your opinion of your so-called friend, or maybe it’s just that her conversations these days are not exactly the stuff of edge-of-your-seat intrigue, especially considering you can be fairly certain in the knowledge that whatever she is saying probably has something to do with her stupid boyfriend, Tommy Hagan.

Tommy said this, Tommy did that, oh my god Tommy is so funny, Tommy Tommy Tommy, who has been Carol’s singular topic of conversation for going on two years now, much to your agonizing boredom.

Tommy is fine, if you like snot nosed bullies who never matured past age twelve and whose idea of trying to divert attention away from the fact that he’s more into Steve Harrington than he is his own girlfriend is by feigning some kind of bullshit interest in you — decidedly not your type, especially when his idea of flirting is giving you a hard shove in the back and calling you Princess while Carol is sitting there in the crook of his arm.

Yeah… so not your type.

Then again, you never would have thought that was Carol’s type, considering her interests have always swayed more Han Solo than anything else — (read: The Empire Strikes Back poster she has secretly taped to the inside of her closet door) — but you know she would deny that to her dying breath if you dared to remind her of it, so you keep your mouth shut and do your best to focus on moving the watery canned green beans around your tray with a plastic spork while she talks and talks and endlessly talks.

You’re on probation with Carol after last week’s debacle in the quad, anyway, so you’re not sure she would even allow you to speak if you tried. You’re supposed to just sit there and listen to whatever it is she has to say and nod along dutifully without interrupting.

That’s your whole job here, nothing more, nothing less.

You wonder idly if she would even notice if you slipped away, whether she would keep on talking until someone worth noticing, like Tina or Nicole, arrived at the table and finally implored her to shut the fuck up. Once upon a time you might have done so yourself, but you haven’t been brave enough to speak so directly to Carol since the eighth grade.

One too many times getting your head bitten off has conditioned you to wire your jaw shut and tune it out, for the sake of self-preservation, which is exactly why you’d just stood there and took every bit of vitriol Carol had to give you that morning last week.

Rumors spread like a disease in this town.

Nicole said something about hearing Tommy talking big in homeroom about something that happened over the weekend at a party you didn’t attend, which Carol knows because she gave you such shit over it, but facts aren’t important to her when it comes to things like this.

Someone suggested that you’d tried to grab his dick or something, and worst still, that he was into it, and Carol went nuclear.

Never mind that Tommy was the one spreading the rumor around, all that mattered to Carol was that it was you he was trying so desperately to incriminate.

Literally anyone else, and it wouldn’t have been such a big deal. If somebody had said that it was Vicki Carmichael or Tammy Thompson, Carol wouldn’t give a shit. She’d throw her weight around, make a show of girlie dominance, and that would be that. But no, it had to be you.

Why oh why did it have to be you? You imagine she’s asking herself the same question.

You’re fairly certain she would be less angry if she thought Tommy liked boys than she is at the mere suggestion that he might be interested in you and you’re not sure if your ears are ever going to stop ringing after the way she’d shouted at you, in front of God and practically everyone in school.

Tommy just stood there, smirking, of course, everyone just stood there, even you stood helplessly staring at your sneakers, just waiting for it to end until you noticed another pair of dingy reeboks appear beside your own.

“Good God!” A voice as familiar as childhood rang out, loud enough to cut the air and silence her mid-stream, startling you into snapping your head to attention.

Suddenly, there stood Eddie Munson, like a knight in leather and denim, sidled up beside you like you were old friends or something and it was the most natural thing in the world, like this wasn’t the first time something like this had ever happened in the history of cool kids and losers interacting at Hawkins High.

Tommy and Carol were speechless, you were speechless — Eddie was not.

“What on God’s green Earth is making that awful racket?” He said loudly – theatrically – and then he turned his blinding attention to you, “Sounds like someone’s skinning a cat out here,” he mused, giving you a gentle nudge with his elbow, like it was some kind of an inside joke between you, as if you were supposed to have any idea what that meant.

You stared back at him, wide-eyed and still too stunned to speak — you don’t know what you said following that if you even said anything at all.

You can’t remember, you don’t even remember what Carol said, what kind of vicious back and forth was volleyed between them before a staff member eventually arrived to break up the huddle and cart Eddie off.

Carol was pissed that you didn’t defend her, of course, and you’re still paying for that imagined slight with a concentrated cold shoulder from most everyone you know, but you can hardly make yourself care about being so summarily iced out like that.

Because Eddie Munson stood up for you.

You still can’t wrap your head around that. Nobody’s ever stood up for you like that before, nobody over the age of twelve, that is, but Eddie did.

That’s twice now he’s stepped in and saved you like that, and you have to resist the urge to shake the thought loose before it can take root in your mind – you can’t think about that right now, not with Carol sitting right there, but thankfully, she has not noticed the way your attention has begun to stray.

She’s too busy talking.

Deep down, somewhere in your subconscious, you know you ought to try and put a little more effort into listening to her, because she’s your best friend, even though she regularly puts you on probation like this for imagined slights.

Even though your friendship has conditions and stipulations that only seem to apply to you.

Even though you have nothing in common anymore except for the fact that you’ve been best friends since you were eight years old.

So, perhaps the better phrasing is you know you ought to try and put a little more effort into listening to her, because you used to be best friends.

Nostalgia is the ancient, flaking paste keeping the walls of your friendship standing, but the wallpaper has long since begun to peel to reveal the rot beneath.

Carol is still going on about who said what and who is dating who and all the latest gossip, talking at you more than talking to you, talking just to fill the air and you’re doing your best to at least try to pretend to look interested – really, you are – but there’s not much you can do to stop the way your gaze has begun to wander…

Because Eddie Munson has entered your periphery, Eddie Munson has suddenly jumped up onto his lunch table, Eddie Munson stood up for you.

Good God, indeed.

He’s standing on his table and violently demanding your undivided attention – not yours specifically, but rather the attention of anyone who just so happens to be bored enough to get caught watching his frenetic display … which is to say, you.

But you’re happy enough to let him have your attention, whatever he’s up to is bound to be vastly more enticing than anything Carol has to say. You’re not sure you’d be able to resist giving it to him even if you didn’t feel that way, if you were being honest – because you’ve had your eye on him from the moment you’d stepped in the lunchroom.

Not because you’re minorly obsessed with him or anything as uncool as that. Certainly not because you’re harboring a bizarre gargantuan little crush on him or that when you tune everything else out and let your brain switch tracks, it’s him your mind shifts to.

No, nothing so embarrassing as that.

He’s a rebel with entirely too much cause, standing tall on the flattop, talking big and proselytizing to his minions about something with all the fire and charisma of a bible belt preacher – you’re hopelessly lost on context, but you’re all but ready to convert to the church of Eddie Munson.

A shock of chills wracks your body as he raises his voice as the passion of whatever it is that’s got him going today seemingly overtakes him, and it’s almost enough to draw Carol’s attention, but considering this is not new behavior, most people tend to tune it out.

Normally you would lie to yourself and say you did too … normally, if it hadn’t been for the way you’d spent the night previous tossing and turning, restlessly caught in the throes of a decidedly raunchy REM cycle, the subject of which just so happens to be standing on a table across the room.

So what if you had a sex dream about him last night? So what if your skin is buzzing where you can still feel his hands pulling at you, the gentle fanning of his breath on the nape of your neck where it had felt so real...

“Sweet Girl,” he’d whispered to you in your dreams, on a wracked, heady exhale, voice thick and shot full of holes in a way you can only imagine it would sound – it sends a bolt of heat lancing through your core and forces you to shift in your seat and avert your gaze.

You are an island to your own fantasies, sitting there, feeling your heart throbbing between your legs, and trying to be subtle about the way you’re pinching your thighs together as you become a little hotter under the collar than you were a moment ago.

You wish you were still close enough with Carol to divulge the specificities of your dream in bowed heads and hushed sordid tones, but lately, you’ve started to feel like little more than an out-of-trend accessory, kept around simply for nostalgia’s sake.

