#please tell me if i should tag any other triggers | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

Visit Blog

Explore Tumblr blogs with no restrictions, modern design and the best experience.

Fun Fact

The “We are the 99%” Tumblr blog became the slogan for the Occupy Wall Street movement.

#please tell me if i should tag any other triggers

lucyandthepen · 8 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.”

4K notes · View notes

monzabee · 1 year

Text

two sides of the same coin - mv1

masterlist

Summary: The one where you try to convince yourself that you’re not falling for your teammate, but can’t help it when you realise that he is not that different from you after all.

Pairing: max verstappen x reader

Word Count: 3.4k

Warnings: cursing, mommy issues (same), daddy issues, ISSUES OKAY, ISSUES, EVERYBODY HAS ISSUES, J*s Verstappen (yikes), allusions to eating disorders, a singular mention of divorce babe divorce, angst (why am i writing so much angst), daniel ricciardo being the best older grid-brother there is, slight frenemies to lovers if your squint, i don’t really like horner but he’s like the only father figure max ever had so he’s a good guy in this one.

Request: “teammates to lovers with max please!❣️”

Author’s Note: hi, hey, hello!! i did NOT expect to get this out today, but there you go! it was so much fun to write and honestly, i might slowly becoming a max girl (sorry carlos). anyway, please check the warning tags if you haven’t already, because there might be some possibly triggering content. thank you, anon, for the request, i hope you guys enjoy! good morning, noon or night wherever you are, xoxobee

Please also note that all of my works are protected under copyright, and not available for reposting on other platforms.

2018

“Do you have to leave?” You ask the Australian in front of you who, coincidentally, is kneeled on the floor and in the middle of packing his bag. “Can’t you just… I don’t know, stay?”

“Come on, cheer up.” He says, “You’re supposed to be happy that I’m changing teams, Y/N.”

You scoff, dropping yourself to lay down and bending your knees to rest your feet on the couch. “I don’t have to be happy about anything.” You throw the tennis ball in your hand towards the wall, catching it and doing it all over again in a pattern in which you know is going to make Daniel mad.

“Any other potential driver would be happy about this, Horner already told you the seat would be yours. So, there is no reason why you shouldn’t feel happy about this.”

“Well, I still don’t.” You huff, turning your head towards the man jokingly glaring at you.

He laughs, gives you a look and returns to his task while shaking his head slightly. “You’re a very weird girl, Y/N.”

“Wow, Daniel. That’s brand-new information.” A third voice interrupts your discussion from the door. It’s Max leaning against the frame with his arms crossed across his chest. You halt the movement of your hands to send him a scathing look.

You roll your eyes, mumbling something along the lines of “No one asked you,” under your breath.

“Play nice, Max Emilian.” Daniel mumbles, making the Dutch groan and you laugh. “Fuck, how did I pack this in the first place?”

“You wouldn’t have this issue if you didn’t get too comfortable in your driver’s room, Danny.” You offer, raising yourself on your elbows to get a better look at the already bursting luggage. “You still have a ton of stuff at the hotel, too.”

“Maybe you should just stop living like a slob.” Max offers this time, making both you and Daniel to glare at him. “Jesus, tough room.”

“You should become a comedian,” you tell him with a voice dripping with sarcasm, “Max Emilian.”

He straightens his posture quickly, “You know what, Y/N–”

“Calm down, children.” Daniel sighs and giving you both the look. “You two need to get along now that I’m not going to be there to stop some kind of childish feud–”

“It’s not childish–” You argue at the same time Max complains, “She pushed me off the track!”

You furiously get up from your place on the couch and walk towards him with an accusatory finger extended towards him. “It wasn’t me, you dickhead, it was Charles! And it was an accident!”

“I don’t care,” He contends, “You were helping him push me off the track.” He shakes his head while mumbling, “Incident, inchident, as if I’m stupid.”

“Why would I help him when I was racing against both of you, Max?”

“I don’t know,” He shrugs, a devilish smirk on his lips. “Maybe you had a crush on him.”

“I- I did not!” Your shout is high pitched, you gasp and start to follow him with enraged steps when he walks out of the room. “You get back right here, Max, you insufferable twat!”

Daniel is left with an empty room and a luggage which is about to explode. “They’ll be fine,” he announces, mostly to himself but also at the poor intern who watches the corridor you’re both walking down in while continue your very loud fight. “Do you think you can get me another luggage?”

2019

It’s not like you hate Max, you don’t hate him at all. In fact, he’s gone out of his way to make you feel comfortable from your change in role from a reserve driver to the second driver at Red Bull. Looking back, you can now say that everything happened so quickly. One day, you were the reserve driver for Aston Martin Red Bull Formula One team, and the next day, Christian Horner invited you to his office to offer you an opportunity of a lifetime. Having a reserve driver who was a woman had already had the team under a large microscope – some calling it a step in the right direction whilst others arguing that it was nothing more than a PR move to gain sympathy. You tried telling your team principle your concerns about the media but he assured you that all will be dealt with and all you would need to do is drive a good race.

So, you left the office with a renewed, and rewritten, contract and never looked back. After that, it was a whirlwind of media duties (both due to your ‘promotion’ and Daniel’s departure), photoshoots, and much more. Your trusted Apple Watch was replaced with a Tag Heuer one, which left you terrified of losing it. But Horner assured you that they’d deal with it – “Should you ever lose the watch, but try not to because it costs a lot of money, okay?” Max was with you in every step of the way, even though his father clearly unapproved of your pseudo-friendship. You sometimes think the only reason the two of you ever became friends is due to the fact that it was forced upon you due to you being teammates, but Max proves this to be wrong every time he brings you coffee in morning briefings because; “I don’t want for them to repeat it and extend the meeting because you’re sleepy,” or when he checks up on you before a race in a particular track he knows you’re anxious about; “Just making sure you’re calmed down so you don’t accidentally hit me,” or how he comforts you after every fight you have with your mother.

Which brings us to another topic – your mother. You suppose what J.D Salinger said was true – Mothers are all slightly insane. And you are allowed to say that, because yours takes the term ‘dance mom’ to a whole other level. You thought since Daniel convinced your mother that he’d take care of you, she’d stay away, but she became very interested in your career as a racing driver. You’d hoped that wouldn’t be the case, but your dreams are crushed like your car when she shows up in your first race. You two have a very public fight, which Christian has to break up for both of your sakes, leaving you to lock yourself in your driver’s room for the remainder of the race. It’s only when your door is knocked you realise the race is over. You’re about to yell back against the persistent knocks that you want to be left alone when you hear his voice.

You get up and open to door to let Max in, only to find yourself crashing in his arms on the couch, sobbing through his calming words. “It’s going to be fine,” he says and somehow you realise maybe the two of you aren’t so different.

2020

Between the pandemic and the new regulations, the 2020 season rocks your world – in a totally not cool way. The paddock buzzes with the health restrictions, everyone wanting to keep their drivers and staff safe. The stress from the unknown which comes from the fact that you’re in a freaking pandemic and that fact that your mother and Helmut Marko is enough to keep you on the edge throughout the whole season. The fights with your mother now more prominent than ever, you’re fairly sure that the poor people who are supposed to be doing their jobs can’t even do that because the fight seems to continue wherever you go. One day it’s about the fact that you couldn’t get a podium, the next time it’s because of the fact that you were third, you didn’t push enough, you pushed too hard, you didn’t use enough throttle, and the list goes on. You can feel the light in you fading with every fight, and the criticising jabs being masked as ‘little comments’, you’re just glad that you’re getting through the season without wanting to explode.

It's between practice sessions when you sit down for lunch with your mother. You both order your food – her a salad, and you a sandwich. After the waiter leaves, your mother lets out an unsatisfied hum.

“What’s wrong, mom?” You ask, trying to keep your voice and facial expression calm.

“Wouldn’t it be better if you ate something healthier?” She asks, her voice condescending in every way you absolutely hate. “It would save your engineers a whole lot of work.”

You sigh, turning your attention to your phone in your hands to appear busy. “The world isn’t going to end if I eat two slices of bread for lunch, mom.” You mumble.

“It doesn’t mean you shouldn’t maintain healthier habits, I heard of this new diet–”

“I think she said she’d prefer the sandwich, Ms. Y/LN.” A voice interrupts, the one which you’ve become accustomed with. When you raise your head up, Max meets your eyes with an expectant look. “I’m sorry to keep your lunch short, but Christian said he wanted to meet us.”

And with that, he quickly whisks you away from your mother. You’re confused when he leads you to his driver’s room instead of Christian’s office. You look at him with raised eyebrows, “I thought we were meeting Christian.”

“Well, I might’ve lied.” He shrugs. Then, he moves towards the serving plate on the little table and motions you to sit. You’re even more surprised to find the sandwich you’ve ordered on the plate. He must’ve anticipated this because he explains it as he offers you the plate. “I was sitting a few tables over and heard you order it, now eat.”

“Thanks, Max.” You whisper with a breathy voice.

“It’s going to be fine.” He whispers back, making sure you eat every bite.

2021

Everything is much more tense this season. Although the go through the races is podium finishes and points (and even a few wins), you realise Max is more on edge than you are. This also puts you in a slight state of panic, as he’s been the one better at keeping the cool between the two of you, but you manage to put your own insecurities aside to help your friend who’s done the same for you for the past two years. It starts with encouraging words and continues with comforting touches which evolve into hands lingering around after hugs. It becomes stolen looks across the rooms or group interviews where they separated the two of you. It later becomes holding each other’s hands under the tables during function and award shows and even holding each other in the comfort of your respective driver’s or hotel rooms.

Max brings home a win in Monaco, while you steal the first place from Seb in Azerbaijan. He’s not bitter about it, in fact he congratulates you and doses you in so much champagne you have to take two showers to get the stickiness off your hair when you get back to your hotel room. While the season seems to be going for you from the race perspective, you realise Max is starting to have more problems with his father. You try your best when it comes to reassuring him, but both you and Max realise that you’re more open to being comforted than him. So, you provide the silence he craves and he eventually lets you know that he is ready for your cuddles. It’s a sad but a good routine.

There’s one incident with an interview during the season. The tensions are high and people are starting to question your ability as a driver more now that you are bringing home podiums and wins. They are sceptical about the fact that you are a woman and question your every move and achievement – but you don’t mind it, you’re doing it for the little girls everywhere who watch you and hope to achieve the same things as you one day.

An interviewer asks, “Isn’t it hard to focus on your task when you’re surrounded with nineteen other drivers who happen to be all men?”

You’re still tired from the previous race and not getting a full night’s sleep the night before, that it takes a while for you to comprehend the question. Thankfully, Daniel and Seb are there to defend you alongside Max. You turn your focus to the interviewer who asked the question as their protests die down. “Well,” you start with a shaky laugh, “I know the past year has messed up us all, but I’m not particularly into anything involving masks or stuff that conceal the face.” There is a nervous laughter around the room and the interviewer is not pleased with your answer. “Shall we continue?” You ask in the sweetest voice you can muster. When you look at Daniel and Max, both of them grin at you while giving you a supportive thumbs-up.

You find yourself in his hotel room in Austin, a couple weeks after the race in Turkey. His eyes are focused on the portable screen as he plays FIFA. You’ve realised it’s a pre-race routine for him – not that you understand, his eyes must be tired after looking at the screen for too long. He asks you if you want to play and you agree, albeit timidly. He lets you play a few rounds after taking over and playing for fourteen hours straight to find himself ranking 21 worldwide.

“You can always join an esports team after this.” You joke, your head is on the back of the couch as you look up at him. He laughs, agreeing you without any objection.

“Maybe I should.”

“What, you’re not going to continue racing until you are an old prune?” You ask.

His face contorts. “No, that’s not the goal, schatje.”

“Then tell me,” You move your hands under your chin to appear more interested despite the sleep in your eyes. “what is the goal?”

“To prove a point, and then I’m free.” He replies, mimicking your earlier pose.

“You’re going to be fine, Max.” You speak in a soft voice; your touch is soft on his cheek when you bring one of your hands to caress the skin. “You’re going to become the champion this year.”

“How do you know?” Max asks, you can tell it is not to be sceptical, but it is in genuine curiosity.

“Female intuition.”

He lets out a big laugh, grabbing your wrist gently and pressing a kiss on the tips of your fingers. “Come on, we have to sleep before tomorrow. He have a race to win.”

He wins, by the way – the race in Austin. And then, he goes on to win the 2021 World Championship. There are tears in your eyes as you congratulate him on the team radios, and after you get out of your car. He brings you on the podium and kisses you in front of the whole world. You realise that he was right all those times after all, everything is going to be fine.

2022

Both of you are in a bubble when you get to the 2022 season. He kisses you before every race, you do the same. You wish each other luck and proceed to race on the track the best you can. You find each other after every race, mostly covered in champagne, and kiss again. Both of your parents were opposed to your relationship at first – your mother and his father. It’s funny to think that now, because he’s introduced you to his mother and you introduced him to your dad, and as far as their approval goes, the love extends both ways. You’ve told your mother to stop coming to races, presenting a clear argument without raising your voice once, which leaves her no choice to agree to your wishes. It was scary to even consider doing it, but the proud look on Max’s face is enough for you to do it all again.

You win the race in Monaco this year. Max is P3, but he looks just as happy as you when you direct your bottle of champagne towards him. Although Carlos is there with you on the podium, in that moment, it feels like the world consists of only the two of you. You go to celebrate with the team, of course. Christian pushing you into the pool and you pulling Max, and consequently him, alongside you. Someone captures the moment and you post it to your social media. Daniel makes sure everyone knows that he approves.

The fight is still on, as Lewis would say. You know both him and Max are still fighting for the title. No one expected you to join the two of them in their fight for the title. The first few races are hard at the start of the season, but you outrace most of your friends on the track after your win in Monaco. By the time you get to Abu Dhabi for the season’s last race, you’re a shaky mess. He takes you into his arms and whispers affirming promises into your ear.

“You’re going to become the world champion,” He announces to you. “I know you’re going to do it.”

Your voice comes out creaking as you question, “How do you know?”

There is a warm smile on his lips as he answers, “Female intuition.”

You both get ready to race before you could answer because of the knock on the door.

“YOU DID IT, Y/N, YOU ARE THE FIRST FEMALE WORLD CHAMPION IN THE HISTORY OF FORMULA ONE!” Horner shouts through your radio.

You’re still shaking by the time you park your car, and can’t get out even when your team huddles around you to celebrate. It takes a while to take it all in, but as you stand on the podium as the reigning champion with the man you love, nothing else matters to you in the world. You look around to see the smile on people’s faces, people shouting and cheering for you, and you even see your father who holds a banner with one of his hands as his other arm is wrapped around your team principal. It’s a bittersweet feeling, winning the same season one of your best friends announce that he is going to become a reserve driver. But Daniel is right there with your dad and Christian, screaming your name with pride. After your national anthem is played and you pop the champagne, you’re trying to get your eyes dry from all the tears as Max suddenly falls to his knees. You kneel with him with panic, of course, thinking that there might be something wrong with his heartbeat or something worse. But right as you’re about to call for help he brings something from his back towards you, opening the small box while maintaining his eye contact with you. There is an uproar of cheers around you, but it doesn’t matter. As far as you’re concerned, there’s only Max and you – and you and Max.