Once upon a time, you might have been free to share, but you are entirely certain that were you to try that now, to lean across the table and whisper conspiratorially:

“Holy shit, you’ll never guess who I had the filthiest dream about last night,” you’d be immediately crucified, socially speaking.

Carol doesn’t care about the yearnings of your most secret self. Not anymore. Now she only cares about Tommy and who did what at Tina’s party and how embarrassing it was, and quietly sidling up to Steve Harrington.

She doesn’t have much use for you these days besides using you as a buffer to avoid submitting herself to the humiliation of doing things on her own.

You’re not friends, and your secrets are positively unsafe with her. You would cut ties if you had a little more self-respect, but high school is hard enough with bad friends, you know it would be that much worse with no friends.

The concept of starting fresh and trying to make new ones halfway through your sophomore year is a Sisyphean Hurdle you have no idea how to even begin to tackle, so you grin and bear it, and swallow any biblical yearnings you happen to harbor for the town pariah — besides, if you told her, all she would do is ask you what it is you think you know about anything raunchy before dutifully reminding you that you’re a virgin.

Actually, the technical term would be “still a virgin” and would be followed up with the demand to know “when you’re going to do something about it” — like somehow the untouched state of your being is a bad thing and that you are on a ticking clock.

You suppose it’s just one more patently uncool thing about you hampering her — her loser best friend doesn’t put out, has never had a boyfriend, never even been kissed.

You would remind her that it’s hard to put out when nobody knows you exist, but it would only be an exercise in her rattling off an endless list of names you’d so much rather eat glass than accompany anywhere socially.

So, you watch, fixated on the way Eddie stalks down the length of the table like a catwalk, very carefully picking his long-legged steps as he goes, and you might feel a little embarrassed about how poor a job you’re doing masking the blatant way you’re gawping at him, if it weren’t for the fact that you know you aren’t the only one watching.

Not that he would notice even if you were.

Who are you but Carol Perkins’s excessively boring beige shadow? Nobody notices you, because you’re not a real person. You're invisible. You don’t exist.

You don’t know when your stupid little crush began. Eddie’s always been there if you really think about it, a fixture in the background of the swirling miasma that is your social circle, suddenly much larger than it has ever been now that High School has become your habitat.

Hawkins is a small town, and Eddie’s lived here his whole life, same as you. He’s a year older, but that wouldn’t be enough distance to remove someone from your orbit under normal circumstances, let alone someone like him in a town like this.

Some part of you has always been mildly obsessed with him from a purely academic standpoint — forbidden knowledge is perhaps the most tantalizing thing to a young mind, and the mystery of Eddie Munson has always been completely off-limits to the likes of you.

You’ve known the Munson name since you were old enough to listen in on your parents’ conversations, same as anyone who has spent long enough in Hawkins to learn a thing or two about the local population.

Al Munson has always been something closer to a Universal Movie Monster than a real person in your mind, like Dracula or the Wolfman — the local boogeyman. Sure, he didn’t have a haunting playground nursery rhyme like Freddy Krueger, but the man was to be just as feared by schoolchildren and good Americans alike.

He was “bad news” — that’s what your parents always said — even now, you can still hear your father’s lecturing voice warning you that if you so much as spoke to a Munson you’d get instantly hooked on drugs, knocked up, and end up living out of a cardboard box by the time you are twenty.

Which is stupid, of course, because you’ve gone to school with Eddie since first grade and you’d seen him talk to plenty of people over the course of that time, none of whom had gone on to suffer such a dismal fate.

Still, there’s nothing so tempting as forbidden fruit – you’ve known that since you were old enough to recognize there was a difference between boys and girls.

Life went on as the notorious Munson patriarch finally went to prison, and with the streets safe again from the likes of the car-jacking drug-dealing town drunk, everyone was happy enough to force his son into the void he’d left in the zeitgeist.

People start to get bored when there are no local pariahs to blame all their misfortunes on. As far as the locals believe, Hawkins is not cursed by anything other than the Munsons.

You remember a time when it wasn’t like that, when your parents spoke about Eddie with a heavy dose of sympathy.

When you were little, it was “that poor kid,” but as you got older and Eddie started getting into more and more trouble, it became “stay away from that boy – he’s no good,” as if he was banging down the door for your attention.

You’re fairly certain he doesn’t even know you exist.

There wasn’t much danger in becoming corrupted by someone like Eddie Munson before Carol got popular, and that hasn’t changed just because you’ve won a golden ticket to the cool kid’s table… by proxy — you're more of an unwanted plus-one than anything else.

Not Charlie Bucket so much as Grandpa Joe.

But of course, you’ve never personally subscribed to the generalization that Eddie is evil or something.

He isn’t the boogeyman or Dracula or any of those things that go bump in the night, no matter what your raunchy little dreams might dictate.

As far as you’re concerned, Eddie isn’t even all that mean or scary, and maybe that’s just because he’d treated you so sweetly last autumn at Tina Burton’s Not-Quite-Halloween party….

You’re not supposed to be thinking about that, the first time Eddie came to your rescue. That memory is not safe within Carol’s proximity, but it is the ambrosia that has been singularly sustaining you for the better part of a year now. It is a shining jewel that you keep tucked safely in the spot behind your lungs, and you just can’t help but pull the curtain back to take a peek at it.

It was your first high school party.

You’d never partaken in anything before that night, never even been offered, but suddenly and unceremoniously finding yourself shoved up against Eddie in a game of puff-puff-pass, you let yourself be pressured into playing.

He must have realized you were nervous — maybe your fingers were trembling when he passed you the blunt, but suddenly, and for perhaps the first time in your life, he was speaking directly to you.

“Have you ever done this before?” Eddie asked you quietly, a heavy dose of concern shadowing the wry quirk of his brow.

It was startling, to realize the curse of your invisibility had so unceremoniously been lifted, leaving you suddenly exposed to a person you were never meant to speak to. You had to resist the urge to whip around and ask, “Who me?”.

Yes, you.

Eddie Munson was staring at you, asking you if you knew what you were doing.

Like something out of one of those anti-drug campaigns, you suddenly felt like you were caught in a situation you’d been preparing for your whole life: if Eddie Munson offers you drugs at a party, just say no kids.

Only you could not help but notice that he wasn’t nearly as scary or dangerous as McGruff the Crime Dog had led you to believe. In fact, he was entirely too enticing, and you were suddenly desperate to make a good impression.

You opened your mouth in the fanatical hope of saying something cool and casual — yeah, of course. You’ve done all kinds of shit — and were naturally horrified to hear the truth squeak out.

“No.”

Eddie’s brows crept toward one another forming a deep crease of concern between them, and suddenly you could read his mind - yeah, that’s what I thought, he seemed to say.

You watched as he stole a quick glance over his shoulder, and then licked his lips before leaning in, almost conspiratorially. Your heart was beating so aggressively in your chest that you were convinced he must have been able to hear it.

You still remember the way his lips brushed the shell of your ear when he whispered to you, how the fanning of his breath made you shiver with the tantalizing suggestion of nicotine and spearmint secrets.

“You don’t have to breathe it in if you don’t want to.” He mumbled, “Just puff it and pass — you’ll be fine.”

It was the last little bit that really did you in.

Not the overwhelming pressure of your peers insisting that just one hit won’t kill you, but the kind assurance from the person who provided the drugs that you didn’t have to partake if you didn’t want to.

It was the suggestion of a choice in your fate that ultimately lured you out of your field and into the underworld — sickly sweet pomegranate promises, dripping from his tongue to yours.

Just like your father and McGruff the Crime Dog and all those insufferable after-school specials had warned you, Eddie Munson turned his gaze upon you, and you were instantly hooked.

He passed you the blunt, and you tried not to get too stuck on the way his fingers brushed yours when you took it. You curled your lips in as you brought it to your mouth, and you puff puff puffed, holding your throat closed against any swirling wisps of smoke, subtly giving the impression that you knew how to handle your shit before you quickly handed it off to the next person.

It still burned in a funny sort of way, but nothing happened. You didn’t slip down the rabbit hole, and you didn’t burst into flames, though most importantly no one seemed to notice the wool being pulled over their eyes, and you dared to steal another cautious glance at Eddie.

His lips twitched in the faintest hint of a satisfied smile, and you bloomed under the approval of someone whose attention you never realized you so desperately craved.

Before you could think of something to say to extend that moment, even just a little bit, you watched your hopes get dashed to oblivion as he turned away from you, taking with him the bright light of his attention and leaving you shrouded in darkness.

Tragically, invisible again, just like that.

If only you could have been so lucky — trust Carol to call you out on faking it when you remained sober after three rounds of puffing and passing.

“You’re supposed to inhale, Dummy!” She shrieked, causing everyone in the circle to laugh at your blatant inexperience.

Everyone but Eddie, you would have noticed had you been able to look, but shame-faced as you were, you kept your gaze fixed firmly to the floor and you inhaled deeply on your next turn.

You coughed, of course, and choked on the musky smoke as it filled your lungs and seared them medium rare. It only took a handful of minutes before you quickly faded out of the room to the soundtrack of everyone laughing again.

The rest of that night remains a mystery to you to this day.

You don’t remember what happened after the game or how much longer the party lasted or even how you got home — you do remember how being under the influence set your mind to spinning, and how you hadn’t been able to stop thinking about how long Eddie’s eyelashes were. How he wet his lips with a smooth pass of his pink tongue before he spoke and how good he smelled when he leaned in to whisper to you.

You also remember the way he looked at you every time he passed you the joint when your turn came around again, like he was actually seeing you instead of the person-shaped placeholder you’d become since bridging the gap from adolescence to adulthood, but you chalk that up to nothing more than a potent cocktail of narcotics and your ever-present desire to be perceived.

That’s not what stands out most about that night, however, because it’s not all you remember.

Somewhere, hidden back in the furthest reaches of your subconscious, you swear you can still feel the press of his body as he held you caged in the crook of his arm, with your head resting on his collarbone, tucked neatly beneath his chin.

You don’t know how, but you swear you know what his lips feel like, brushing the highest point of your cheekbone, and the long line of his nose bridge pressed flat against your temple with his breath gently fanning the side of your face.

You’re sure you can feel the deep rumble of his voice filling you with warmth, a low timber in his chest calling you Sweet Girl as he smoothes your hair back.

He told you everything was going to be okay, and you believe him to this day.

You don’t know how you know all that, but you do. You feel it with every fiber of your being in a way that is so goddamn real it can’t just be an effect of your stupid little crush and unchecked libido.

The things you remember from that night, and the things you don’t combined with a handful of particularly banal run-ins with him over the course of the last few weeks has left you itchy and starving for a fix, though not from anything he might be able to sell you.

That night at Tina’s party, academic fascination bloomed into something new, fueled entirely by teenage hormones and the need to be seen.

Like a door that once opened cannot be shut again, you find yourself more or less always thinking about Eddie.

Attention is the high you crave like nothing else, and you desperately want Eddie’s attention, his undivided, unfiltered, unwavering attention, fixed solely on you.

Selfishly, you want him to be as obsessed with you as you are with him, and it makes you feel like at any moment you’re going to implode on yourself like a dying star.

Your parents would be appalled.

Carol is still talking, and you’re still not listening, because Eddie is still going. And going. And going.

Eddie Eddie Eddie.

Your stomach does a cartoon flip-flop, and you hold a wheezy breath in your lungs when he vaults down from the end of his table furthest from his seat and closest to yours. Your eyes meet as he straightens up, and you avert your gaze immediately, feeling your face flush hot enough that you’re half surprised it doesn’t melt right off of your skull as you shift your focus back over to Carol.

Suddenly, Tommy Hagan is the most interesting person in the world, and you desperately want her to tell you everything about Tommy and Tina and who said what and how embarrassing it was.

You’ve changed your mind. Eddie’s attention is blinding – it makes you feel exposed, like he’s a spotlight shining straight through to your innermost self — your secret self, the one that thinks about him in the wee hours of the morning when sleep eludes you and deft fingers creep their way down your body, edging toward the wanting apex of your spread thighs and slipping past creamy slick barriers to pull soft, lilting breaths from your parted lips as Eddie calls you Sweet Girl … Sweet Girl...Sweet Girl until you’re going hot and cold, body wracked, seizing, and trembling and you have to clamp your jaw shut to stop the sordid sounds of your orgasm from escaping your lips…

Jesus Christ –

No, actually, you’re much more comfortable remaining a wallflower, letting someone else get wrapped up in that undivided, unwavering, fixed-solely-on-you attention.

Better to stand aside for someone made to withstand that kind of heat from someone like Eddie, someone edgy and cool, who gives the middle finger to the world and dresses the part — not some midwestern babysitter from a town no one has ever heard of.

He’s from that town that no one has ever heard of, too, you think watching Carol’s lips move and hearing nothing but your own heartbeat. You’re looking at him again before you’ve even realized your attention has begun to stray – your guts seize, because he’s looking too.

Your heart spasms in your chest and scrambles up into your throat, punching an airy breath out of you and flattening your lungs. Suddenly, you’re winded and desperately trying to catch your breath in a way that you hope is at least subtle.

Fuck.

There’s that blinding light, that feeling of indecent exposure — it’s like looking into the sun, and somehow you can’t bring yourself to look away.

You’re painfully aware of how you’re staring at him again, though this time it is because he has your eyes and he absolutely refuses to let go.

Somehow it doesn’t feel even the slightest bit aggressive, more like an understanding – he sees you.

He sees you.

Eddie Munson sees you, so that means you must be real, right?

You’re blushing, you know you’ve got to be bright crimson — beet red even. You’ve got no idea how Carol hasn’t already clocked your hormonal distress but thank God she’s too busy looking at her nails to look at you.

You dare to steal another glance, and when you do Eddie flashes you a brief, goofy smile, all crooked lips twisted up to one side, the faintest suggestion of teeth poking out. It’s contagious, that smile, and suddenly you feel the corners of your mouth twitching in response, daring you to try to resist.

“Hello? Ground control to Major Tom—”

Carol snaps her perfectly manicured fingers in your face, breaking the spell and bringing the quiet din of the lunchroom rushing back in on you.

It feels like getting swamped at the beach, swept off of your feet by the tide, and rolled in the undercurrent. You have to remind yourself to breathe.

“Are you even listening to me?” She snipes, scrunching her nose in aggravation.

You blink stupidly at her as she comes back into focus, but you don’t answer.

You very clearly hadn’t, and it feels foolish to try and lie about it because Carol loves to remind you that she always knows when you’re lying, and Eddie is still standing there.

You can’t stop yourself from looking, because of course you can’t, and he rewards you with that same big smile when you do. It makes your insides go tight and squirmy, and you have to clench your teeth to keep a straight face.

The change in your demeanor is unfortunately not lost on Carol.

She narrows her eyes, and you feel your heart seize with panic as she slowly begins to turn to see what could possibly be so important to hold your rapt attention. You have to grip the edges of your seat to stop yourself from reaching out across the table and pulling her back to face you.

And when she sees Eddie standing there, you brace yourself for the sky to come crashing down on your head.

Carol physically recoils - dramatically so - like she’s been suddenly doused in ice water.

It takes her a moment to recover, but when she does, she has nothing but vitriol for him, much to your chagrin.

“Take a picture, Freak, it’ll last longer.” She snaps.

Something indiscernible crosses Eddie’s features as his gaze flicks over to her from you and back again. His brows marry in the middle and he pulls a face that is tinged ever so slightly with something that looks a little too much like hurt than you're comfortable with and you’re suddenly possessed with a violent and desperate need to make him understand that you are not with her, despite how stridently untrue that is.

The flash of vulnerability makes your stomach go tight, especially when Carol continues.

“Seriously, what the fuck are you looking at?”

The hurt look is gone before it has time to even settle, and Eddie wrinkles his nose, quirking a disdainful brow as he stares poison daggers down at your friend.

She hates him and he hates her right back — circle of life. All you can do is desperately hope beyond hope that you’re not lumped into that circle by association.