“Marry me, liefje.” He says.

You nod your head, “Yes.”

He gathers you up in his arms after he puts the ring on your finger. You realise that he was right from the beginning, everything is more than fine.

2023

“You need to stop doing this to yourself.” You announce as you watch Daniel struggle with his overflowing luggage – again. “You’re not even driving this season.”

“It’s not my fault, I can’t not take what the fans give me.” He tries to defend himself; he points to the suitcase with frustration. “Can you help me, please?”

“Only because I am in a good mood.” You announce as you kneel beside him and the two of you try closing the monstrosity in front of you.

You know Max is there before he announces his arrival. “Putting my wife to work, Daniel?” He asks. He comes to kneel with the two of you helping you close the luggage up. Then, he kisses you softly on your lips as he mumbles, “Hello, Mrs. Verstappen.”

“Hello, Mr. Verstappen.” You giggle.

“God, you guys are insufferable.” Daniel pretends to gag, receiving glares from the both of you. “Remember when you guys hated each other? Yeah, I miss those days.”

“We never hated each other.” Max shrugs.

“Yeah,” You seem to agree with your husband. “It was just an inchident of misunderstanding.”

“I better be your future kids’ godfather!” He yells behind you as you start to leave (your) driver’s room. “Children, bloody children.” He mumbles to himself, he waves his arms for help when he spots one of the interns, “Hey, do you think you can get me another luggage?”

3K notes · View notes

turtletaubwrites · 2 months

Text

Bend Until You Break ~ Part 1

Thank you for this request from the lovely @anemptypuddingcup for a Yandere!Law that the Reader goes to for help with a serious health condition, only for Law to take a liking to her... I swear I will write sweet Law one of these days, but for now please enjoy Yandere!Law. This contains !!DARK CONTENT!! so please check the warnings, and skip this one if it may be triggering or uncomfortable for you. This one's for us hypermobile baddies out there. 🥄

Pairings: YANDERE!Trafalgar Law x Fem!Reader

Bend Until You Break ~ Masterlist

Word Count: 2679

Ao3 Link

Summary: You have struggled with mystery pains and injuries for most of your life, and had resigned yourself to suffer after every doctor told you there was nothing wrong. But when a world renowned doctor/pirate comes to town to offer aid in exchange for supplies, you decide to give hope one more chance. Maybe you'll finally find a doctor you can trust.

Rating/Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content, 18+ ONLY, MDNI, AFAB!Reader, She/Her Pronouns for Reader, Reader-Insert, DARK CONTENT, DUBCON, Dubious Consent, Swearing, Eventual Smut, Yandere, Manipulation, Power Imbalance, Hypermobility, Medical Examination, Medical Trauma, Medical Conditions, Chronic Pain, Injury, Physical Disability, Physical Therapy, Doctor/Patient, Abuse of Authority, Kidnapping, Possessive Behavior, Other Additional Tags to be Added, (Reader is described as having hair "above her shoulders" that she can brush)

A/N: This chapter is SFW, but I'm adding in many tags to start out with since this mini series will contain heavy/dark content. PLEASE heed the tags, and do not read this fic if you aren't comfortable with these topics. Some of these medical issues may or may not have come from personal experience 🙃

Extra A/N: I am not a doctor, and this is not meant to be educational, or to contain any health advice. Please seek a health professional. Hopefully you'll have better luck than Reader 🙄

I should just leave. He’ll just tell me the same things. It’s a waste of time.

You were close to convincing yourself to walk away, especially as the discomfort and pain of standing in one place for so long started radiating up your body.

The line got shorter, and you stretched and bounced, trying to hang onto a sliver of hope.

“Hello, how’s your day going?”

A talking polar bear in an orange jumpsuit waved at you from behind a small table, handing you a clipboard.

“I-I’m well thanks. How…”

“Good! It’s always nice when the captain can help people. He’s the best! Just fill that out, and he’ll be with you soon.”

Looking at the form brought you out of the shock of speaking to a bear. Instead, it filled you with intense frustration, until you were practically boiling in your skin.

‘Rate your pain from 1-10.’

How the fuck am I supposed to rate all the different types of pain I’m in on any given day?

‘Circle the parts of the body where you are experiencing pain.’

I could put circles over so many things. Might as well circle the whole fucking chart, and have them call me a liar.

‘List your diagnoses, and family medical history.’

I don’t have one, doctors never find anything. Mom has some similar symptoms, but they're so mild that she's never tried to get a diagnosis. You’re the one who’s supposed to figure this out!

You resisted the urge to vent your anger onto the page, bullshitting your way through instead. You tried to write in the most convincing way to get this new doctor to take you seriously.

This new doctor. “The Surgeon of Death.” A fucking pirate.

But he was supposed to be the best, and he was here on your shitty little island for a couple of weeks, trading medical treatment for the town's supplies. You had already heard reports of “miracles,” that he could perform surgeries in an instant, that he could fix anyone.

Please fix me.

This was it. You couldn’t take anymore trying after this. Just trying to get a doctor to listen to or believe you was almost worse than the daily pain. Almost.

“Miss Y/N? The captain is ready for you now. My name is Bepo, by the way,” the bear grinned as he took the clipboard from your clammy hands. At least you hoped it was a grin.

He handed the form back to you as he led you through the dimly lit hallways of this strange submarine. It felt like you’d entered some other realm, an underworld, on your way to strike a deal with a demon.

As long as he can fix me…

“Here you are,” Bepo motioned as he opened a large metal door. “You’re in great hands.”

Hands.

Hands were the first things you noticed as you entered the examination room.

Those hands were tensed over the back of a rolling chair, gripping the thin padding as if waiting for you so he could sit down.

Long fingers mesmerized you, tattoos etched along the back of each hand. And as you stepped into the well lit room, you saw the word “death,” spelled out across both sets of those fingers.

The sound of his throat clearing snapped your eyes to his, your skin flushing as you realized he’d been speaking to you.

As you realized how fucking gorgeous he was. His black hair looked a bit mussed, but it only added to the effect, along with his goatee, and his dark, pretty eyes.

Already more useful than my other doctors. Easy on the eyes.

“May I look at your form, miss?”

‘Oh, of course,'' you stuttered, thrusting the paper toward him. “I’m Y/N.”

“Dr. Trafalgar. You can take a seat.”

Well, his bedside manner seems pretty standard, you thought with a small sigh, sitting down on the familiar crinkly paper covering the exam table.

He circled behind you to close the door, and what sounded like a lock clicking into place had your heart rate spiking.

“Stand up, please,” he said firmly, your form still unseen in his hand.

“Oh, sorry. I thought you said–”

“Walk to the corner, and sit back down, please.”

His voice was unreal. You would have jumped through hoops for him anyway, praying that any doctor would listen.

But his command seemed to curl into your brain, and you followed it immediately.

“Why are you favoring that hip?”

“Oh, it…”

Here’s where your credibility would fall apart. Your nails dug into your palms as you willed him to believe you.

“Sometimes if I stand too quickly, it feels loose. Sometimes it pops, and is so painful that I can’t put any weight on it.”

He stared at you for a moment, and you fought not to recite a list of excuses, to try to explain why it hurts when you’d never been injured before.

“And your right knee?”

“Oh, it’s not bad right now. It used to swell sometimes, and was really painful. But it’s not as bad as it used to be.”

“Did you sustain any injuries?”

“N-No. None that I can recall.”

His lips quirked a bit before he reviewed your chart.

Believe me. Believe me. Believe me.

“You’ve reported your shoulders as being your most pressing concern. Why is that?”

His eyes were almost painfully sharp as he scanned you, focusing on your face as you answered him. He’d sat backwards on the rolling chair, his arms folded across the back with his legs spread wide to either side.

“They’ve been acting up recently. They often feel… loose. That’s how it feels to me. Sometimes if I move a certain way it almost feels like they pop out of place. But I can still move them after, it’s just incredibly painful. And then it’s weak, and I can barely hold anything.”

“What are some of the activities that have caused this to happen?”

He was impossible to read. But you couldn’t lie. He wouldn’t be able to help you if you lied.

“Um, brushing my hair. Taking off a jacket. P-Putting a sports bra on.”

“Did you used to have longer hair?”

“What?”

“Do you keep your hair above your shoulders to prevent shoulder pain? Or does brushing it still cause issues at this length?”

“Oh. Yes, actually. I used to have much longer hair.”

“I imagine you’ve adjusted many aspects of your life to cope with this pain.”

Warmth flowed into that deep voice, and you shivered as you watched him steeple his fingers against his lips for a moment.

“If you are comfortable, I would like to run through a few simple movements to check your flexibility. Many of which you can do on your own, but I will check in again if you are comfortable with me touching you for the others. You can always let me know if you would like to stop.”

“Okay.”

The doctor dug through a drawer to pull out a clear measuring device, almost like two rulers connected at one end. He adjusted it, creating an angle before setting it aside.

He never picked up the device again, and you fought not to shake. He looked at your elbows, your knees, your thumbs, your pinkies, frowning slightly as you followed his instructions.

“Now, please bend over, and try to touch your toes. Just go as far as you– hm.”

Your palms were flat on the ground, just as they’d always been able to go. You could even put the back of your hands down, and stretch them along the ground behind you if you wanted to.

“Doctor?”

“You can take a seat.”

Wincing as you sat, you shook out your legs, feeling his eyes as he watched your every movement.

He stood, towering over you as he came close.

“For this next part of the examination, I will be touching you with my hands, and in some cases leaning or holding parts of your body against mine so that I can check the range of motion in your joints. I may also massage certain tight muscles to help you relax as we move through the problem areas. You have quite the list for us to get through, but if at any time you wish for us to stop, just let me know. Do you understand?”

“I do,” you breathed, your face angled up to meet his.

“Do you consent to me touching you?”

His voice came out softer once again, and you couldn’t hold in a shiver as you consented.

Those fingers…

His long fingers were so gentle as they crept across your body, testing, pushing, pulling. You fought to listen to his commands, pushing against or holding your body how he told you.

“I imagine that seeking treatment has been challenging for you,” he rasped as he leaned over your face, his fingers gently massaging your shoulders.

The pain and pleasure of his hands testing you had brought up a strangely emotional pressure, almost like tears in your throat.

“It has.”

“I’m sorry, Y/N. It must be incredibly difficult to suffer so much pain, and not be believed.”

You started to nod to keep your voice from cracking, but he pressed his fingers into your skin just a bit.

“Can you keep still for me,” he whispered, and it sounded so close that you opened your eyes.

“Just relax,” the doctor soothed as he stepped away, pulling a few tissues out to press against your cheeks and temples, catching the tears that had spilled when you’d opened your burning eyes.

“I’m sorry, doc–”

“No need to be sorry, Y/N. You have been suffering, been living with pain for years. It’s all those doctors that left you like this that should feel ashamed.”

His fingers had returned to your body, still relaxing, and testing.

“Thank you, doctor.”

“Please, call me Law.”

He was pressing gently along your collarbones as his name rolled over you, a small sound escaping your throat as you melted beneath him.

“Do you have a good support system? People in your life that can help you with this?”

“I mean, my mom and my boyfriend help me. They’re supportive.”

He took those fingers away, and you mourned them, wishing you could feel that soothing touch forever.

“I’m going to test your hips now, Y/N. Please tell me if you experience any pain.”

“Okay,” you agreed, feeling self conscious of your breathy voice. His words just kept pouring over you, his voice so relaxing, so good.

“How does that feel, Y/N?”

“Fine.”

He had your leg stretched along his torso, your foot dangling over his shoulder. You clamped your eyes shut. The sight of him between your spread legs, pushing your leg toward you, had you biting your lip, trying not to make any more embarrassing noises.

“How’s this?”

“Fine.”

He hadn’t gotten close to your limit, but he went agonizingly slow. You could feel his firm abs warming your thigh through your clothes, his thin shirt not doing much to keep the press of him at bay.

“You said that your mom and your boyfriend support you. How do they do that?”

“Oh, uh,” you shook your head, trying to focus on the question, and not the gentle rocking motion he’d started as he pushed you even further.

“They help me when… They help me when I’m having bad days. They listen. They both do little different things when things are bad.”

“How’s this?”

“Still fine.”

“You can go further?”

“Yeah, I can–,” you had reached for your thigh, planning to pull it toward your chest to show him, but his eyes above you stopped you before his voice did.

“I’ll get you there, Y/N. You can hurt yourself if you rush. Can you take it slow for me?”

“Perfect,” he praised when you nodded, still gently rocking your body forward and back as he pushed, finally reaching the limit.

“That is quite the range of motion,” he noted, carefully laying that leg down to move to the other side. “May I?”

He set himself up again, moving slow as he used his body to stretch you.

“You said that they help you on bad days, is that right?”

Meeting his sharp eyes, you took a minute to understand.

“Yes, they do.”

His face tilted a bit as he pressed closer. He started that gentle rocking motion, almost thrusting against you to help your body relax.

“But Y/N, from what I’ve seen today, it seems like all of your days are bad. Aren’t they?”

“I…”

“All these years with no one to believe you. It must be hard to believe yourself sometimes. Do you think they really believe you, Y/N? Do they believe how much pain you’re in as you struggle through each day? As you stand up too fast, or brush your hair? Do you think they understand?”

He’d pushed closer, looming over you as he held your thigh against him.

“Why are you–”

“I need to make sure that my patients have the support systems they need.”

His voice had smoothed back now, from almost heated to cool and detached.

He’s the only person that’s ever seemed like they understand. He must believe me. Of course he would be passionate about it, he’s a doctor. A doctor that believes me.

Closer and closer, his eyes watching yours.

“Do they believe you?”

“I think,” you started, eyes wide as you fought more tears, “I think they try to believe me. They just… They don’t know what it’s like. They don’t understand.”

“How’s this?”

“It’s fine.”

“Alright, last push.”

Your thigh was pressed between your bodies, and he stayed there.

“Does this hurt, Y/N,” he rasped, his breath warming your face.

“No.”

He helped you stretch your leg out on the table, sitting backwards in the rolling chair before he told you to sit up.

“I believe I understand the cause of your pain, and why you’ve had a difficult time obtaining a diagnosis.”

“Can you fix it?”

Your thrill of excitement got caught in your throat at the look in his eyes, his palm up to halt your questions.

“I believe it may be a connective tissue disorder, which would explain your hypermobility, as well as the complications you’ve had with many parts of your body. You've already met the criteria for one type based on our examination today. I would like you to come back tomorrow so that we can review more of your symptoms to be sure, and to discuss treatments.”

“You can do surgery, right? Can you fix it?”

You had gestured to him, your body panicking with failing hope. A gasp left your throat as those tattooed fingers caught your hand, his thumb rubbing over your skin as his voice went low.

“I’m sorry, Y/N. This is not a condition that can be cured,” he confessed, squeezing your hand as your body slumped. “Connective tissues run throughout our entire body, and if I am correct, yours may be weaker than most. 'Loose,' as you said. Unfortunately, there is no known way to repair or replace those tissues.”

A weight fell over you, and you found yourself not quite in your body. Your body that you’d fought so hard to fix.

That can never be fixed.

The doctor pressed your hand between his, smoothing over and warming your fingers until you were present enough to meet his eyes.

“It may not be curable, Y/N, but it can be managed. You don’t need to suffer alone in such pain like you have been. I’ll do everything I can to ensure that things are better for you. Do you trust me?”

There was something so intense about his face. The way he looked at you felt heavy, like he really did see the weight you’d carried all these years. You sank into those gray eyes, and realized you did.

“I trust you, Doctor.”

“Please. Y/N,” he hummed, releasing your hand, “call me, Law.”

Likes and reblogs bring me much ✨dopamine✨ thank you so much!

a/n: Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it! Welcome to my frustration with the health care system 😅

Tag List: @shewrites02 | @jadeddangel

Part 2

#cw dark content #cw yandere #cw doctors #trafalgar law smut #eventual smut #trafalgar law x reader #one piece smut #reader insert #fem!reader #x reader #turtletaub fics #one piece x reader #trafalgar law fanfiction #fic requests #use of y/n #cw chronic pain #cw medical #smut

314 notes · View notes

runningfrom2am · 7 months

Note

could we get a blurb where rafe saves reader at a party?

it's gets a little handsy for her with some of his friends and one of them tries to go too far and rafe saves her?

thank you for this request omg!! i hope it lives up to your expectations (even tho its a little long to be a blurb oops-) and i'm sorry this took me so long!

get the fuck off her - r.c.

pairing: rafe x fem!kook!reader

wc: 2.4k

tags/warnings: angst, comfort, implications of attempted sa, intentional use of lowercase, violence (kinda), some generally triggering stuff so please if any of this is upsetting for you please go read something else!

requests (currently closed- feel free to send whatever but it will be a while before I get to them!)

nav/masterlists

"you're not funny kelce, has anyone ever told you that before?" you raise an eyebrow at your friend, talking loudly over the blaring music as you cross your arms over your chest.

"actually no, that's a first." kelce replies snarkily, mocking your posture. "you're lying though, babe- i know you think i'm hilarious."

you roll your eyes, a smile still present on your face. your pupils are blown, lids drooping slightly as you immediately forget the interaction and sway with the music.

"c'mon, you know you love me." kelce chuckles, stepping closer and placing his hands on your waist. you laugh, brushing his hands off smoothly.

rafe is biting into the rim of his plastic cup as he watches, previously enjoying a sip of whatever jungle juice someone had left on the counter. he's watching closely, and though you laughed it off, he knew you well- and he knew you weren't a big fan of being touched. kelce should know better too.

it's only a matter of minutes before it happens again, topper approaching the group and slinging his arm over your shoulder which you don't even process with the concoction of substances mixing in your bloodstream.

"rafe, man, your sister's a bitch, bro." topper whines, leaning into you further.

"that so?" rafe chuckles, watching topper's arm slide down to your back.

"yeah, she's leading me on, then fucking off and leaving me high and dry." he explains vaguely. "i bet you wouldn't do that to me, would you, sweetheart?" he says to you, hand sliding lower, lower, until his fingers reach the bottom of your shirt and the skin of your back.

"i don't think it's personal, top. have you tried talking to her about it?" you suggest, wrapping your arms around yourself, subtly holding the hem of your shirt down.

topper rolls his eyes, leaning closer to make sure you hear him as you lend him your ear. "i just hate talking though... don't you?" he says, lips brushing over the skin of your neck.

"you're drunk, top..." you laugh nervously, very briefly making eye contact with rafe standing across from you in the small circle you've created.

"hey, what'd he say?" rafe asks over the music, brow furrowed with the instant rush of sobriety.

you smile nervously at him. "nothing... he's just being weird." you chuckle, shaking your head and trying to move away. "i'm gonna go get another drink. i'll be back." you squeeze out of toppers grip and walk off through the crowd towards the corner where you hid your cooler.

you bop your head along to the mac miller song that started on your way over, humming along to the tune and laughing a little at other people chanting along to the lyrics. you quickly grab another drink out of the cooler before shoving it back in the mostly empty cupboard and closing it again.

"she's not gonna fuck you, bro. i'll tell you that right now." rafe shakes his head at his friend, taking another sip of the overly sweet drink.

"have you seen her? it's well worth the shot if the worst she can say is no." topper laughs, and rafe clenches his jaw, looking again over the crowd to try and keep an eye on you. "the best she can say is absolutely, and she's into me, i can tell."

"oh, can you now?" rafe mumbles, eyes landing on you at last as you close the cupboard and crack open your can. if you had any feelings for any of the boys you regularly hung out with, it was a secret to him. you were a puzzle to him, despite your friendly and sometimes flirty personality.

"yeah, but she's not gonna let me hit with you clowns around. i'll be back, or not." topper laughs, pushing back through the crowd in the direction of you.

rafe decides to let him go. you could make your own decisions, and clearly, you were going to say no, and topper would come sulking back in a few minutes after striking out. he watched as topper made it up to you, starting a conversation. you were laughing, and he figured that was a good time to let you handle yourself.

except for a few moments later, when he looked up from his conversation with kelce and another girl that appeared by his side, to see you with your back to the wall in a corner, topper standing over you.

"hey, i think we should get back to the guys..." you chuckle nervously, taking a step back and hitting the wall.

"why? i told them we'd be a while." topper smirks, hands once again finding your waist and sliding under the hem of your shirt.

"well i didn't, i said i'd be back and-"

"get that stick out of your ass, won't you? we're having fun." he insists, leaning down over you and brushing his lips over your jaw.

you bite your lip nervously, scanning the room to see if there's anyone near enough to talk to to pull yourself out of this situation. "top, please, i don't want to do this can we just head back?"

"i know you want to give me a shot, you won't regret it..." he mumbled against your skin, hands sliding up farther under your shirt as the sound of your heartbeat echoed over the music in your ears.

you panic, trying weakly to just push him off at this point and create any kind of distance between the two of you as his hands press into your skin. "please don't topper, you're drunk..." you say, but it comes out whinier than you intended. the disconnect between your mind and your body is showing, and you can see that as you're fumbling to get your hands to reach his shoulders just enough to get him to back off. you didn't need to, when a moment later he was pulled back with a force unforeseen by either of you.

"get the fuck off her, man."

it's rafe, and he's angry. you've seen him like this before, sure, but the look behind his eyes is new as he shoved topper away, dropping the grip he held on the back of his shirt. "rafe, c'mon." topper chuckles, adjusting his shirt and rubbing the front of his neck where the fabric had dug into his skin.

just as quickly, rafe's fist was gripping the front of his shirt again, getting face to face with him. "no, she was literally pushing you off and you didn't take that as a no?" rafe's forehead is almost pressed to toppers as he backs him into the kitchen island.

"rafe!" you shout, voice shaky as you try to get his attention. "let him go, it's fine."

rafe looks back over his shoulder at you, standing with your arms crossed tightly over your stomach. he sighs, dropping the fabric before turning to you. "you okay, y/n/n?" he asks, shaking out his fist.

you nod shakily, pulling your shirt back down from where it had ridden up with the disturbance.

"you sure?" he asks again, looking you up and down with concern drawn between his brows.

you continue to nod, looking around now for where topper had put down your drink when he took it out of your hand to back you into the wall. "i'm fine... just, yeah. it's fine." you chuckle awkwardly.

"no, it's not. come on. i'll walk you home, yeah?"

"rafe, c'mon, she said it's fine. she can stay longer." kelce interjects, having followed him over.

rafe throws his hands up in frustration as he turns to his friends. "shut the fuck up, kelce! i'll beat the shit out of both of you. seriously, i don't give a shit." he turns back to you. "c'mon, i'll grab your bag. lets get you out of here."

as rafe leads you away, you avoid eye contact with his friends, arms still crossed to quell your shakiness. rafe pulls your cooler bag back out of the cupboard and throws it over his shoulder before guiding you to the door. you're relieved to feel the cool sea breeze hit your skin, you didn't even realize how stuffy it was and how claustrophobic you felt until you got outside and you could finally breathe again.

"seriously, are you okay?" rafe asks again, feeling nervous that you only said it was fine before because there were so many people around. he's still tense, angry, but he's making an effort to seem calm since now he's alone with you.

"yeah, uh, yeah. fine." you nod softly, staring down at your feet as you make your way to the sidewalk. "just... a little shaken up, i guess."

rafe adjusts your bag over his shoulder, then proceeds to rub his hand over his forehead. "i'm sorry, that was shitty."

"it happens, unfortunately..." you laugh awkwardly, trying to shrug it off.

rafe looks down at you as you walk, still avoiding eye contact with him. "has top done that before? i'll go back and-"

"no! no, he's never done that before." you assure him. "i don't know, like, going to a party around a bunch of people you kind of know and kind of don't know is never... comfortable. it's hard to get comfortable and then when you do something like that happens and-" you laugh to yourself. "sorry, i shouldn't rant to you about this."

"no, by all means." rafe replies, urging you on. "you can tell me anything."

"thanks, but i think i'm done." you grin, arms wrapped tightly around yourself as you walk.

"does that actually happen to you like... often?" he asks after a few moments of silence.

"not often, and its never been that scary- i guess?" you explain. "just sometimes, some guy will touch me or say something and i just get this feeling in the pit of my stomach that something is wrong and it's hard to shake. it sticks with you. more often than not if you say no they'll retaliate, either get mad or spread lies about you or whatever. so i just kind of.. freeze. when you don't know what to do, sometimes you don't do anything and you just have to laugh it off. it is what it is, i guess."

"right." rafe nods, deep in thought over what you had said. "so what i'm hearing, is that you never actually slept with devin?"

you laugh at this, tone still slightly wobbly. "i told you i didn't, remember?"

"ah, yes. you did tell me that." rafe remembers how sitting at the country club bar together just weeks prior he had asked you about this rumour and you denied it, shaking your head as you sipped on a virgin daiquiri. "i didn't really believe it anyways. devin's a prick."

"he really is." you agree, looking up now at the sky. "thank you, by the way," you add, looking over at your friend now for the first time since you left. you're met with confusion in his eyes as he returns your gaze. "for, like, rescuing me."

"i shouldn't have had to. that was fucked." rafe shakes his head. "don't thank me, that's so... twisted. if topper could have gotten through his thick skull that maybe you're not into him-"

"he thinks i'm into him?" you laugh, eyes wide now.

"well, hopefully not anymore." rafe chuckles. "but knowing him, he still probably doesn't get it. i'll talk some sense into him."

"please do." you sigh. "he won't believe it from me, apparently."

"honestly, i don't think i can look at him for the next week." rafe admits.

"tell me about it."

another few moments of silence follow. "you know, you don't have to hangout with us. if we make you uncomfortable we can keep our distance."

"you're the only one who never has." you smile at him. "surprisingly." you add teasingly, bumping your shoulder against his arm.

"what's that supposed to mean?" rafe chuckles, already knowing it was a joke.

you just shrug in response. "you know, you're whole 'bad boy' rep you've got going on."

"i can still be cool and like... not make girls uncomfortable. that's actually kind of the point."

"that's a good point." you agree. "the girls do flock to you."

rafe rolls his eyes at this, smiling as he shakes his head. "not that... that's what i want. it just kind of happens."

"so you get it?" you giggle, feeling the shakiness you previously had finally slightly subsiding.

"well, no. when i tell them to fuck off they... you know, fuck off." he laughs.

"ah- what a pleasure that must be." you joke, stopping as you're now standing in front of your driveway. "thanks for walking me home. it was hard to breathe in there."

rafe stops too, looking down the long driveway to your house. "of course, anytime." he nods, looking at you for a moment before he realizes you're waiting for your bag. "shit, sorry..." he laughs, dropping it from his shoulder and handing it back to you.

"all good." you grin, taking it and putting it on.

"well, I've got to get going. i have a guy to beat up, so..."

as he turns away, you speak to him again. "rafe, don't." your voice is quieter now, and as he looks back at you he sees the tears welling up in your eyes. "please." you add, so softly he's sure if he didn't see your lips moving he wouldn't have heard it. "it'll just make it worse... i just want to forget about it."

"okay, hey, hey- i was kidding. i won't touch him." rafe is quick to backtrack, holding a hand out to grab your shoulder but he hesitates, dropping it again. "are you sure you're okay?"

that's when the floodgates open, and your hands are flying up to your face to cover it as you start to sob. the shock had worn off by now, and the reality of what could have happened was setting in. rafe didn't know what to do, looking around to make sure no one could see. "y/n... what can i do?" he asks, and all he wants to do is pull you into his arms and tell you how safe you are, that everything is okay, but he knows touching you probably wouldn't be wise.

you can't answer. you can hardly breathe as you feel your chest tightening. you try and laugh, wiping your eyes and looking up at him. you wish he wasn't seeing this. you shake your head, deciding to just sit down on the grass.

rafe sits next to you, tucking his knees up to his chest like you had, crossing his arms over top. "you're safe, y/n/n." he tells you, leaning his head on his forearms and watching you. "can i stay with you?"

at this you just move a little closer, leaning your forehead onto his shoulder instead. he freezes up, just for a second, before moving so he can brace his hand on the ground behind you. "I've got you. i'm not going anywhere..."

taglist: @bookishbabyyy, @madelynie, @whore-4-drewstarkey, @slut4drudy, @winterrrnight, @totalswag, @sadfury, @fullfledgedemo, @rafemotherfuckingcameron, @urfaveluvr, @chenslucy, @hxnnah-397, @s-we-e-t-t-ea, @tahliac11, @saccharinesammie, @ietss, @maybankslover, @redhead1180, @suzyheartsrafe, @wpdailyminimeta, @aegons-bitch, @rafegirly, @lovelyxtommy, @thelomlisrafecameron, @thatsthewaythechrissycrumbles, @flonkertn, @whtvrrafe

#rafe cameron #rafe obx #obx fanfic #outer banks #rafe fic #obx #rafe fanfiction #rafe x reader #rafe imagine #outerbanks rafe #rafe cameron fluff #rafe cameron x reader #rafe outer banks #rafe x you #rafe cameron x you

614 notes · View notes

cozy-cinnamon-roll · 2 months

Text

A Princess' Guide to Interrogating a Radio Demon

Fandom: Hazbin Hotel

Pairing: Ler!Charlie, Lee!Alastor (strictly platonic)

Content/Trigger Warnings: tickling, interrogation (in the most playful sense). If there are any trigger warnings you'd like me to add in the future (and/or to this fic), PLEASE let me know! I am always happy to oblige.