“Nothing,” Eddie drolls, “Just wondering what Bulimia Barbie is doing wandering around without her Ken doll.”

Had she been facing you, you’re sure you would have seen her blanch.

He turns to make the stilted walk back to his seat at the head of his table, electing to take the floor rather than the table top this time.

Eddie gives you one last parting glance, and you pull a face that you hope looks at least halfway as apologetic as it feels.

It was a mean thing to say, if not entirely deserved.

There are a lot of ways to get under Carol’s skin, she’s never been exactly easygoing, but perhaps the quickest way to cut her deep is to do so by mentioning the eating disorder she’s been not-so-privately struggling with since the eighth grade.

She’d been devastated when word of it got out, and thoroughly convinced you were the snitch — you didn’t have the heart to tell her it was Tommy who’d let that information slip. Not that she would have believed you.

Carol makes a harsh sound of indignation in the back of her throat.

“Asshole!” She shouts, then twists back around just in time to see you watching Eddie go. “—and what the fuck are you looking at?” Carol bites.

You snap back to attention and do your best to curl in on yourself.

“Nothing.” You say quickly, only you don’t fool her for a moment.

“…Oh, gross —” she scoffs, “What, are you swapping eyes with the Freak?”

The adrenaline of being caught bursts in your midsection and fires lightning down to the tips of your fingers as she gapes at you, eyes as big as dinner plates and practically bugging out on stalks. She admonishes you with a disappointed utterance of your name, and your cheeks burn with shame.

“I was just being friendly.” You stress, averting your gaze and picking idly at your lunch despite how you’ve since lost your appetite.

“With Eddie Munson? Ugh — gag me!”

The unchecked disdain in her tone doesn’t sit right with you, because it’s not like she’s ever even said two words to Eddie that weren’t hurled as insults, and you can’t help yourself clicking your tongue.

“Oh, he’s not that bad,” you say.

Carol snorts out an undainty sound of disgust.

“He’s a freak.” She says flatly — so you keep saying, you think — “He worships the Devil or whatever — everybody knows that.”

There is nothing you can do to stifle the bitter snort of laughter from bubbling up out of you, a harsh sardonic sound that escapes before you can reign it in.

Carol gives you a hard look, almost like she’s daring you to disagree, and much to your own surprise, you evidently dare.

“No, he doesn’t,” you press, wrinkling your nose in a quiet defiance.

A brief flash of hatred colors her features, and you can’t help but feel that the curtain has been pulled back and you’re suddenly looking at her true self.

Suddenly, Carol is all but shouting at you as her eyes go bright and her skin flushes a blotchy crimson.

“Oh please, like you know any better, Little Miss Babysitter!”

She hurls it at you like a slur and you flinch as the intention strikes you.

You don’t know precisely when Carol became so mean, only that it happened sometime between the transition from seventh to eighth grade, right around the time she’d gotten her first training bra and started to notice how boys were noticing her — right around the time Tommy showed up.

Since that day, everything between the two of you has been a competition that she is determined to win, despite how clearly uninterested you are in participating.

Still, you feel the strangest sense of righteous indignation rising in you – she doesn’t know Eddie, never even bothered to try, and here she is condemning him right alongside everyone else just because it’s what’s currently on trend.

You want to ask her how that’s fair, how she would feel if the shoe were on the other foot, but you swallow the urge as you can suddenly hear the condescending tone of your mother asking you if you’d jump off of a cliff the same as everyone.

Because at the end of the day, you don’t know Eddie any better than she does, not with all your wishing and hoping and fantasizing, and certainly not after the way he’d looked at you at Tina’s party – Sweet Girl…

“Yeah okay, whatever,” You mumble, because there’s no point in arguing with Carol when she gets like this.

Only your submission doesn’t apparently sit right with Carol - her face twists into a displeased scowl as she snatches up the can of coke that is the entirety of her lunch and begins to raise it to her bubblegum pink lips before thinking better of it and setting it back down with a harsh sigh.

You don’t know what’s got her so flustered, or what you did to embarrass her so badly. All you did was smile at Eddie, it’s not like you invited him to come and sit at the table with you.

“Why do you care anyway?” She demands then, clearly not done fighting.

By now, you know the telltale signs of this game: she’s probing for a flaw, something you’re sensitive about that she can pick at until it’s raw and oozing and she feels better for having taken you down a notch.

All she needs is a scrap, something she can run with until it snowballs out of control.

But you won’t give her the satisfaction, not after the way she’d screamed at you so publicly last week.

“I don’t,” You say flatly, sitting up a little straighter.

“Then how come you’re defending him?” She posits.

You cross your arms.

“I’m not.”

“You are though.” She insists, like she’s caught the scent of something, and is trying her best to sniff it out. “You’ve got that stupid look on your face like you’re about to get all self-righteous or something. What’s the deal? Do you like him or something?”

Your heart seizes and suddenly you can feel color bleeding into your cheeks as your armor creaks under the stress of her accusation. How could she possibly know that?

Because she’s your best friend, she knows everything about you…

“No…” you say, though even you are not convinced by the quavering tone of your voice.

Carol stares at you, briefly uncomprehending before it dawns on her, and suddenly her eyes are blazing with malicious delight.

Shit.

“Oh, nasty!” She shouts, then gasps, mouth falling open in scandal, “You do! You totally do!”

“I don’t – I mean, I don’t even know him.” You stammer, kicking yourself for how your resolve has begun to waver.

“Doesn’t mean you’re not into him! Oh, that’s so gross!” Carol sneers, she is loving this all too much, “Oh, my God, look at you – you’re blushing!”

Your hands fly reflexively up to bracket your face, and you hate yourself for the heat you can feel billowing off of you, betraying you.

Carol squeals with malevolent glee and you know you must be sweating for the way she is looking at you, eyes bright, teeth bared, wet, and shining in a hungry grin like a predator getting ready to make a meal out of you.

“Oh-kay, that’s enough.” You say, trying and failing to be firm as you are suddenly unable to keep your voice from shaking as you speak.

She doesn’t hear you – that or she just plain ignores you because she is getting too much of a rise out of your misery.

“Jesus Christ, what are you, like, in love with him?”

“Carol – stop.”

“You are! You totally are!” She cackles, “Jesus Christ, you want to marry him and have a hundred of his freak babies!”

She is practically shouting and you are this close to panicking about it, glancing anxiously across the room to the table where Eddie is sitting with his arms crossed over his chest, talking and laughing with his friends about something.

You have to force yourself to believe that they aren’t laughing at you because there’s no way they could possibly be clued into your conversation with Carol … who has started play-acting that she is you, moaning loud and wantonly.

It's shockingly apropos in the worst possible way, almost like somehow she’d found the time to steal away, slip back into your bedroom where she knows you keep your diary tucked safely beneath your mattress, and read the mad scribblings you’d left smeared across the pages that morning.

“Oh, God–!” She cries, igniting a burst of cold anxiety in the pit of your stomach like a firework going off. “Oh, Eddie! Don’t stop! Right there – Yes! YES! YES!”

You could die. You could literally die.

People have started to look over at you, stare at you, and all of that would almost be fine if it weren’t for the fact that you are currently imploding like that dying star.

You can’t be certain if its a result of your friend’s whorish display or just the nagging feeling of someone staring at him (because if you weren't watching him like a hawk before, you certainly are now) but you watch in horror as Eddie’s attention snaps back over to your table, to you.

Your heart spasms in a bright bolt of panic, and you’re on your feet with a loud squeak of chair legs on linoleum – much louder than anything Carol had just kicked up. If people weren’t staring before, they’re certainly staring now, watching you frantically attempt to gather your things and make a break for it before your brain can catch up with you.

"Seriously? You're leaving?"

“I gotta go,” you say quickly.

“Oh, come on, I was just kidding.” Carol sighs, still sitting there wrought with mean giggles, “Where are you going?”

You can hardly hear her over the blood rushing in your ears. Your heart is hammering so violently against your ribcage that you can barely catch your breath to try and stammer out an excuse.

“I just remembered,” You begin, aimlessly, “I have this… thing I have to do for class, I gotta go work on it.”