This is a ticklefic! If that's not your cup of tea, kindly move along.

This is my first fic for Hazbin Hotel, so any feedback would be welcomed and deeply appreciated! (also, let me know if you'd like to be tagged in future work - I'm quite sure this'll be FAR from my last fic for this fandom hehe)

Hope you enjoy!

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

Ever since he'd discovered glam metal, Angel has been blasting it nonstop from his room.

Unfortunately, his room happens to be directly beneath Alastor's... and the insulation in the hotel's walls leaves an awful lot to be desired. The Radio Demon's eye had been in a constant twitch for three days by the time he'd finally had enough.

"Alastor? Have you seen Angel's speakers?"

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

When Charlie appears in his doorway, the demon in question is sitting comfortably on his couch, sipping a mug of black coffee and reading a newspaper (though Charlie isn't sure how he acquired it - the local paper has been out of print for weeks).

"No. But I've certainly had the displeasure of hearing them."

"They've gone missing. Do you have any idea where they might be?"

"Far away, I hope."

Charlie rolls her eyes and leaves to go consult the other guests. The deer takes a long draw from his mug.

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

To Alastor's slight irritation, he only enjoys a few minutes of peace before the princess' voice echoes from the hall again.

"Oooh, Al...." Charlie sings.

"What is it, my dear?" the Radio Demon sings back absently.

"Nifty says she saw you with Angel's speakers yesterday."

"Did she?" He flips a page of his newspaper.

"Look, all I need to know is where you put them."

Long pause. "I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about."

"Alastor."

"Whaaat?" Though his eyes haven't left the page, his grin has widened slightly. "You think I'm lying?"

"You're always lying. That's your thing."

"...Touché."

Charlie perches on the sofa beside him.

"Are you gonna tell me where it is or not?"

"Fine. I'll be completely honest with you."

She perks up.

"I would honestly die a second death before subjecting myself to one more note of that infernal garbage."

Alastor's eyes flick up from his paper for the briefest of seconds, just to watch the bubbly princess' face fall into a delightfully exasperated scowl.

"You can't steal someone's stuff just because it annoys you!"

"On the contrary. That's exactly what I did."

Charlie narrows her eyes. "Alastor. You tell me where Angel's speakers are or else."

Alastor chuckles in spite of himself - Charlie's attempts to be intimidating never fail to amuse him.

"What's so funny about that?"

"My dear, I say this with the utmost respect and admiration for your many talents: there's a reason I tend to be the one called upon to scare off demonic threats."

Charlie huffs and crosses her arms. "Just because you're creepier and... more sadistic than me, doesn't mean I don't have ways of making you talk."

"Oh?" Alastor arches a skeptical eyebrow at his paper.

"So you better watch your step, Mister."

"Hmm. You make a compelling case." He flips another page. "Maybe I should tell you where Angel's poor excuse for music is."

Charlie brightens. "Really?"

"No."

The princess deflates.

He's right, of course: even if Charlie figures out a way to make herself legitimately threatening to the Radio Demon... he's the fucking Radio Demon. She may be the Princess of Hell, but she doesn't want to have to rebuild the hotel from rubble all over again.

The two sit in impassive silence for a few minutes - Charlie glaring at Alastor, Alastor staring stubbornly at his paper - until she finally stifles a sigh and slouches against the cushions. He's enjoying this, she just knows it. Sitting there with that stupid grin. He's probably been laughing to himself all night, imagining poor Angel waking up and finding his most prized possession missing.

She finds herself wishing she could make the old deer laugh himself sick sometime, just to teach him a lesson.

...Which is a horrible thought! Charlie's eyes widen, her brow furrowing in self-disgust. She could never bring herself to hurt Alastor, even via laughter.

In fact, she quite likes his laugh - it's a little maniacal, sure, and certainly hard to truly enjoy amid the gory contexts that typically trigger it. But if she knew a way to make him laugh at something other than another person's expense, she'd probably do it all the time... it's just that the things that make him laugh also tend to make Charlie nauseous.

Once again, the princess finds herself completely baffled by her own subjects. How one could be so tickled by anything that goes on down here - the pain, the violence, the gore...

Charlie tilts her head. She may have just gotten an idea.

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

If Alastor had happened to cast a quick glance down the couch, the smile creeping across Charlie's face would've been enough to give him real pause.

But since he is instead stubbornly focused on his paper, he is completely unprepared for the fingers that suddenly begin crawling oh-so-gently up his side.

To her initial disappointment, Charlie finds at least three layers of fabric dampening her touch, and aside from a subtle flinch at first contact, Alastor himself remains perfectly still.

But then a low buzz of radio static swells around them. As she probes up his ribs, she can hear a soft crinkle of paper as his grip tightens.

"Charlie..." His voice is oddly clipped.

"Mm?" Charlie takes one glance at his face, and her smile deepens - even Alastor's signature grin can't mask the effect. He's still technically staring at the paper, but his eyes have gone wide and blank. He opens his mouth to continue just as her fingers reach his armpit - and his jaw quickly clamps shut. It's clearly taking everything in him not to squirm.

"Got something to say, Al?" She starts pinching back down his ribcage.

"Mmph!" The giggles start in his chest, bubbling up and fighting to escape through clenched teeth. Soon his shoulders are shaking with the effort of holding them in.

"...Maybe about the location of a certain object?"

No response. The radio demon just curls forward a little, hiding his face in his paper.

Taking advantage of this new posture, Charlie slips her other arm around behind him, and gives a good pinch to both sides of his slender waist.

The demon straightens right back up with an audible gasp and tiny squeak of surprise (that he quickly tries to cover with a cough).

"Charlie! Are you s-seriously trying to-"

"Are you seriously ticklish?"

"No!"

In response she delivers another series of pinches to the same spot. His posture crumples again, until finally he loses his grip on his paper and twists to face her.

"No?" she giggles. And squeezes him again.

"Stop that!" He fumbles at her fingers, trying to pry them off his sides.

Instead Charlie swaps her hands, wrapping her fingers around his waist with both thumbs resting lightly on his stomach... and begins digging them right under his lower ribs.

That finally does it. He flinches back with a little snort, followed by soft but utterly helpless giggles pressed shyly into his hands.

"Awww!" Charlie coos.

"Keheh- f-fuckin'- heheh! - quiet!" His voice cracks amusingly on the last word.

There are about fifteen different things Charlie is dying to say as Alastor goes to pieces with laughter, but she can't think of anything that wouldn't risk embarrassing the poor guy - and humiliating him is the last thing she wants to do. The fact that Alastor hasn't instantly dissolved into shadows (or cursed her across the room) hasn't been lost on the princess; she is NOT about to jeopardize this moment by making him uncomfortable enough to do so.

That said, she is conducting an interrogation here.

"What was that about not being ticklish?"

His clutching at her wrists becomes more frantic. "Don't-!"

Alastor hyperventilates a couple times, trying to get ahold of himself - but then she continues squeezing down the sides of his belly, and he can only collapse into even worse laughter.

"I think I know just how to get you to talk..."

"Nohoho- ahagh, Charlie! Shihihit!"

Charlie shifts onto her knees for better leverage, gives him a gentle push backward, and pins him (surprisingly easily) against the couch. Her snaggle-toothed grin looms over him...

For a split-second, Alastor gets a flash of what his victims must've seen moments before they debuted on his show.

But he's pretty sure this isn't quite how they felt about it. He's already shaking with anticipatory giggles, grinning back at her wider than ever. And the giddy panic behind his eyes quickly forms an unlikely union with defiance.

"Do your worst, my dear."

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

To be continued... pt. II is already in the works, so stay tuned!!

Until next time - hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it! 💕

💜 - Cozy

#lee!alastor #ticklish!alastor #hazbin hotel alastor #hazbin hotel tickles #oh deer he's ticklish #ler!charlie #hazbin hotel tickling #ticklefic #tickle fic #tickle headcanons #charlie morningstar #hazbin hotel charlie #hazbin hotel spoilers

337 notes · View notes

aphroditesmoon · 1 year

Note

Hey love I seen your request opened and I was wondering could I request a wenclair x reader where the reader is welcome into their relationship romantically and unfortunately the get hurt by one of the students at nevermore and they are being overprotective I really just wants some fluff and a small bit of Wednesday and enid getting mad if you don’t mind please have a great day and don’t forget to drink some water❤️❤️❤️

Oh could you tag me also when you make it thx💛

dove

wenclair x harpy!reader (poly)

warnings: gender neutral terms for reader, bullying, physical assault, (do not read if theme is triggering)

a/n: I hope this is to your liking lovie<3 @hadespleasesteponmyneck

°°°

There were many times you'd lay awake wishing you were different, a more subtle species. It wasn't a surprise normies had treated you badly since you were a kid, most outcasts can pretend to be normies to fit in.

But you could be spotted even in a mile away as an outcast with your big flappy wings attached to your arms, and your long talon nails.

You thanked god daily he hadn't gave you a beak at this point.

Arriving at Nevermore gave you bigger hopes then any other schools has before, a chance to finally fit in, to have friends amongst people who understood what it was like to be different.

What you didn't expect was to be made a joke for being an outcast, amongst outcasts.

It wasn't all bad, you'd tell yourself daily.

You were warmly welcomed by the infamous Enid Sinclair and her not so welcoming girlfriend,

You avoided them at first, keeping to yourself and the comfort of the library most of your time. Your roommate Yoko is rarely in your shared dorm, often sleeping in her girlfriend's dorm instead.

But Enid had took matters in her own hands, refusing to let you be alone. As much as you pretend not to care much about it, you were grateful for her and Wednesday. It was the first time you felt wanted.

"So, [name.]" Enid starts, waking by your side with her arm linked with yours. "Have you decided who your date to the Rave'n will be?" She asks, wiggling her brows at you.

You feel your face turns red before shaking your head. "Decide? I'll be lucky if someone even asks me."

Her grin slowly drops at your word and you see her turn her head at Wednesday. The two having an unspoken conversation with eachother.

You raise your eyebrows at them in question and Enid turns back to you. "Maybe you should go with us!" She suggests.

You turn silent in suprise. "Oh? oh-I mean I couldn't-"

"[Name], if you're worried you'd be third wheeling, I assure you that it won't be happening, our affections with eachother are as equal as is to you-" Enid curses and glares at her girlfriend, throwing both hands up in frustration.

"Wha- I- I'm not following.." You look at them in confusion before Enid sighs loudly.

"I thought you said we can tell them together!" She scolds Wednesday, who only shrugs. "Both of you were taking too long."

"Tell me what?" You ask again, this time finally getting their attention.

They turn to you and Enid takes a deep breath before she attempts to speak, being cut off by Wednesday again.

"We would like to invite you into our romantic relationship -"

"Jesus Wednesday-" "You take too long-"

"Invite you to our rela- What is this an interview?"

"Oh you'd rather I ask for their Snapchat then like you did to me-"

You take in her words as they argue.

"You want to be with me?" You try, your voice slowing down their banter as they both look back at you and Enid replies before anyone can interrupt her again. "Yes. Yes we do."

Why? was the first thing that came to mind.

Not realizing you've spoken the question out loud, You were met with a frown from the blond.

"What do you mean why? Because you're amazing, [name]. Look- You seriously can't tell that we've been pulling our asses off to get you to notice us?"

Wednesday snorts and interjects, "You've been pulling your ass off, I've already had their attention-" "Wednesday." Enid sighs, earning a rare smirk from the raven haired.

Your mind was swirling with all this new information. Unable to give any answer, you simply run away without looking back, hearing Enid call after you.

°°°

Your room was no longer your own. And it was a big discomfort to find your space intruded by not even your roommate, but someone who didn't even belong in your dorm.

"What the hell are you doing with my stuff?!" Your eyes widen at the sight of your small nest of blankets all over the room.

"Proving everyone that you're a freak.", There were three of them, and by their looks you knew they were fairies.

And despite harpies often being described as mythical monsters, it's the pointy eared creatures that have devils in them.

"Look at this shit, what is this, your nest? I told you, They're basically just a giant bird-"

"I'm not-"

Your trinkets and rock collection's were being thrown and smashed on walls. You scream and shove the red haired girl againts the wall, your talons scratching through her arms.

"You bird bitch." She snapped bitterly.

"They used their claws on me! Did you guys see that? You guys saw that right?" They all agreed againts you

She was stronger than you thought, or perhaps you weren't as strong as you wanted to be. She pushed you back and your back fell on the floor. Her two friends gripped your hands and held you from moving, you wings flapping againts the floor.

You struggle to against them as the red haired punched you in the face. It was a weak blow but a punch nonetheless .

"You're nothing but a monster, thorough, and thorough." She seethes at your face.

"Not so scary now though are you?"

°°°

The sounds of knocking on your door was muffled by your pillow againts your face.

When the banging fists became louder you pull away and manage to shout at the uninvited visitor to leave you alone.

Silence swallowed your room once more.

Burying your face back in the pillow, you continue your hour long breakdown.

You don't hear the door open at first, but when Enid's fast footsteps reach closer, you flinch and pull back to look behind you.

You couldn't tell what emotions coated their expressions, but what you did know that you're more embarrassed than upset now.

It was bad enough that everyone saw you as a freak, you didn't want the only two people you liked to see you like this.

You had no chance to come up with a story as Wednesday crosses the gap between the tow of you, her hands instantly holding up your face to her, eyes inspection the bruise.

"Who did this to you." She demanded. Her monotonous voice laced with a subtle but noticable anger.

You shook your head and started crying again before you could help it.

Enid wordlessly pulled you in her chest.

You were taken aback by the comfort of her warmth, you can't remember the last time you were held by anyone.

Still sobbing in her arms, Wednesday pulled your chin towards her and asked again, "I need names, dove."

"I-she didn't tell me-" Enid interjects your stuttering. "It's that fairy girl, Aliyah." You looked at her confused.

"It's the wolf scent thing, this room reeks of her fake dior." She explains,

Wednesday wordlessly walks to the door and Enid's arms release you as she runs to her.

"Wednesday no. We need to tell Weems about this, nothing more-"

"Nothing more? She assaulted [name]. You think whatever lame punishment Weems give them will make them stop? No. The stupid elf and whoever involved needs to know this will be the last time they even look at them."

Enid stared at her, mouth agape and then sighed.

"Fairy, not elf." She mumbled and shakes her head.

"Imbecile, is the right term. I won't have either of you in trouble with me. So you stay here and be there for them in ways I can't. I'll handle that wretched mushroom eater." Was the last words she speaks before slamming the door on Enid's face.

Enid groans and looks back at you, confused and sniffing. "She's not going to...kill her, is she?" You asks worriedly.

She walks towards you and crawls in the bed to your side, pulling you back to her. "She's not a murderer, but I can't say she doesn't have a penchant for inflicting pain."

#wenid #wenclair fanfic #wenclair x reader #wenclair x you #wenclair #wednesday netflix #wednesday x enid #wednesday addams #enid sinclair fanfic #enid sinclair #wednesday addams fanfic #Wednesday addams x reader #enid sinclair x reader

2K notes · View notes

darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 21 days

Text

To a Tea 2

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Part of the Sweet and Spicy AU

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: A demanding customer grows increasingly needy.

Character: Raymond Smith

The title is a pun, don’t @ me.

Please comment and reblog if it’s not too much. I always love getting to chat about these stories and hearing all your ideas! You all are wonderful and loved.

You don’t often miss work, but that week, a burst pipe throws everything off. A morning spent waiting on your landlord, then the next few hours for a plumber, has things a bit off kilter. Even the next day, you’re not quite back on point.

The patched wall next to fridge reminds you of the disaster and a dingy smell persists. You hope it doesn’t cling to you as you set off for your shift that day. If you can, you want to pick up some hours from others if their up for grabs. Harry doesn’t like Saturday’s, maybe he’ll hand over some.

You try to leave your problems behind as you catch a bus down to the city centre. You get to the tea shop five minutes before the hour. Jenna’s wrapping up the opening tasks as you go to leave your things in the back. You tie on your apron and unlock the front door for the first customers of the day.

At first, it’s a trickle. Never very much at all. The early risers who often come alone or if they aren’t, they don’t speak much or very loudly. The smell of fresh baking and the slow rising sun add to the lazy din.

“Thought the special was strawberry today,” you comment as you transfer macarons from a cooled tray to the display.

“Eh, it was but we didn’t have enough jam,” she shrugs. “Changed the sign, is all.”

“Ah, thought my mind was lagging again. Everything’s been off since yesterday.”

“Eh, how’s the apartment, anyhow? Marilyn said it was something about a leak?”

“Burst pipe,” you explain, “they took out the wall above the sink, buncha clanging all day. When I tell you this place is like heaven.”

She chuckles, “can be.”

“There’s a formal tea booked in the Marigold Room at noon,” she intones, “forgot to mention that. With Mother’s day coming up, suppose we’ll get more bookings.”

“Suppose,” you go to check the schedule hanging on the wall. “Party of twelve, wow.”

“I’ll man the till. Honest, since those ladies at New Years, I’ve hated doing them.”

“No problem, Harry should be here, shouldn’t he?”

“Well, he’s... called in.”

“Again?” You whine as you face her.

“Are you really surprised?” She scoffs.

“No one else to cover? Not even Louisa?”

“Nah, she’s on holiday still.”

You huff, “fine. Not much of a choose then, is it?”

🫖

The tea room is as close to raucous as you’ve ever heard it. You have your back to the rest of the shop as you balance the stacked serving trays with an array of sponge cake, fruit, and biscuits. It’s the typical assortment for a tea party booking.

You’ve already served the tea and the sandwiches, and dessert is the last bit, along with any further pots needed to be steeped throughout. With a partner, it isn’t hard to keep up, but alone, it’s rather overwhelming. Jenna does her best to assist but there aren’t many lulls around lunch time.

Beyond that, the tourists are chatty. You could hardly get away to fetch each course as they wanted to chat about the culture and your suggestions of what they should do next. It’s nice that they’re friendly but still stressful.

You put the trays on the cart and roll it around the counter. As you do, you nearly skid to a halt. In the rush, you hadn’t noticed him. Your eyes meet Raymond’s as he watches you. Intent, intense. You give an apologetic smile and nod in acknowledgement. Jenna wanted to deal with the main room, she’ll have to wipe down his table and do her best.

You roll behind the wall and into the Marigold room. You present the tray and grab it by the ring at the top, lifting it onto the centre of the table. You roll around to gather the empty plates and cups, taking two pots for refill.

You come back out and see Raymond standing, just as he was. He sees you too. Watching, hands folded, knuckles white, jaw set. He’s usually patient but you don’t know how long he’s been waiting.

You roll behind the counter and sigh, clearing off the cart as Jenna steams a tea latte.

“Can you wipe Raymond’s table?” You ask.

“Who?” She furrows her brow.

You glance over your shoulder toward the man in question and she follows. She rolls her eyes, “I tried, I wiped the the table. He didn’t sit.”

“Hm, well... did you wash your hands first?”

“Christ Almighty, what is he a child?”

“Jen, he’s just... you know, my mom’s the same. He can’t help it.”

“You can deal with him. I won’t be arsed,” she sniffs, “he was rude and you know I don’t got time for those ones.”

“Jenna, I’m kinda up to my eyes,” you dump the used bags from a pot. “I know he can be prickly but just wash your hands and redo the table.”

“Ugh, fine,” she sneers, “but you owe me.”

“Let’s call it even,” you retort as you pour boiling water into the pots mouth.

She shakes her head and huffs, “guess it is.”

🫖

It’s nearly three in the afternoon. It’s quiet. Harry’s on his phone instead of doing the cups and your wiping the empty tables to keep yourself moving. The door opens and you glance over to make sure Harry’s alert. He’s not.

Doesn’t matter. It’s him. Raymond. You stand and clutch the cloth tight in your hand as you greet him.

“Be right with you, Raymond,” you assure him.

He barely looks at you as he goes to wait next to his table. You go behind the counter and mutter under your breath in Harry’s direction, “...dirty cups.” You wash your hands and make sure to clink some of the empty porcelain in an effort to draw your coworker’s attention. He’s still entranced by his phone.

You take the disinfectant wipes and go back out. You approach Raymond as he checks his watch.

“How are you today?” You ask.

He grumbles and shrugs, “fine.”

“English Breakfast, black,” you declares as you finish wiping up, “usual.”

“So you remember,” he challenges as he steps close, closer than ever, before sidling around to sit.

“Of course, I always do,” you smile.

“And last time?”

“Last time...”

“Twice.”

You’re confused. What is he talking about?

“I came on Tuesday and you weren’t here. Then on Thursday, you didn’t even say hello.”

“Oh, well, I’m sorry, Raymond, it was a busy day. Tuesday, I had a personal emergency so I didn’t even know you’d been in--”

“I’ll have my tea now,” he interjects tersely.

“Right, tea,” you confirm and spin around.

“Crooked strings,” he remarks dully, “again.”

#raymond smith #dark raymond smith #raymond smith x reader #dark!raymond smith #drabble #series #to a tea #sweet and spicy #the gentlemen #au

134 notes · View notes

imagineredwood · 2 months

Text

7. Macarons 🍪

Summary: Manny likes you, has for a while, but he's gotten mixed signals from you and isn't sure if the feeling is mutual. That's ok though. Nothing a few laced cookies can't solve.

Pairing: Manny x female reader (did he have a last name? Can’t remember)

Warnings: 18+ MDNI Sexual content, they do not have sex, just grinding and touching, Dark!Manny DRUGGING - the reader is drugged without her consent with a 'truth serum' type drug in her gifted macarons to get her to tell him how she feels. The reader does like him and does want to be with him/be sexual with him, she's just been shy and didn't dare to be upfront; the drug helps it come out. So their interactions are technically consensual, but she has been drugged against her will/knowledge and is under the influence. Just want to make that clear for everyone. If it's not your cup of tea or triggers you or anything like that, please don't read it. I would never want anyone to be upset by/hurt/triggered by my work, but at the same time, we're also responsible for the content that we choose to consume. So if it doesn't sound like something you would like or enjoy reading, please don't read it. I won't take it personally if you sit this one out. Also please let me know what other tw I should tag it as if there are any you feel it should be under

Word count: 1.6K

"Macarons??"

You beamed as you looked into the box, the selection of pastel treats looking delightful. They were expensive for their size, one of the main reasons you never really splurged on them. You'd had one or two here and there, but a box of 24? You had never spent that kind of money on a cookie. That didn't mean that you couldn't admire them though. You'd saved some aesthetic tiktoks of them, opting to one day spoil yourself with a beautiful box of them. You hadn't ever told Manny about your desire to have them, knowing that if you merely mentioned it, he would've splurged on the most beautiful and expensive ones he could find. He was just like that when it came to you. So you'd kept it to yourself, deciding that you would get yourself a small box for Valentine's Day, seeing as you didn't have a Valentine.

But Manny had beat you to the punch.

He grinned as he watched your eyes light up, happy that his gift had paid off. At first, a few months ago when he was trying to plan out what he would do for the special day, he wasn't sure if the treat was one you would be into. He wanted to make sure that whatever treat he got you for Valentine's Day, was one you would enjoy and preferably one you would remember.

When he saw the saved tiktoks, he was thankful that he'd had the idea to hack your phone a few weeks before.

His intentions had been innocent enough, really. He just wanted to be able to know what you liked. He always got you gifts, eager to please. He had already decided he was going to put together a Valentine's Day basket for you, but he needed to make sure everything was perfect and to your liking. He needed you to see how much he cared about you and wanted you to be happy. Wanted you to be his. All of his previous gifts had warmed you and gotten you closer to him, but you still weren't his. His hope was that this gift would change that.

So scrolling through your likes and saves, he'd found a handful of videos of the delicate treat and knew then that was his way into your heart. And right he had been.

You smiled eyes raking over all of the colors, the sweet aroma wafting up to your nose in a swirl of vanilla and raspberry and cinnamon and-

"I'm glad you like it."

The Mayan looked proud as he eyed you, happy with his decision. Your mouth was practically watering at the smell and he knew you couldn't wait to try them.

"Go 'head, mama. Let me know how they taste."

Your fingers hovered around the box, all of them looking so good you were having trouble picking which one you wanted. You settled on a baby pink one and picked it up, admiring it.

"This one looks just like one I saw a video of."

Manny nodded, knowing the exact tiktok you were speaking of. He didn't say that though. He knew that was the one you were going to have picked first. He knew you'd be excited and enthusiastic to dig into them.

That was why he had paid to have a little something slipped into the filling.

He wasn't going to hurt you, of course not, he would never do that. He just wanted you soft and compliant. Honest. Needed to know if you felt the same way. Needed to know how you felt about him wanting you to be his and only his. So he'd gotten the idea from one of his brothers, 'truth serum cookies' he'd called it. The company made desserts for different purposes. Some had aphrodisiacs for couples to ramp up their sex life, others like the ones he had ordered had a drug known to make people relaxed and forthcoming, perfect for those who struggled with shyness when it came to dirty talk.

In Manny's case, he just wanted you to be relaxed and open enough to tell the truth about if you wanted him as much as he wanted you. He needed to know if you would be his, and if you didn't want to be, then why. He'd brought it up to one of the Yuma brothers and he'd sold him on the idea. 'She won't even know. You can't taste it, no one would buy them if they tasted weird. They crush it up and mix it with some sugar, then add it to the cookie's filling. She won't have a clue. And you'll get to figure out whether she wants to have your crazy ass or not.' he had said.

He watched as you brought the macaron to your mouth and took a bite, catching a crumb in your hand as you licked the rest from your lips. Manny licked his own instinctively, eyes raking over your face as he watched you eat, almost in a trance. You smiled, covering your mouth as you chewed, not wanting to make more of a mess.

"It's delicious."

He smiled, then shook his head as you held it up to him for him to take a bite.

"Not a fan of raspberry. Enjoy it."

He lied cooly, and you bought it, taking another bite. You pushed the box towards him and motioned for him to take one as you both stood there at your kitchen counter. He obliged, not wanting you to suspect anything, and grabbed the cream-colored one with light brown filling, taking a bite.

"Cinnamon."

"Mmm."

He held it out for you to take a bite of your own and you did, enjoying that one just as much as the other. You both stood there together, eating and chatting, a whole row missing before you knew it. You'd eaten most of them, and he wasn't worried about being affected. He didn't have anything to hide. You let out a yawn, and grabbed the lid, covering up the box with a laugh.

"The crash after a sugar rush always sucks."

Manny nodded, his eyes on you as he watched your eyes grow a little heavier, your lids moving a little slower as you blinked.

"Maybe we could go chill on the couch."

You nodded and offered him a relaxed smile, that idea sounding wonderful.

"Yeah, that sounds good."

He followed you as you walked, hands itching to grab your hips as they swayed in front of him. You were a goddess in his eyes. A treasure that was meant to be his, but was always just out of his reach. But he was also a gentleman, despite his unorthodox methods of gaining the truth. So he kept his hands to himself, sitting down beside you on the couch. He angled his body towards you slightly like he always did, except this time it was because he was keeping an eye on you.

Your eyes were soft, your face smooth and relaxed. He looked you over, not worried about you thinking he was weird or creepy for how long he stared at your face. He took in the angle of your nose, how your lashes fluttered on the tops of your cheeks. The softness of your lips. Your voice was gentle when it spoke, and his eyes were watching your lips as they parted, but it still caught him off guard.

"Do you think I'm pretty, Manny?"

There it was. The serum already going into effect. His eyes drifted away from your lips and locked with yours.

"I do, mama. I think you're gorgeous."

You smiled softly.

"I hoped you did."

He inquired even though he knew exactly what you meant.

"Hoped I did what?"

You shrugged, head tilted to the side as you gazed at him.

"Hoped you found me pretty."

He swallowed, his fingers wiggling as they screamed to touch you.

"Well, I do. I think you're the prettiest little thing I've ever fuckin' seen."

He watched as your throat moved, your swallow audible and pulling a smile from him.

"What about you? You think I'm handsome?"

You didn't hesitate to nod.

"I think you're very handsome. I think you're sexy."

He adjusted himself in his seat, pants starting to feel a little snug.

"That so?"

"Mhmm."

You stared at him, fingers twiddling with the hem of your shirt.

"I wanna sit in your lap. If that's ok."

He melted, his nod sharp as he lifted the arm that was toward you, inviting you in.

"C'mon then."

He felt his pulse quicken as you crawled over, a hand on his shoulder to steady yourself as you tossed your leg over his and then settled down in his lap, his eyes peering up at you. Your hands rested on his chest, fingers reaching up slightly, the tips tracing over the tattoo on his throat.

"Wanted to sit like this for a while."

The Mayan allowed his hands to finally drift over onto your hips, fingers digging in ever so slightly into the plush skin.

"Wanted you to sit like this for a while too."

Your giggle was breathless and it took everything in him not to start dragging your hips back and forth on him.

"Anything else you been wanting?"

You looked at him, fingers still stroking the ink.

"Been wanting you to touch me."

Manny groaned, his hands gripping you tighter.

"Oh yeah? Where?"

You shrugged and he shook his head, sucking his teeth.

"Nah, none of that. Where you want my hands at, pretty girl?"

He slid his hands down further, fingers digging into the flesh of your ass, gripping and pulling at your cheeks.

"Here?"

You nodded, your hips rocking slightly. You pulled one hand away from his throat and instead gripped your own breast, your nipple hard under your palm already.

"Maybe here too."

He cursed quietly under his breath and pulled only one hand away to replace yours, squeezing at the soft swell of your breast, feeling like he was in heaven.

"Yes ma'am."