You shove the last of your belongings haphazardly into your backpack and slide your lunch tray into the nearest trashcan – the entire tray, hitting the bottom of the bin with a loud thump that has the lunch lady shouting indignantly at you from the other side of the room.

You don’t linger to rectify your mistake or apologize or do anything of the sort, because your frantic attempts to escape the lunchroom have drawn more attention.

One cursory glance reveals to you that, devastatingly, Eddie’s entire lunch table has turned to watch you go.

You nearly stumble over your feet.

“Liar.” Carol shouts after you, “Where are you really going?”

“I’ll see you later!”

You twist at the waist and wave when she calls your name again, and you can’t help but get stuck on the way you notice Eddie leaning back dangerously in his chair, craning his neck back to watch you go in a way that makes your heart seize against your ribs.

His eyes go wide when he sees you looking, and he lurches forward to right himself again, briefly losing his balance and just about toppling out of the chair as he does.

Jesus fucking Christ.

You twist back around and pick up your pace, desperate to get out of there before anyone gets the bright idea to follow you.

You move through the halls without really knowing where you intend to go, but before you realize it, you’re in the gymnasium, stalking across the empty floor to tuck yourself back beneath the bleachers.

It’s not the most covert hiding spot, plenty of people come down here to make out and the braver, hornier couples around campus have been known to steal away and engage in the odd session of heavy petting or dry humping back here where they can get their rocks off more or less removed from prying eyes.

You’ve got no such plans to follow suit, despite the ruined state of your panties, as you scramble to slip out of sight with a gentle squeak of Chucks on clear coat.

Your heart is pounding as you pull your knees up to your chest, face absolutely burning over the way Carol’s stupid play acting has left you slick and throbbing with the memory of your stupid, stupid dream, but you bite the inside of your cheek until it hurts and violently will yourself to get a grip.

You pull your bag into your lap and begin rifling through its haphazard contents, desperately searching for some kind of a distraction – something to take your mind off of the lingering sensation of full lips and scarred fingertips and hot fanning breath – Jesus Christ, get a hold of yourself.

You need your book, you need to lose yourself in thick text, hard science fiction, and worlds and histories and glossaries of outlandish names… only your book is not here.

Your well-loved, annotated copy of Dune, whose cover is hanging on by a thread with how many times it has been bent backward as you pour over the familiar text, whose pages are creased and dog-eared and littered with notes and doodles and all the little lines and themes you never want to forget.

It’s not here, even after you dig and dig and dig, even after you dump your bag on the gymnasium floor and spread all your things out in a neat fan in front of you. Your book is still missing.

Where the hell is your book?

You hardly get the time to stress about it much further than that before the school bell rings with a shrill, metallic clanging cry, startling your brain back into working action and sending you scrambling to shove all your things back into your bag.

You’re almost relieved. You’d been sitting there, just biding your time until Carol eventually sniffed you out and you would have to brace yourself for round two, but your schedules are thankfully far removed from one another.

She’s got Mrs. O’Donnell for fifth period, whose classroom lies mercifully on the other side of the school from your fifth-period chemistry class, and the ringing of the end of lunch bell is a Godsend, solidifying your escape and requisite safety from another bout of humiliation.

Your lab partner is a freshman, Gareth Emerson, who just so happens to be a newer addition to Eddie’s roving gang of minions. Somehow, that is much less terrifying than you’d half expected it to be when you first noticed him in the lunchroom, sitting tucked neatly into the chair at Eddie’s side and hanging on his every word.

It had just been nice to know that you’re not the only one so affected by him.

Still, you’d often wondered how Gareth was lucky enough to win such a coveted spot so early on in his tenure, considering Eddie Munson tends to be a particularly terrifying entity to the newest additions to the Hawkins High student body, but as you’d gotten to know him, you stopped wondering about that.

Gareth’s a sweetheart. He’s nice, funny, and reminds you a lot of your neighbor, Dustin Henderson, if he were a little older and just a little bit cooler, that is. It’s no wonder he’s so quickly found himself at a place of honor at Eddie’s side, how could anyone resist him?

You wish you could hang out with Gareth instead of Carol and the others.

You wish you could sit comfortably at lunch and talk about the things that actually held your interest, that you could make afterschool and weekend plans without a hint of dread, safe in the knowledge that a trip to the movies or to the arcade was simply that, with no ulterior motives or hidden agendas, no fear of being humiliated or abused for the amusement of the people who were supposed to be your friends.

You wish you could be real friends with Gareth, but Gareth hangs out with Eddie, and the thought of joining them at their lunch table is enough to send your insides twisting into acrobatics, so at the end of the day, you just have to settle with the friendship you have, limited to the confines of the classroom.

“Hey,” Gareth says, frowning quizzically at you as you unpack your things and hop up onto the metal stool beside him, “What happened to you at lunch? You looked like you were about to pop.”

Your insides clench with shame.

“You saw that, huh?” You mumble.

“Everybody saw that.” He scoffs, pulling a face.

Everybody. The word clangs around your ribs and you have to blink back the image of Eddie leaning so far back in his chair, watching you run from the lunchroom. Literally run, like some kind of scared little kid fleeing the monster that lives under their bed.

Great.

“What does she think you did this time? Sell her firstborn child for concert tickets or something?”

You sigh, slumping forward to prop your head up on your elbow and level Gareth with an unimpressed look.

“Nothing – I don’t want to talk about it.”

He takes the hint and offers you his hands in a show of surrender before turning back to the blackboard, where Mr. Kapz has stepped up and begun scribbling formulas with a hard squeak of chalk.

You watch without really seeing, trying to keep your mind from drifting too far with all your classmates sitting around you.

There is a cold lump in the pit of your stomach as a hundred different things whisk around your mind, all fighting tooth and nail for the limited real estate left in your brain with so much of Eddie stuffed up in there.

It’s always like that though, and it leaves you feeling particularly pathetic, thinking about yourself, sitting beneath the bleachers on your own, like the loser you are, hiding from your friends, wishing things were different, wishing you could be the person they wanted you to be, wishing you could be free of them.

You suck greedily on a sharp intake of air and shake your head to dislodge that line of thinking before it can take root and pivot to a much more pressing matter, for the sake of your own self-preservation.

“Hey, weird question,” You start, tilting your head down toward your shoulder and speaking in a loud whisper, “But have you seen my copy of Dune?”

Gareth’s brows are pulled tight over his eyes when you glance at him, and you are quick to elaborate,

“It’s all beat up and annotated…?”

“Yeah, no— I mean, sure I’ve seen it—”

You hardly let him finish.

“That’s great! Where is it?”

“...Eddie’s got it.”

It hits you like a fist to the gut, punching your lungs flat and forcing the air out. Your heart thumps a heavy beat like it always does when someone mentions Eddie and you feel your tongue go fat in your mouth.

“Ed-Eddie Munson?” You splutter, voice an embarrassing octave higher than normal, and barely manage to get the sound out over the way your throat is closing up.

You can feel your cheeks heating just from the sordid act of speaking his name aloud.

If Gareth takes any sort of hint from your bizarre reaction, he doesn’t let on.

“Yeah.” He says.

You blink back at him, waiting for him to elaborate and feeling your chest go tight when he doesn’t.

“…Why does he have my book?”

“He said you left it in the parking lot after you dumped your stuff last week—”

Oh, right…

In the wake of everything else that happened that day, you’d almost completely forgotten about that…

You’d been running late for school, having spectacularly slept through your alarm and been so rudely awakened by the thunderous hammering of two little fists, doing their best to bang down your bedroom door – Dustin, shouting at you to get your ass up out of bed.

You’d forgotten you were supposed to be carpooling that morning, and you're sure you must have broken some kind of a land speed record with how you burnt rubber to get the both of you to school on time. Gas pedal to the floor, you made the distance in five minutes flat.

You’d been too caught up in your sudden prospective future as a Formula One driver to notice how you were headed for disaster, jogging across the parking lot and trying to stuff your Walkman into your backpack as a wall of denim, patches, and studs stumbled haphazardly out of the open door of a semi-shitty beat-up panel van and directly into your path.

You barely had time to look up, let alone pivot to try and avoid the sudden six-foot obstacle before you, so naturally you collided, shoulder checking broad, leather-clad shoulder and knocking you sideways.

You managed to keep your feet and even catch your Walkman with an incredible feat of feline grace, but it came at the expense of your bag, which went tumbling topsy turvy, upchucking its contents all over the pavement at your feet.

Fantastic.

They stepped into your path, whoever they were, they crashed into you, but you still stammered out an apology, because how could they have been expected to look out for you when you’re running around under a cloak of invisibility.

Then, you dropped to your knees in an attempt to catch your pens and pencils before they could roll away. You fully expected to be ignored, to watch whoever it was that had just knocked your shit into the dirt skip off to class like you didn’t even exist, but when you looked up, there was Eddie Munson, crouched on the asphalt right alongside you with his head bowed toward yours, stacking your books and muttering his own apology.

It just about damn near knocked the wind out of you, suddenly finding yourself so close to him again after spending so long quietly yearning for his proximity.

You couldn’t help but breathe deep, trying to get a sense of him, refresh the waning memory you clung to – he still smelled the way you remember, like camels and spearmint gum standing out over the notes of whatever cheap cologne he’d obviously dusted himself in, and Old Spice.

It made your mouth water, and then go completely dry when he looked up at you, turning that honey-warm gaze on you and bathing you in his spotlight.

You weren’t invisible anymore, you were blushing, and you’d missed whatever it was he’d said to you – fuck.

You weren’t listening, you were staring into his eyes, at the faint dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose, at the plush spread of his lips, and the pink tip of his tongue darting out to swipe a slick sheen of moisture across them.

Somewhere, distantly, you could hear your Walkman still playing, Ann Wilson imploring you to get a little more lost in him than is rightly wise…

Oh, he’s a magic man, Mama…

And he was waiting for you to answer him.

Fuck. What the fuck did he just say?

“My fault…" Eddie mumbled thickly, "Didn’t see you there,”

Oh, thank God for that.

“Oh – God, are you kidding? It happens all the time.” You scoffed, dismissing the notion with a flippant wave.

It was almost a cool, collected thing to say, but then you just kept talking,

“Like. Way more than you would think,”

And talking.

“It’s actually kind of ridiculous how often people bump into me like that–”

And talking,

“Honestly, at this point, I feel like I should start wearing a bell.”

Shut up shut up shut up already! You screamed at yourself, but before you could well and truly condemn yourself for being such a goddamn awkward weirdo, Eddie’s face twisted up in amusement and he laughed out loud.

A little too loud for something that wasn’t even halfway to being a joke – he was obviously high, the whites of his eyes were tinged an angry swollen pink, hooded and nearly closed as he peered over at you with his face split up in that crooked smile of his, but it was still so wildly endearing you couldn’t help but giggle yourself.

You can’t believe you’d nearly forgotten that, that wonderful almost perfect moment of brushing fingers and traded looks and semi-meaningful silences.

If you really think about it, it makes perfect sense that he has your book. You haven’t seen your book since that day, haven’t even thought about it. It had been all but washed away under the bell clanging effect of what happened later that morning between classes, with Carol jumping down your throat and Eddie riding in to pull you out of her line of fire.

Good God! He shouts in your memory, and you can’t help but agree with him.

“Didn’t he give it back to you?” Gareth asks, brows marrying over his eyes.

You give your lab partner an incredulous look because never mind how this new information is ever so subtly breaking your brain, but why on Earth would you be asking after your copy of Dune if Eddie had already given it back to you?

The lack of logic there seems to dawn on Gareth just a tad too late to save face.

“Guess not, never mind,” he hums, twisting back in his seat to face the blackboard.

You sit, staring at nothing in particular as you try and fail to wrap your head around the concept of Eddie Munson carrying around your book.

There’s something incredibly personal about an annotated book, and you can’t decide if you ought to be embarrassed about that, hoping that he didn’t stop to take the time to read any of the inane things you’d written there.

Suddenly you’re wracking your brain to try and remember if you’d gone and scribbled anything too incriminating in the margins, whether you’d absently scribbled out a dopey “Mrs. – Munson” alongside all your little love notes to Paul Atreides. You imagine it written out in loopy script, replete with doodles of hearts and clouds and all the stupid cupid bullshit that is typically kept strictly within the pages of your diary.

You’re suddenly burning with hot, whorish shame as you think back to the pages you’d frantically scribbled on in the aftermath of the wet dream you’d woken from that morning, fingers trembling as you fought to get it down on paper before the vivid images and sensations slipped from your grasp and left you with nothing more than faint memories of calloused hands and full lips, burning your skin with the suggestion of phantom touches.

Yeah, you’re going to have to go back and revisit that when you get home this afternoon, thank God you’re not babysitting tonight.

You realize after a moment that in staring off into space, trying simultaneously to banish the feeling and relieve it, that you’ve actually been sitting, staring at Gareth, watching him wrestle with something like he’s trying to decide whether or not to let more information slip.

Truly, you’re not sure how much more truth you can stomach here in fifth period chemistry, sitting perched on your metal stool and trying oh-so-subtly to shift over to the edge and give yourself a little relief from the way that your heart is throbbing in your panties again.

Your guts seize like you’ve been caught red handed when Gareth twists back around to face you and ducks his head conspiratorially.

For lack of anything better to do, you mirror his movements and hope beyond hope that, if you’re blushing, he doesn’t notice.

“Okay, so…” he begins softly, “You didn’t hear it from me, but... he likes you,”

You do your best not to react as your heart leaps into your throat – you don’t dare to hope to know who he means.

“Who does?” You ask, playing dumb for the sake of your poor, nervous heart, because what if you’re wrong?

You’re probably wrong.

“Eddie does.”

Then again, maybe not… oh, shit.

Gareth continues.

“Like… a lot.”

OH SHIT.

Oh shit oh fuck oh sHIT be cool be cool be fucking cool!

It takes every fiber of your limited willpower not to react, because honestly, you could scream. This is what it feels like to have your wildest dreams come true.

Eddie Munson likes you, Gareth said, like a lot, he said.

Maybe it’s just the wrecked state you’ve been existing in from the moment you snapped into consciousness that morning, but suddenly you’re desperate, giddy, feeling the hard push of the urge to run and go find Eddie.

Find him and seize him by the shoulders and shake him and scream and shout and cheer and... and and and... and do what?

Confess your feelings?

Make some sort of grand declaration then drag him off somewhere to hop on his dick?

That’s what your ovaries are currently imploring you to do. Finally do something about that goddamn virginity of yours so Carol will climb down out of your ass.

But that’s ridiculous, right? And not at all practical, fantasizing about running off and trying to consummate what, as far as you can tell, is only a rumor before it can slip from your grasp.

Where would you even go?

Under the bleachers, where the braver, hornier couples go to rub up against each other and get their rocks off.

No, no that’s stupid… and yet?

You’ve heard the talk about Eddie, how he’s supposed to be easy or something — some part of you is pretty sure he’d be game to take you out to the back of his van if you went over and asked him nicely... just ask him nicely to lift your skirt and help you out with that pesky little virginal problem of yours, Christ, how embarrassing.

He’d probably laugh in your face if you did. How do you know for sure that he even really likes you? What makes you think that there’s even the slightest chance that your stupid crush on him could ever be reciprocated?

You’re not a real person, remember? You don’t put out because you don’t exist.

No, Eddie doesn’t like you, you decide in an instant, how could he? He doesn’t even know you.

Gareth is wrong, and worse still, he’s teasing you – he has to be. It is, after all, the opening line to the oldest joke in the Hawkins High popular kid book: so, Eddie Munson wants to take you to prom…what do you do?

It makes your chest hurt, and you have to pull your lips into a tight line to keep them from wobbling.

Ha-ha, real funny joke, tease the loser virgin for the big stupid crush she has on the local Freak.

“That’s mean, Gareth.” You say quietly.

“What is?”

You shake your head because you almost can’t bear to say it.

“Teasing like that. That’s not nice...”