General taglist

@piccasoe @ateliefloresdaprimavera @gemini0410 @woahitslucyylu @my-rosegold-soul @that-chick212 @everyhowlmarksthedead @glimmerglittergirl @fanaticfangurl21 @encounterthepast @svintsandghosts @starrynite7114 @destynelseclipsa @queenbeered @iamthegraham @emoengelfurleben @otomefromtheheart @rosieposie0624 @papa-geralt-of-cirilla @beeroses @weirdosandhopelessromantics @kola95 @black-repunzel99 @xonickibaby @cruzwalters @myakai13 @mrsstevenbuchananstark @lyly00 @kaystacks17 @cole-winchester @alexxavicry @savagemickey03 @fanfic-n-tabulous @gangstaliciou06

Mayans MC taglist

@dazzledamazon @abunnykisses @briana-mishell24 @wrcn9fvlcver @thesandbeneathmytoes @krysiewithak @appropriate-writers-name @blessedboo @megapeacelovemusic-blog @emoengelfurleben @blowmymbackout @abby-splace @kola95 @black-repunzel99 @redpoodlern @myakai13

@cruzwalters @danimals1096 @po3ticb3auty @lyly00 @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @angel-121 @fanfic-n-tabulous @90sisthenew80s @lovelytricia @librarian1002

#imagines #mayans mc #mayans imagine #valentines day drabble event #manny mayans mc #manny x reader #tw drugs #tw consent issues #manny montana #yandere

98 notes · View notes

candiid-caniine · 6 months

Note

Hey! Long time no see, i know i said id send you a fantasy i thought you'd like but now ive forgotten almost all of it, oop!

Life happened, and uh, i saw that you mentioned your libido being a bit low, which definitely is my case too (im recovering from depression, now that im okay id love to get my FULL libido back, or at least a good percentage of it) do you have any tips on that?

Also any recs of blogs writing in the same vibe as you? (same-ish kinks would be nice but im specifically looking for queer inclusive stuff!) it makes me 10x hornier than the regular video/photo porn!

Hope you're well, you pathetic little thing!

💫

hi friend!! ugh i feel you. sorry i haven't got any advice on regaining ur libido...we just let mine wax and wane as it will, though denial has been a big help in keeping it steady!

i've heard good things abt ginseng and some other herbs. obvs use at your own risk, mind that some herbal treatments can cross-interact with certain medications, remember that pre-packaged supplement pills are often unregulated and may contain toxins, and be aware that some herbal remedies work better on pw certain anatomy than others, and finally that many herbal remedies considered to increase libido are largely untested on trans folx!

finally, sorry it's taken so long to answer this ask...i'm autistic and have been cataloguing lol. i present to you a list of other blog recs under the cut, organized by general vibe! i've tried to primarily include blogs that do their own posts rather than those who primarily reblog :)

note that my headings may provide some context as to what to expect, but you read at your own risk and each blog will typically have its own trigger warnings addressed in the header/pinned. additionally, i've not tagged some of the ppl below because they prefer that "Men DNI" blogs not interact, and idk if "no cis men" qualifies ahah!

all blogs below are queer- and/or trans-inclusive, if not exclusive! there is no detrans/misgendering, at least I don't think - i don't tend to follow those blogs.

hard kinks (blood, knives, etc; includes primarily-cnc blogs):

@puppy-mommy , who also does general t4t kink content, but does state untagged hard kinks!

@visciousest is someone whose blog i scroll when i'm in a Certain Mood ahah,, i won't elaborate

@hell-hound-bites: just. fuck. would drool on his knife blade.

@snuff-fag: its username should give you fair warning as to how wild its content tends to get, so please browse responsibly.

@condor-bait is taking a break right now, and all my love is with him as he takes care of himself. he made me feel so valid and so fuckable as a young trans person learning to love myself in a new way, and i've always been too shy to tell him how much his content meant to me one-on-one (yes, despite its often-extreme themes!), and he deserves as much time as he needs to heal!

@unwillingfvckpuppy for mostly cnc and medical kinks! if you like his style, but not so much their harder content, he also has a more-tame main blog--i just mainly follow/scroll this one!

@vampvictim: top-tier cnc/intox stuff, plus some great knife/bloodplay :)

@cryptidtid is wonderful and holy shit i follow a lot of hard kink blogs lol. incredible

@cnc-pet: i have been following her for a long ass fucking time lol. they post a lot of really good cnc and stories, but you'll also find a lot of aftercare tips and advice on her blog! i really admire blogs who try to balance horny content with best practices

@dollobotomy

general kinky content:

@excessively-queer . just plain old good shit :) there's a good amt of edging and degradation.

@clouded-king was honestly one of my earlier introductions to the queer/t4t kink community on here and how fucking euphoric it can be :) he posts some hard kinks, but generally it's a balance of a lot of different kinks so read his pinned at your leisure!

@ / cottontailx : just good kinky nsft posts :)

@ / digitalpenetration: often specifically t4t which i love!!

@femmelovefemme can step on me :)

@bigothteddies: could not build this section w/o mentioning him :) they had a big influence on my fantasies for a long time!

@hazelj-xoxo: bigtime want her to cuck me. have followed her across multiple blog deletions lol

@transpidered is forever an icon!

@subspaceemo

@writefinch for great stories and text posts

edging and denial, specifically:

@6irlpet is 1 of my go-to hands-down-pants scroll sessions :)

@droolkink is my inspiration!

@flustersluts does exactly what the name implies lol. a good helping of other kink content too :)

@puppycvnt is a 10/10!

@barkwoofbarkwoofbark: we r denial friends imo!!

@strawbrrysub

@blyssful-abyss

@urhighnessbitch is a big fav <3

non-detrans genderplay:

@butchviolence does amazing butch supremacy stuff and i,,, fucking hell. even just seeing their username puts me in a Particular state of mind ahah. they also post hard kinks so be aware as you proceed!

@mtfdomme: i literally just reblogged from her today lol. tbh i want to be their little stupid pupthing. it's not all transfem supremacy undertones/overtones, but that's what i mainly follow her for, plus just general t4t goodness! also, their general personality? and the way she shuts down people who disrespect their boundaries? huge inspiration for me!

@cuntboydestroyer: take me to the animal shelter and neuter me. good lord.

@the-kind-of-dame is the main inspiration for my recent genderplay post lol

@terfbreaking-tgirl (be warned of dykebreaking if that's an issue for you)

@barbarian-lesbian is my other inspiration for the recent genderplay post

@superiorineveryway

weird asf (/complimentary; my favorite type of shit. robots, ND-focused posts, etc):

@specksizedgoddess has introduced me to things i didn't know, like...existed, and that's saying a lot as one of my special interests is kink! never knew how down bad i was to be a tiny buggirl, nor how much i wanted to be someone's stupid little robot... BIG tw tho: there is snuff and gore content here, so proceed with caution if you don't wanna see that!

@sapphling fucked me up real good with some bird!sub bondage posts awhile back lol

@nobelisha: found them through their ghost cnc post so that's why they're in this category ahah! they don't have a pinned so proceed w awareness :)

@devout-cleric: hierophilia/religion kink, and i'm something of an acolyte of hers :) if you've read this far down you may as well know i'm her Little Lamb anon lol

piss/omo:

@latenightomo

@pissheartmybeloved - their URL makes me crack up every time, plus good content!

@hold-it-a-little-longer - good scenarios/imagines!

@ohmyrashi - (i think) my original intro to omo!

monsterfucking/terato:

@septimus-moonlight was my first real introduction to trans-positive terato and i've never settled for half-fun cis-oriented terato ever since :) mind tags!

@eggedbellies as well!

@bredpun doesn't appear to be active lately but still good for a scroll!

@steamandcream

@of-mutts-and-men

#t4t nsft #asks #gen #denial #h/d #advice #💫 anon

172 notes · View notes

day-drawn-blog · 6 months

Text

Jealous over Astarion's affections

Pairing: Astarion x Reader -- This is set in Act I

I got triggered by some flirtations banter between him and Shadowheart and I realized, my tav, if anything like me, would probably feel extremely jealous too. We are not together yet, so do I even have a claim on him? I needed to write down this scenario.

Tags: angst, fluff, sadness, angst, fluff, then maybe eventually smut because I do love that

Part I. Crowned light moon of mine - I found you too soon

Part II : Lace your heart with mine Let your sleeping soul take flight

Part III : maybe tonight I'll rest in peace

Part IV: There is much to do and I still want to live

Part V: Our futures bound, our bodies known

Part VI : These ain't my sins, I broke my chains

Part VII: You are not mine and am I truly yours?

Part VIII : your blood like wine, invite me in

Part IX: I'll welcome my sentence and give you my penance

Part X : I can't go yet...don't let me die

--------

What a day. As you all were sitting down next to the campfire, your eyes couldn't help but wander at Astarion. While you all were fairly new to each other, you noticed, Shadowheart was quite comfortable around Astarion. and Astarion was acting quite familiar around her too. You wished you didn't see that. So you quickly averted your eyes. Every one else seemed to be busy being merry, laughing, drinking and having a good time. So why couldn't you relax?

You stood up, intending to clear your head. Why do you feel such a sharp pang. You don't love him. You barely know him, he may not even be a good person for all you know. What had you hoped? That he would favor you over everyone? But why... is it because, you yearn...

You yearn for him.

Your heart lit up. And then, you remembered, he didn't, yearn for you. He likes Shadowheart. The beautiful Shadowheart. And she is powerful. Of course he would. She was like a dangerous flower. But a flower all the same. And you? Just a nobody, with no past, and a future you cannot envision. Nothing to your name. Except for a sword, bound to you by a pact. Power. To dispel enemies. To fight your way in this madness that has engulfed your world. But they weren't enough. Not enough for him to yearn for you...

You ran.

Through the woods, far away from your friends, and the warm fire. Through the darkness, like your racing mind. Till you were out of breath in a field bathed in silver moonlight. And the world was quiet. And you felt welcome by Nature. And loved. By the world around. There was not a soul around, and you broke down, in tears. As you felt sorry for the state your heart was in. And how brutally it was crushed. You blamed yourself for even getting your hopes up.

You wailed.

Your cries could not be heard by anyone here. You felt grateful for the serenity. You lay on the grass, hugging yourself. Before long, you closed your eyes, and were drifting off due to exhaustion. The day was hard. The night even more so.

Your light sleep was interrupted by the sound of twigs cracking under approaching light footsteps. You jolted up and were shocked at the shadowy figure looming over you. Instantly your hand reached for your Pact Weapon, but the other party - just as shocked initially - cried out in self defense. "Its' me! Astarion! Please, I did not mean to scare you. Please."

You lowered your weapon. But he had some explaining to do.

"I am sorry, I - I didn't realize it was you. I - I thought you were someone else. A bandit. And I, I was going to well... I was hungry."

He took a deep breath. Resolved to his fate. "I would never hurt you. Or any of my friends. I want you to trust me."

"Alright, let's say that is true, what did you want with this.. bandit? You wanted to loot him I suppose." You put your weapon away.

"That's the other thing. I am not sure, if I should be telling you this, but, I am so hungry, and .. and I have been very unlucky tonight, you see."

"Did Karlach not leave you any food? Or were you so distracted, talking to Sha- other people, that you forgot to eat?"

"I, I need blood to survive."

Silence followed. Deafening silence. He looked down. As if he was ashamed. Then looked up at your with pleading yes.

Your eyes widened in disbelief. Incredulous, you couldn't believe you had missed the signs that were there all along. Everything pointed to him being a Vampire. So that boar..... But now what? There is a Vampire in your midst! OMG. Had you just put your entire party in danger?! You and your stupid trusting heart. What now? Should you kill him?

"I never, please believe me, I never hurt people I know. Those who are my friends. But please, I am very hungry, I just need... a little bit.. it will help me fight better, and make me feel like myself, again".

He knelt down. On his knees... "If it isn't too much, I only need a little bit - or you are free to stake me".

You looked down at the sorry state he was in. This man who you were yearning for, on his knees, pleading you. He was pleading for your blood. That was the only problem. You didn't want him to, but wanted him to not be in such a state either. You wanted to help him. There went your stupid kind heart again. You never learn.

"Will it hurt?"

Astarion looked up - incredulous that you even entertained the idea. "What? Oh! No, only a little prick. And I can be extra careful too -"

"Does it have to be the neck? Because I don't want-" "And you don't have to - if you don't want to" He had stood up. He lifted your right hand, and lifted it to his lips - placing a light kiss. "I am more than happy, with your hand. May I?" He looked up. A darkness in his eyes. Hunger? Greed? Deception? Maybe all of it. You nod slightly.

He caressed your hand with both of his, dragging his lips over your wrist sending sparks through your body. This felt so wrong, yet your body liked his touch. You could smell his hair, bergamot. He was taller than you. Lit up in the moon, this man was gorgeous. And dangerous, as he was just about to prove himself to be. You looked away as he bared his fangs. You hated anything piecing your skin. Hoping you don't feel a lot, you closed your eyes, and you did not. It was barely a prick like he promised. You were grateful.

After a while, you decided this was more than enough of a favor. You tried withdrawing your hand. He got the hint. He let your hand go and stepped back, and looked at your with a grateful smile. "Would you like me to...escort you back, to camp?"

Should you let him? Weren't you running away from how he was making you feel. Wouldn't Shadowheart notice? What would she think? But, how could you refuse him. After all, you may never get another chance...to walk with him. Through the woods. Just the two of you. Even as friends. Or strangers. You grasped at what you could get.

You two walked back in silence. Him next to you. Every now and again you would look at him. He seemed lost in thought, smiling. You figured he must be thinking of her. Your heart sank, and the gratitude you were feeling at being able to walk next to him, quickly dissipated to pangs of sharp pain again. What started as a romantic moonlit walk quickly turned into an unbearable awkwardness for you, and you wished you were back already. So you quickened your pace.

Very soon, you could see the warm glow of the fire. What a relief. You just need a hug. From Karlach. Or Halsin. And you could forget about the unceremonious way you let your heart pine for a man out of your reach. And upon reaching camp - you did just that. You forsook Astarion immediately and without another glance at him, ran to Karlach and buried your face in her, lest you start crying again. You didn't care what he did, whether he went back to Shadowheart, you did not want to witness that.

Afterwards when the whole camp had quietened down. You hung around with Karlach, Gale and Wyll. You assumed, Shadowheart was in Astarion's tent. And you dare not look that way. You asked those lingering - what their reason to live was. Did everyone have something to live for? What would they do, after all this was over?

An interesting discussion followed. You felt you got to know your comrades a bit better. It made you feel warm. The cold that was left due to the lack on one was filled by the warmth of many, and you smiled. You liked it. And you liked your new found friends.

Later that night, you lay in your tent, and tried to drive away all the thoughts about how no one would miss you. If you were not there, or how you were not as interesting as some of the others. And as you fought hard, with yourself, you realized, that there must be others like you out there who needed someone to know them, to look at them, and value them. And you realized you had a purpose. You could be needed. You could carve out a meaning for your existence in this crazy world. You wanted to be there for those that needed you. You will be the hero. And that would be the reason to exist, you would love yourself, so you can love those who needed to be loved.

And with that comforting thought you drifted away.

Part II : Lace your heart with mine Let your sleeping soul take flight

#astarion x reader #astarion x tav #astarion bg3 #astarion romance #baldurs gate 3 #angst #jealousy #forbidden love #pining

332 notes · View notes

cinamun · 1 year

Text

*Returns Sunday, April 28th 2024

Named after one of my favorite books and albums, Things Fall Apart is an epic tale of lust, greed, betrayal, vengeance and, above all else, growth.

This story never started as a legacy nor was it intended to be anything other than gameplay. However, these characters evolved and, as such, so did their stories; each intertwined and forever impacted by the others.

Written, played and photographed by The Watcher circa 2015. This story is best read/viewed on a laptop, tablet or PC.

Should you choose to continue, please note that this story is rated MA for Mature Audiences and contains strong language, violence, adult themes, strong sexual content, nudity and a variety of triggers appropriately tagged for depression and abuse in all of its forms. This story is not suitable for anyone under the age of 18 (DNI).

Pictured above is the original cast, from left to right:

Elise Farrow ~ Juan Rivera ~ Darren Drake ~ Indya Williams ~ Jerrilee Coleman ~ Dr. Jules Carter

As you make your way through their lives, names will change and you'll find that new characters emerge for either good or sinister reasons.

Shall we begin?

Act One

Act Two

Act Three

Chapter 22: A Thin Line Between Life and Death | Chapter 23: And Then There Were Four | Chapter 24: Illusions of Independence

Current

Pictured above is the current (2023) cast from left to right

Elliot Mahajan* ~ Darren Drake Jr. ~ Indira Dior Drake ~ Jayce Carruthers ~ Hope Diamond Carruthers (Drake) ~ Indya Drake ~ Darren Drake Sr. ~ Jerri Coleman

*Deceased

Bonus Content

Story Commentary | Story Extras

In case you need a palate cleanser at any time, check out my Globetrotter Challenge or The Greenwoods for a little Rated E for Everyone fun!

Buy me a coffee?

Posting Schedule

I typically post story updates/episodes on Sundays, Tuesdays and Thursdays. I post in the mornings (US CST) and reblog in the evenings.

Author's Note:

This story has been a labor of love, writing is a hobby and so is gaming. Combining the two has helped me in ways I cannot put into words. I am thankful to you for enjoying this hobby with me. Writing urban fiction using the sims, for me, will forever be inspired by mochasims, rest in paradise, dear friend. Mocha created a community for Black storytellers where one didn't exist anywhere in the Sims Community and paved the way for other Black writers to follow with her epic tale of Men and Stilettos and of course Kasim's adventures!

I will be forever grateful for the safe space she created to tell real, Black ass stories. Much love sis.

Reactions to Mocha's passing:

1 | 2

#ts4 #ts4 storyteller #ts4 story #black simblr #black sims #simblr #black simmer #sims 4 storytelling #sims 4 story #mobile navigation

674 notes · View notes

lucienarcheron · 13 days

Text

Spirit Meets the Bones - XII

Genre: Angst/Romance Warnings: Mentions of physical abuse. Please be mindful: some implied language may be found triggering.

shoutout to @abruisedmuse for letting me always cry to you about this. ily <3

Every day after that, the two of them woke up with the sole purpose of watching each other. Eris watching Iris and Iris watching Eris.

Eris followed up on his promise with training and the first few sessions were the most entertaining time of his life.

“Tell me your favorite color.”

Eris had only blinked and blocked Iris’s attempt to jab him in the ribs.

“My favorite color?” he repeated with a snort. “Why?”

“It's a valid question.” she said indignantly and aimed for another swipe that he easily deflected. “This is a basic piece of information any couple should know about each other.”

“If you keep bracing yourself, I’ll see the hit coming and block it. Don’t hesitate, just hit.” he instructed, tapping her elbow and though Iris narrowed her eyes, she nodded. “Get a hit in and I’ll tell you.”

Iris rolled her eyes and stepped back, putting her hands on her hips. “So now I have to earn my information? What happened to a question for a question?”

“You’ve been itching to smack me since you met me, so I figured this was the proper motivation.” Eris said with a smirk. “You also didn’t actually ask a question, wife.”

Iris flipped him off and then resumed position across from him. “Fine, smartass.” she huffed. “A question for a question.”

“Yes, wife?”

“What’s your favorite color?” she asked dully, and Eris’s lips twitched.

“I don't know. I don’t think about colors.”

Which was one of the many, many lies Eris had been constantly telling himself these days.

He had started to think about colors quite a lot actually. He thought about the way he particularly loved the color green on her. And the color wine. And he didn’t want to admit how the color purple had nearly brought him to his knees the first time she wore it.

He thought about the color pink when she painted her lips with it and worse, when she flushed, and that same pink bloomed on her lovely cheeks.

His favorite color was the color of her eyes and the way they lit up in excitement whenever they did anything together these days. But Eris had no need to mention that. No need at all.

“That’s not a real answer, you cheat.” she replied then held the dagger up threateningly and Eris chuckled.

“What’s yours?”

“Cerulean.”

He wouldn’t think about her in that color and how magnificent it would look against her tanned skin. Instead, Eris pursed his lips and said dully, “You mean blue?”

Iris fully stopped and shot him a look of annoyance so cold, Eris had to fight everything in him not to laugh.

“You dress too well to pretend you don’t know your colors. I’ll just guess then.” she finally said and began pacing around him. He only watched her with a raised brow and a smirk, turning as she turned.

“What do you think is my favorite color then?”

Iris pursed her lips, silent for a moment then pointed with the dagger in hand and confidently boomed, “It’s green, isn’t it?”

It certainly was now. He thought to himself and opened his mouth to reply but Iris barreled on.

“Which is a tad cliche, but you wear green often and it suits you without clashing with your hair.” She continued, more so to herself as she tilted her head and observed him. “You tend to go for the darker greens, but I think sage would look really nice on you too.”

Both of Eris’s brows went up. “Is that so?”

Iris hummed, her free hand casually reaching out to touch his arm. “Celadon would match well too. It’s just a shade away from sage but just as nice.”

Eris only watched her hand touch the fabric of his shirt and held very still. “Would you like input in my wardrobe, wife?”

Realizing she was still touching him, Iris flushed lightly and pulled back. “How about some nice fluffy skirts?”

“I’m afraid you’d get jealous of how spectacular my legs would look.” he said and grinned when she laughed.

“I wish I had the right word to describe you.” she said with a shake of her head.

“Handsome? Delightful? Wonderful?” he offered. “In case you missed it the first time I said it but, once again, handsome?”

She scrunched her nose in mock distaste and said, “Obnoxious is what I would go with. Maybe nauseating.”

Slowly, with each quip, they tried to build a routine.

And Eris, who was not used to having someone be a constant presence around him was slightly unsettled.

Especially because the more time they spent together, the worse his reactions to her were getting. It was getting harder and harder for him to resist her even if all she did was stand next to him.

Each day passed in a blur, until a week and then two were gone before he knew it. A week and then another, of exploration, of questions, of training, and every single thing Eris could think of to include in their day-to-day. Even though he needed to plan it well to maneuver everything without his father detecting it, Iris was a constant companion by his side every day when it was suitable. It was an ache he didn’t realize he was feeling that was soothed. He was exhausted but it felt good. Being around her felt good.

And it scared the shit out of him. Especially whenever he was in the same room as his father. Any urges he felt were dimmed down very quickly with the slight panic of just thinking about Iris near his father.

In turn, Iris tried to be stealthy about her observations of Eris as they went about their day but Eris was always aware of how she watched him. He tried not to let it unnerve him but also wasn’t exactly sure what to do about it. He aimed to take his mother’s advice and show Iris kindness each day. The problem was, he wasn’t exactly sure if he was doing it right.

Her threats continued, though half-hearted. His inappropriateness was the response, also half-hearted. It seemed to be the easiest way for them to navigate whatever this was.

Eris had never requested so many flowers in his life; Elain outdid herself each time with her bouquets knowing he would only trust her with flowers. The last thing he needed was for his father to find out he went out and bought his wife flowers.

Iris had adjusted to their expected roles better than he had anticipated. Whenever they stepped out of their room, she became the demur, adoring wife and Eris tried not to let it fuck with his mind. Especially whenever she touched him.

And gods, she touched him so much now. It was subtle touches, almost mindlessly but he never failed to notice that she always hesitated just for a fraction of a second then did it anyway. As though convincing herself it was allowed, and it was — it was very much allowed. Even if Eris was on the verge of a constant meltdown.

He didn’t touch her as often. For his own sanity but also because she still to this moment, eyed his hands warily. Even when they started training, her eyes always drifted to his hands.

It was why Eris didn’t mind it that he hadn’t tasted her lips yet. He kept reminding himself that it was one step at a time. Because apparently, making it work didn’t include kissing.

This all didn’t stop them from having...difficult moments.

A few days before, he had a terrible reaction when she had accidentally brushed up against his back in passing and Eris had flinched so hard, she had jumped back several feet from him.

“Don’t.” His snarl slipping from his lips quicker than he could leash it, the command a mirror of the one she had given him their first night together.

Iris had stood, taken aback and a beat of tense silence passed between them. “I’m sorry.” she said quietly, her brows furrowed. “I didn’t realize it still bothered you.”

It had taken him a minute before he swallowed, hating the way she stood away from him so rigidly. “Just because it seems healed doesn’t mean it doesn’t bother me.”

“You sleep and walk around shirtless...I assumed you didn’t have any issues —”

“I don’t like people to approach me from behind too closely and I like to air it out,” he replied curtly and rolled his shoulders back. “I’ve also been used to sleeping alone.”

Instinct had told him she wouldn‘t touch his back any of the times he slept shirtless and only because Eris knew she still hesitated to get too close to him, he didn’t bother with shirts. Her expression had flattened at his tone but she kept her voice even, watching his expression.

“You’re telling me no one has ever touched your back?”

“If you’re wondering about previous lovers, they usually had their hands occupied elsewhere.” he snipped then narrowed his eyes, trying not to let a sneer find its way to his face. “Do not pity me for a single moment.”

Iris had only lifted her chin and met his near-sneer with a scowl. “I expect the same from you.”

The rest of that day had been spent in silence, even as they explored. Both of them feeling too awkward to meet in the middle.

It also didn’t help when that same night, Iris had walked in on Eris bathing while doing other things and slammed the door shut with a loud gasp. She had only flushed angrily at him and refused to meet his gaze when he slipped into their bed afterward.

He had desperately tried not to laugh as he was shameless; a male had needs and his wife was fucken beautiful. But Eris, of course, had only said the stupidest thing he could think of.

“To make it very clear, I was definitely thinking about you, wife.”

Which only caused Iris to scoot further away from him and reply, “Go die. Don’t think about me that way.”

“Would you rather I thought of someone else then?” he teased, and she shot him a glare.

“I’m sure you’ve had others you can think about.”

Eris shrugged and crossed his arms, looking at her. “Yes. But none of them are my wife. Surely you wouldn’t want your husband to think of others while pleasuring himself?”

He slowly smirked when she had only pursed her lips and ignored his question. “I assume you’ve had needs as well, wife. I’d be happy to assist you with them at any time.”

“No, thank you.” she spat, flushing deeply and Eris chuckled in the silence that followed her response — until she looked over her shoulder and asked an unexpected question.

“Will you...find relief with others? If I...am not comfortable yet?”

Eris had blanked as she blushed and looked away, quickly adding, “It wouldn’t be fair for me to deny you and then expect you not to find it elsewhere.”

He had stared at her in a long enough silence, that it forced her to look at him once more.

“I thought we were going to make this work.” he said tightly, and Iris blinked.

“...Yes.”

“I don’t count infidelity as making it work. Do you?”

Iris swallowed and looked away again, flushing. “No.”

“Good,” he said simply then rolled his shoulders back. “I’m not a male interested in anyone but my wife, even if my wife isn’t interested in me yet. I will wait until you are comfortable.”

Color had bloomed on Iris’s cheeks and she’d stolen one more glance at him before turning away once more, refusing to respond, and Eris had to hold back a grin.

And every day after, they found ways to bridge the gap between them.

Iris joined him and his mother for tea almost every morning and he always felt the strangest sensation watching his mother laugh alongside Iris. He couldn’t find the right word to describe it — didn’t know if he could whenever he watched the two of them bond, but it made his heart swell.

Eris was pleasantly surprised when two weeks later, and after he worked with her on the basics for her self-defense, his wife had indeed kicked his ass hard enough that he was the one on his back in the training room.

She grinned as she stood over him, her dagger at his throat and Eris desperately tried not to get a hard-on.

“Beat you.”

“Your grip on the dagger is getting better.” he said to her slowly, his eyes cataloging every inch of her in fitted training clothes. “I see your stance has improved as well.”

“You have a big mouth but at least you're a decent teacher.” she said with a chuckle and pulled back so he could get up, twirling the dagger in her hand.

But Eris wasn’t so sure he was decent about anything. Especially when all he could think about was having her on her back and doing very indecent things to his one and only student.

“Next time, I’d like to see you try to disarm me more quickly. But good job.” he said with a small proud smile, dusting his training leathers and Iris grinned at the praise. “It seems that the imbecile who stole kisses from you gave you some acceptable pointers in between the fondling.”

Iris’s expression flattened. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”

“I will have him beheaded if you’d just tell me his name.” Eris said sweetly and Iris snorted, shoving him back.

“No, you won’t because I will not tell you anything. He didn’t do anything wrong.”

“He kissed my wife.”

“Before she was your wife.”

“Yes, but now you are the future high lord’s wife. I will not have a wife fondler in my court.” Eris added and Iris huffed a laugh.

“How do you know you haven't met him already? What if he’s been working with you this whole time knowing he’s fondled your wife?” she said with an eye roll. “You’re ridiculous.”

Eris paused and narrowed his eyes at her as she pursed her lips, holding back another laugh.

“Do I need to fight for my honor then, wife?”

“Your honor?”

“Yes. You won’t tell me the wife fondler’s name. I will fight for it and win back my respect.”

“You’re losing respect by the second the more you ask about him.”

Eris put a hand over his heart and gave her a once-over. “I am the son of a high lord.”

Sheathing her dagger, Iris gave him a saccharine smile and said as she told him once before, “Kiss my ass.”

Eris chuckled. “A few training sessions and you’ve gotten cocky. I’d like to see you try without the dagger then.”

“You just want me to get you on your back again, don’t you?” she taunted with a smirk that had Eris grinning. “Right where you belong.”

“What if I want to get you on your back?”

“We both know by now that’s not how it would go.”

Eris smirked and tried not to let his delight show at the slight flush in her cheeks that had nothing to do with their workout.