He gives you a horrified look, like you’ve suddenly got bugs crawling out of your ears.

“What? No, Dude, it’s not like that at all!” Gareth stresses, “I promise I’m being so serious right now. Eddie likes you. He really likes you.”

It feels risky, but you can’t help yourself. Gareth’s a sweetheart, why would he lie to you?

“…Really?” You ask, ever so slightly embarrassed at how small and hopeful your voice suddenly sounds and trying so, so hard to play it cool.

“Yes… and it’s super goddamn annoying — no offense,”

You shake your head, because in the absence of the ability to form rational thought you rely on deep-seeded pleasantries.

“Oh, no, of course.” You say, “None taken … I think.”

You suddenly can’t make your brain work, it just sits there like a fat grey lumpy pile of worms in your skull. Part of you is suddenly so sure that you can smell the smoke wafting up off of it as it overheats in your attempt to jumpstart it again.

Eddie likes you. This is all really happening.

It takes you a moment too long to realize that Gareth is still talking, and a moment even longer to clue yourself back in to what he’s saying.

“— he’s been going around in circles trying to work up the courage to talk to you, but he’s chicken shit, so he won’t do it unless he has some bullshit excuse to make it all casual — giving you your book back was supposed to be his excuse, but that was clearly a bust,”

And then, “Also, he basically threatened to kill me if I said anything so just do me a favor and be cool, alright? Pretend I didn’t say anything.”

“…So why tell me?” you ask, almost startled by the sound of your own voice and how far away it sounds.

You’re having an out-of-body experience, that’s what this has got to be, sitting there, floating, watching yourself have this conversation with Gareth.

Eddie Munson has your book, Eddie Munson stood up for you, Eddie Munson likes you...

“Because he freaked when he found out we were lab partners and he’s being a huge creep pressing me for information about you, like he expects me to spy on you or something... Anyway, I figured with how fucking weird he always acts around you that you probably already knew.”

You shake your head and hope to God the movement doesn’t cause your eyeballs to fall out of your sockets. You can’t remember if you’ve blinked over the course of the last five minutes.

“I didn’t.” You squeak.

His eyes go wide and you watch the color drain from his face.

“Oh. Shit,” He says, “— well, like I said, you didn’t hear it from me.”

You didn’t hear it from anybody. As far as you’re concerned, this conversation isn’t actually happening. Any moment now you’re going to snap out of whatever fugue state you’ve obviously just slipped into, and you’re going to find that this is all a dream – only your thigh is going raw from where you’ve been subtly pinching yourself.

Still, you still don’t completely believe Gareth isn’t teasing you – this feels like dangerous ground and suddenly your guts are churning because you don’t know what to do with this information.

You don’t know how to make yourself understand that the one person who has always been wholly off-limits to you could suddenly be within your grasp.

Possibility makes you ravenous and you have to fight to resist the urge to seize Gareth by the front of his torn flannel shirt and shake him, demanding more more more, that he tell you everything there is to know about Eddie and everything he’s ever said about you among the safety of friends.

With a sharp pang, you realize that you’re suddenly violently jealous about the confidence he has to freely speak about the objects of his affections – evidently, you.

The thought has warmth bleeding through your abdomen and filling up your chest cavity. You’re floating again, and you’re suddenly so, wickedly pleased.

Carol would shit her pants if she found out.

The rest of class comes and goes without incident, and you don’t hear a word of the lesson.

You’re far too busy fantasizing about all your wildest dreams coming true, planning your future with Eddie, picturing your wedding and your first home together, growing old together, and all the road trips and holidays and milestones you’ll hit in between.

By the last twenty minutes of the lesson, you’re even toying with naming your children.

You’re disgusting and pathetic and so far gone for him in such a stupid, irresponsible way. Only there’s one tiny little obstacle standing in the way of all of that.

Gareth says he’s not brave enough to talk to you, not without good reason, which is so painfully endearing, but a real problem because that makes two of you – you can barely even look at Eddie, let alone fathom trying to strike up a conversation.

So, therein lies the problem. How on Earth are you supposed to marry him and have a hundred of his babies, as Carol had so eloquently put it, if neither of you can manage to buck up the courage to have a normal conversation?

The bell is ringing before you can decide how to become a human being again, you’re still more cloud than girl when you catch Gareth as he begins packing up.

“Listen, tell Eddie…” You start, feeling suddenly too shy to have his name in your mouth – it feels heavy on your tongue, forbidden, and you chicken out, “Tell him… that I don’t bite. If he wants to talk to me … then he should just come talk to me, right?”

Gareth rolls his eyes,

“I told him that, like, a hundred times… but I’ll tell him again. I’ll say you said so this time.”

The promise pleases you immensely, only there is one glaring issue with that plan. He was never meant to tell you how Eddie supposedly feels about you. You’re not supposed to know he likes you.

You bite your lip and feel your brows creep toward one another, forming a deep crease of worry between them.

“Is that gonna get you in trouble?” You ask.

Gareth opens his mouth to speak, then snaps it shut again as the words fail to come, like he too had very conveniently forgotten that the information he’d just passed to you was decidedly not for you.

He hums thoughtfully, brows furrowed, and face pulled tight into a mask of displeased concentration.

What to do, what to do.

Finally, after a moment that feels like eternity, one you spend fidgeting with your fingers twisting them to the point of pain, holding a breath in your lungs almost like you’re afraid if you breathe he’ll take it all back.

Gareth shrugs.

“...well, I don’t see why he needs to know that I’m the one who told you… people talk.”

Truer words have never been spoken.

A hundred years and a short lifetime ago, you and Carol spent an evening trading secrets and the deepest desires of your heart, and you jumped up and down on her springy mattress, screaming along to the Go-Go's and promising one another that, just like the song said, your lips were sealed.

You can’t help but wonder if she ever really meant it, if she would have laughed and recoiled and teased you mercilessly if you trusted her with your secret feelings about Eddie Munson. Only you had made the same decision and elected not to tell her even back then, even when your secrets were still safe with her.

Can you hear them? They talk about us, telling lies, well, that’s no surprise.

People talk, Gareth said.

“They certainly do.” You hum, shouldering your bag and following him out the door.

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x you #eddie munson imagine #joseph quinn eddie munson #stranger things fic #endless summer fic #cruel summer prequel

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birdsareblooming · 2 years

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shadow is like "I think it's time we head back to headquarters" and "headquarters" is rouge's shitty apartment over her club that you can constantly hear music from the floor from the club below its fulled with rouge's random stolen gems and a bunch of boxes of random shit because shadow took her storage room as his bedroom and kicked the boxes out and there's a singular walk-in closet that omega has taken as his base that he just stands in until he can commit manslaughter and there's a giant ping-pong table in their tiny hallway that rouge flies over and shadow literally teleports past because it's impossible to get past it but they can't get rid of it because that would be one of them admitting defeat. their kitchen is tiny and there's a big lesbian flag that lets people know where rouge's room is and whenever shadow is there he's blasting mcr from rouge's storage room his room and there's a giant tube pod thing he stole from the ark that he haphazardly shoved in there because he needs his warm soothing nutrience also because most of the time he's there is because he stayed up for a month straight and passed out on the floor in front of their 4-inch screen tv that's playing shitty romances that rouge makes fun of while the fruit for shadow's chao named Troy Pump 223 AR-15 is spilled all over the floor because they like to knock things over and bite rouge's gems she leaves everywhere and sometimes shadow parks his motorcycle on top of the ping-pong table and sometimes they play ping pong with guns sometimes while the motorcycle is there. omega breaks windows and their coffee machine daily also shadow eats beans right from the coffee machine so those are all over the floor and Troy Pump 223 AR-15 gets into them sometimes and breaks more things and it's impossible to move sometimes and impossible to hear sometimes but they love it. it's "headquarters" if anyone makes fun of it they get shot point blank

#team dark

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rookthorne · 7 months

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⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐨𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬

Bessie and Bubba, the centrepieces to your masterful plan, enjoyed the limelight and the pampering of your affections and attention on any normal day.

Though, this once, it seemed the two of them sensed the importance of this singular occasion, and they were determined to give you a run for your money.

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 ☼ Farmer!Husband!Bucky Barnes x Wife!F!Reader

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 ☼ 1.2k

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 ☼ Tooth rotting fluff

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆 ☼ Proceed with caution, there are so many puns in this.

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒆𝒗��𝒏𝒕 ☼ @rookthorne's Fright Night — Masterlist

𝐏𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬 '𝐧 𝐂𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦 𝐑𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐡 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Fall had arrived with the promise of a bountiful harvest; the crop of pumpkins and the rest of the gourds that grew on your farm had boomed. As a result, the crates for the Halloween fair lined the side of your barn, overflowing with the produce.

It wasn’t even the end of the season, either.

The peacefulness of the farm that morning was a blessing. If only you forwent thinking of the racket you were making. You huffed and puffed as you ran around the small, fenced pen and shelter of the yard connected to the barn. “C’mere, babies. Come on,” you cooed.

Naturally, speaking softly and bribing your targets didn't work.

Shepherding the calves, you found out, was considerably harder without the help of Mac, or Lilo, and if you added in the hindrance of the costumes slung over your arm, you had your work cut out for you.

Though, it didn’t dampen your spooky spirit. “You two, I swear,” you groaned, frustrated and at your wits end with the two calves. It was as though they took this for a game, having been raised more with the dogs than their species, and any game of chase was bound to rile them up beyond excitement.

Hooves bounced all through the dirt and grunts of exertion left the little creatures as they ran laps around you. You watched them go, praying that somehow they would burn the energy away. “You both are made of beans. They swapped you at birth,” you muttered, shaking your head as Bessie headbutted Bubba, who gave an almighty bellow of indignation. “Drama queens.”

It was a few moments of patiently waiting as they bounded and called their excitement to the heavens, when they finally, finally slowed down. They heaved for air as they approached you, their ears twitching madly back and forth to take in all of the sounds of the farm.

In the distance you could hear Bucky yelling to the dogs, their commands a recognisable and authoritative call, and you could hear Colton blowing and whinnying as he worked.

The two were a golden trio, and just this once, you wished you could pull your husband away from his job to help you with your venture.

“No, this is a surprise,” you reminded yourself, putting a hand on your hip. The calves nosed at your palm and you allowed them to sniff the fabric of the costumes you had made especially for them. “Are you guys ready to surprise your dad? Yeah?” They lowed and headbutted your thighs. “Alright. That’s a yes. Come here, you little rascals.”

Fighting the calves to fit their costumes turned out easier than wrangling them to be calm. The two creatures sniffed and huffed at the fabric as you offered it to them, but otherwise, they were quite uninterested. The white sheets of their ghost costumes fell to their hocks, while the holes for their muzzles and eyes sat comfortably – just as you hoped.

It was only when you had offered them the accompanying accessory of jack-o-lantern buckets did they become wholeheartedly for your plan – having thought ahead, you had brushed fruit juice and a bit of jam over the handles, the part they would hold in their mouths and they took to it like a dog to a bone.

You could hear their suckling as you walked them towards the farmhouse. “You guys are so cute.” The costumes blew in the slight breeze, and they tottered happily along behind you, content to suck on what they believed was a sweet treat. “Buck’s gonna love this.”

When you rounded the barn, you could see Colton walking towards the porch with Bucky on his back. You took just a second to look him over – sweat had plastered the loose strands of hair to his neck and forehead, and the plaid jacket he had left the house wearing was tucked into Colton’s saddle bag. A rope, neatly circled, hung off the saddle horn. “Easy, easy, boy,” Bucky soothed, pulling Colton to a stop at the porch fence.

It was time.

Your boots crunched over the gravel of the driveway, when Bucky looked up. “Hey, angel, what’re you-” He stopped, slack jawed. “What in the hell have you done?” The sound of his boots on the gravel after he dismounted made you pause, and the calves stopped either side of you, still suckling on the handles.

“We have some boo-vines, Buck!” you called cheerily, grinning down at the two calves with pride. “They’re here to bring some Moo-licious frights to the farm–don’t you think?”

Bucky stood there, eyes staring into your face with a brow raised. “You think you’re real fuckin’ funny, don’t you?”

“Well, yeah.” Your hands brushed over the soft fabric that covered the calves’ heads. “They’re the best boo-moos this side of the county.”

“They’re what, Peach?” Bucky blinked.

You rolled your eyes. “You heard me, you jerk! Now laugh, ‘cause this is hilarious.”

Bucky knelt down onto the gravel, steadying himself with his hands. “Oh, Bessie, Bubba, what has mama done to you?” The two calves trotted forward, excited to see their dad down on their level. “Torturin’ you for fun–she ain’t so nice, huh?” You opened your mouth to interject when he said, almost too casually, “But, you two are damn fuckin’ cute, jus’ look at you.”

Warmth bloomed in your chest at his praise, and you watched him scratch the cheeks of the calves who dropped the jack-o-lanterns in favour of more pets. He looked up at you from his spot on the ground, brow arched. “You better not be thinkin’ about doin’ this to the horses. They’ve got plenty’a work to do still.”

“Me?” you asked innocently.

“Yeah, you, Peach.” Bucky groaned as he got to his feet and looked over his shoulder at Colton. “I know he’s sweet on you, so he wouldn’t complain.”

You shrugged. “It's not my fault he prefers me.”

“Whatever,” Bucky sighed, and he shook his head. “I know I can’t stop you–lil’ miss stubborn.”

“It’s why you married me.” You kissed his cheek and followed the calves, who had both wandered over to Colton. “Let’s go, babies, we have mischief to get into.”

Behind your back, you didn’t see how fast Bucky had whipped his phone from his pocket to take a photo of you walking away, a calf either side of you as you looked down with the biggest smile. Nor did you see the way Bucky’s own eyes welled up with tears of adoration, or the way that became his new lockscreen.

When the day had started to wind down and all of the animals were tucked into their stalls for the night, you made your way back to the farmhouse, basket of small butternut pumpkins under your arm, you found Bucky sitting on the porch step with a small knife in hand.

“What are you up to, babe?”

Bucky looked up and his face lit up. “Jus’ who I was waitin’ for.” He reached behind his back, only to pull out a large pumpkin, then a second, and stacked them at his feet. “I think it’s time we had some spooky fun.”

You stared from Bucky to the pumpkin, gaze flickering between the two, before it clicked within your mind what he meant. “Yes!” you squealed, and you ran forward, placing the basket by the step as you sat next to him.

For the next hour, you sat with Bucky and carved a design into the side of the pumpkin, contentedly enjoying the absolute favourite fall activity.

⠈⠂⠄ 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱 | 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 | 𝐚𝐨𝟑 ⠄⠂⠁

⠈⠂⠄𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 ⠄⠂⠁

#bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x f!reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x female reader #bucky x f!reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes oneshot #bucky barnes fluff #rookthorne's works

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why-the-heck-not · 25 days

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Top 5 "study breaks" aka. What you like to do in between study sessions?

thanks for asking :3

Make a real nice cup of coffee while listening to music. Like the long way of making a singular cup (aeropress usually, sometimes double espresso) & grinding the beans and all that (bc usually when I get lazy/stressed I just get instant coffee, and be bitter with my equally bitter coffee)

Go outside with literally any excuse I can come up with. The most refreshing, but the kicker is that this can sometime stretch into a real long one bc of my tendency to just keep walking for like 1.5h, even tho the plan was to just go to the store real quick

Skincare/makeup/shower. Only works during mornings/evenings tho (bc feels weird to idk shower in the middle of the day) but it's the refresh thing again

Cook a meal while listening to music/podcast. But like it doesn't work if I'm just like making a sandwich. Has to be something with like chopping & actual cooking etc. to get that chill thing going on. Otherwise it's just a rushed stressed lunch

A Nap. Very 50/50 with this one. Could end up with u feeling like a new person, or like u woke up in the apocalypse. Those are the only 2 result options, and the apocalypse wins way more than it should. So it's a proceed with caution with this one

#asks #april 2024 #2024

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