“I’m very curious to know how you think it would go.” he said seductively. “How long are you going to keep resisting my charms?”

Iris pursed her lips and raised a brow. “Funny how you think there is much to resist.”

Eris tutted as they stood opposite each other, and he gave her another slow once-over. “We’re two sides of the same miserable coin so don’t you lie to me. The least we can do is fuck it out, little gazelle.”

Iris returned the once over with one of her own before she met his gaze and firmly said, “Don’t ask for things you won’t survive, husband.”

“I’ve always liked a challenge, wife.”

Iris’s brow raised in challenge. “You would barely survive a kiss.”

“Is it the witchcraft or poison on your lips that’ll do me in?” he asked with a lazy grin and Iris rolled her eyes, though the corner of her mouth ticked up.

“It would be the knife I so casually slip into your chest if you took a kiss before I gave it.”

“And when will you give me one, wife?” he teased, and she shrugged nonchalantly.

“Maybe today. Maybe tomorrow.” she replied airily. “When I feel like it, I suppose.”

And oh, Iris would never admit it to him at the moment, but she definitely felt like it. All this time she shared a bed with this male and had started to share so much with him...except a kiss. By her request, of course.

Which she was deeply regretting because now, all Iris felt was pressure. An insane amount of pressure that sat on her chest daily, that squeezed when she looked at him and Iris found herself looking at him a lot.

He chuckled at her comment, waving her off then rubbed his cheek, at the scruff gracing his face and Iris wondered if he had any idea what the light beard was doing to her. He seemed to have forgotten about it completely.

“I like my odds with maybe.” he said with a wink and shoved his shoulder into hers gently.

Iris pursed her lips then shoved him right back but knew he didn’t miss the way she kept eyeing him, her gaze constantly on his face.

“Is there something you would like to say?” he teased again, and Iris rolled her eyes, pushing past him.

“There are a few things I’d like to say but I am a lady.”

“A lady with one of the filthiest mouths I’ve ever seen.” Eris said with a snort. “I have been bamboozled.”

“Bamboozled?” she asked, putting a hand over her heart as a coy smile found its way to her lips. “Are you flirting with me, husband?”

Eris gave her a smirk. “It only took for me to admit being fooled that you realized? I need to work on my game then.”

“Yes, you do. You’re terrible.”

And the two shared a small, shy smile as they made their way out of the private training room and back to their bedroom.

Since their little heart-to-heart, things seemed to be different but they were both still somewhat cautious with each other. Iris still scowled in his general direction at some of the nonsense he said, and though the pillow barricade was getting shorter, it still stood proudly between them.

A flush blossomed on her cheeks as Iris recalled yesterday morning when she woke up to find their hands inches away from each other.

They still didn’t know what to make of the other.

But...he seemed to be trying. And so, she tried as well.

Each morning, they would venture out somewhere different in the Autumn Court, places she had never seen though she had been born and raised in it. Eris included her in almost everything and watching him work had been fascinating. The way everything was done in plain sight of Beron and yet...the High Lord knew nothing of the system Eris had built that functioned without him.

The day he introduced her to a few select people he valued above everyone else was one that filled her with pride.

“This is Nevien, the only healer I trust. She’s patched me up more times than I care to admit.” Eris had said when introducing the older female. Iris had noted his fond smile towards her as the healer smiled back. “Nevien, please note you might see me more often these days as I’m going to start training my wife. She has the tendency to try and stab me.” Nevien had only laughed as Iris rolled her eyes.

Later that same day, he introduced her to some of his closer sentries she had seen around.

“These are Oren, Mikel, and Serphan — three of my generals who oversee the workings of my legion and personal court within our territory. I trust them with my life.” he explained, and Iris nodded her greeting with a smile — until Eris turned to his generals and continued with, “Friends, if I am murdered, please put Iris on trial first as she threatens me with death several times a day. I annoy her enough that she might actually do it.”

Her expression had flattened before shooting Eris a glare but he only smirked as his men held back smiles.

“See? Murder is in her eyes.”

“Keep talking, it won’t only be in my eyes.” she had muttered. He had only grinned in that infuriating way of his while his companions laughed.

So his most trusted men watched her. His most trusted healer started meeting with her. He trained her himself and Iris had never been so blissfully busy, it made her heart burst. She was finding purpose.

Most importantly, he made time with her every single day to spend away from the court. Even if it wasn’t far, even if it was just in the fields watching her as she ran around with the hounds, he took her.

They avoided his father. They avoided her father. They avoided any outside factors that could sour the mood between them.

They spent every night with each other and when they weren’t exhausted, they spent it doing mindless activities together. The other night, he had sat opposite her while playing cards and Iris couldn’t take her eyes off him. She watched how at ease he was with her, his eyes focused on his cards while biting his lip. Or at least his gaze had been focused on the cards, — until he snapped his eyes to hers and he sniffed the air.

“Interesting development.” he said, and Iris narrowed her eyes at the stupid smirk on his face.

“What development is that?”

“I didn’t realize playing cards turned you on, wife.” he said with a Cheshire cat smile and Iris flushed deeply.

“Oh yes, cards are one of my fetishes.” she said dryly and forced herself to roll her eyes, but Eris’s smile only widened.

She froze, watching him calmly put down his cards and with a predatory gleam in his eyes, Eris moved closer and closer until he leaned over her just slightly so, a knowing look in his eyes. “If that’s the case, I think we can play a different game.”

Iris leaned back from him, her cards hugged to her chest, as if hoping he couldn’t hear how loudly it was beating. “And what game would that be?” she asked, completely distracted by the way his scent seemed to flood her senses.

“Why, strip poker, of course.” he said, leaning in further until he hovered close enough to her face and they shared a breath. “If playing cards makes you feel this excited, it seems logical stripping should come next.”

Iris huffed out a laugh, even as her blush gave her away, and shoved his head back with her palm. “Just say you want me naked and stop beating around the bush.”

Eris snorted and slowly backed away, to where he lay across from her and picked up his cards again. “I don’t think I’ve beat around the bush about that for one moment, wife.” he said and then gave her a wink. “Whenever you’re ready, I’ll only let you beg for it a little.”

“What makes you think I’ll beg at all?” she asked more haughty than she felt.

And the look he had given her set her whole body aflame. “We shall see, won’t we?” he said softly, and Iris had a much more difficult time paying attention to her cards after that.

As time started to pass, Iris felt how her feelings towards him shifted from wary to complicated to...somewhat ease. He didn’t push her or invade her space. He taunted her, of course, but never anything more and she found...she stopped minding the taunts so much.

One morning at breakfast, he had left her a simple gift box on their table and when Iris opened it to find a dagger, a well of emotion had surged in her body so fiercely, it almost made her cry. The same dagger was now sheathed to her thigh and Iris had to school herself at the time not to launch herself at him as he only said, “Consider it a late wedding gift.”

It was a beautiful dagger with a gold hilt, light enough it didn’t hold her back but sharp enough to slice off an arm.

And this had changed everything for Iris. Because it was an olive branch. A sign of trust. She had almost kissed him then. She found herself almost kissing him in quite a few situations.

She had even started to feel bolder with her nightclothes, choosing ones more comfortable though not too revealing. And with the way he cataloged each set, she might as well have been naked.

It was deeply unfortunate that he was very attractive, and she was, unfortunately, becoming attracted to him. Unfortunate that there always seemed to be a pull between them and Iris felt her walls getting lower and lower around him. Felt herself starting to like him and it scared the living daylights out of her enough that she always hesitated.

She watched him as they now walked down the mostly empty hall, nodding as certain staff passed. Iris observed him and knew if she didn’t say something soon, she’d end up doing something stupid, like shove him against the wall and kiss him how she desperately wanted to.

Clearing her throat, she stole a glance at him and quietly said, “I’m excited to visit Elain and Lucien tomorrow.”

Eris’s eyes met hers for a moment and the corner of his mouth ticked up. “So am I. They’re very excited to meet you.”

She fiddled with the hem of her shirt for a moment before speaking. “You told me you can see us getting along before...that’s still the case now, right?”

Eris blinked then paused in his steps, causing Iris to almost collide into him. He turned and gave her a curious look. “Yes, of course. Are you...nervous?”

Iris scoffed, though her cheeks heated. “Of course, I’m nervous! They’re the only family you like aside from your mother and I’m still trying to find time to spend with her.” she said in a quick breath then added quietly, “I want them to like me.”

Eris’s brows went up in surprise then he chuckled. “I can assure you, they’re going to like you very much.” he said. “Probably more than they like me.”

Iris pursed her lips, holding back a small smile then cleared her throat again as they started walking once more. “Well, that much can be expected. I am nicer than you.”

Eris rolled his eyes, knocking into her shoulder gently. “So you say. Yet, I am the one getting threats on a daily basis from someone.”

Iris crossed her arms and knocked her shoulder back into him. “Are you saying they’re undeserved?”

“I am saying for someone so nice, you have quite the violent tendencies.”

“That mouth of yours can inspire homicidal tendencies in just about anyone so really, are you surprised?” she replied with a pointed look and Eris blinked at her then tilted his head back with a laugh.

Iris’s lips twitched, watching the way his face changed with the laugh. How open he seemed. How unburdened. She liked when he laughed. She liked it a lot.

So she added, “One could argue you inspire those homicidal tendencies just by standing there and breathing but I don’t want to give you too much credit.”

“Oh the way you are with your words, wife.” he said with a shake of his head, one of the more genuine smiles on his face. “I’m so incredibly flattered.”

Iris looked down with a small smile, her cheeks reddening just so at his words, at his gaze on her. Only when he gently brushed his fingers against hers at her side did she look up again.

“I know going to the Day Court is a big deal for you.” he said quietly. “Your mother was originally from there, yes?”

Iris looked at him in surprise. She had mentioned that small detail to him in passing, through one of their random conversations. A warm feeling spread through her chest that he remembered.

“Yes, she was.” she said, a sad smile finding its way to her lips. “I’ve always wanted to visit but...he never allowed it.” Iris looked at Eris, brushing back a strand of hair that fell loose from her braid. “I’ve always heard it’s very beautiful. Do Elain and Lucien live in the city itself?”

“They live on the outskirts, closer to the countryside. But you can see the city from their home.” he replied then chuckled. “It is definitely a very beautiful place, but a little too warm for me. I am a bit biased to our crisp and airy weather.”

Iris laughed softly. “That makes sense, I suppose.” She glanced at him once then licked her lips before asking, “Do — do you think we could visit separately one day and explore the city?”

She didn’t miss the look in his eyes at her question.

Iris had grown up learning to expect no to any of her requests — just because her father had the power to do so. But Eris hadn’t said it once. Hadn’t scoffed at a single thing she asked for or about. So she tried to word her questions better, word them in a way that didn’t make him feel doubtful of her. He certainly tried for her and she wanted to keep trying to expect the better of him.

“Helion has been generous enough to grant me permission to visit Lucien at any time so I don’t see why not. I can send in a formal request for the two of us at some point.”

“Yeah?” she asked and her smile widened. “Do you think we’d be able to stay overnight too?”

Eris’s brows shot up and then he gave her a smirk that instantly had her regretting her question. “You’d have to share a bed with me in a new location. However will you be able to handle it, wife?” he asked in a voice too sinful to be used in a public setting. “I’m afraid we’ll be kicked out with how indecent you’ll be with me. How will I protect my modesty?”

Iris let out a cackle of a laugh even as her cheeks heated once more. “Eris Vanserra and the word modesty do not go together. Please don’t embarrass yourself with such lies.”

“That’s quite mean, wife. I won’t let you ravish me close enough to traumatize my brother if you’re not nice to me.”

“No, thank you. I will bunk with Elain and you can bunk with Lucien. The two of you can relive your cherished brotherly memories of sharing a space and protect your precious modesty.”

Eris snorted. “You think I shared a space with anyone? Please.”

“A high-maintenance princess through and through.” she said with a grin and felt his soft laugh skate down her spine.

“But of course, I can’t have you lusting after a heathen.”

“Your mistake is you think I’m lusting after you at all.”

Eris gave her a knowing look. “Oh the lies you tell, wife.”

Iris rolled her eyes. “Enough about you, princess.” she said with a small smile when his mouth formed a very small pout. “Lucien’s the only one of your brothers that surprisingly hasn’t tried to kill you, right?”

Eris waved a hand with a good-natured shrug. “I wouldn’t say never but definitely less than the others.”

Iris raised a brow, lowering her voice, and walked closer to him as people passed them in the mostly empty hall. “So that’s why he’s your favorite.”

“I’m his favorite.” he corrected. “I tolerate them all just fine.”

“It makes sense that you would choose him. He is the most handsome of you.” She said with a smirk that widened at the outrage on his face as he gaped at her.

“You think Lucien is more handsome than I am?”

“You don’t?” She asked with an innocent blink.

“Even with his metal eye?” he asked in amusement and Iris shrugged then gave an exaggerated dreamy sigh.

“Especially with the eye.” she said and fought the smile at Eris’s expression. “It definitely makes him more dashing.”

“You don’t even know Lucien.” he muttered childishly, his eyes narrowed.

“Everyone knows Lucien.” she said, biting back the grin threatening to burst out of her at his expression. “Before he was mated, the Seventh son of Beron was very well-liked by many females. Quite a few males too.”

Eris narrowed his eyes on her.

Iris smiled back innocently.

He scoffed and knocked into her shoulder gently. “I’ll allow your momentary lapse in judgment. Only because I know what’s really in your heart, wife.”

Iris rolled her eyes again, flicking his arm lightly. “Oh do tell, husband dear. What is in my heart?”

“Why, how could it be anyone else but me, little gazelle?” He replied with a smug smile and tapped over his heart. “I’m sitting right in there, warming it all up.”

It was Iris’s turn to let out a snort. “I thought you wanted to worm your way under my dresses?”

“I’m great at multitasking. I want to be under your dress, in your heart, and I already know I’m in your head with how often you think about me.”

She let out a laugh and the corner of Eris’s mouth curved up. “You are so full of yourself, how does your body manage to carry that fat head of yours?”

“I have incredible thighs to hold up my weight.”

The laugh died in her throat as Eris’s head shot up and faster than Iris could comprehend, he had her cornered against the wall, his hand lightly wrapped around her throat.

“Play along.” he whispered.

#eris vanserra #eris vanserra x oc #eris vanserra fanfics #eris x oc #gfics #smtb #smtb chapters #If you'd like to be tagged or removed (no hard feelings!!) please let me know :)#if you were previously tagged and I stopped it's because I think I'm annoying you so I stopped lmao.#thank you for reading and for my older smtb readers - thanks for tagging along until we get to the newer stuff hehe <3

55 notes · View notes

what-if-i-just-did · 4 months

Text

Idk who needs to hear this but... you're allowed to make things easier for yourself. You're allowed to half-ass things. You don't have to do things the way you're 'supposed' to. Yeah, you should be doing everything completely, but if you can't do that, then doing some things partly is still better than doing totally nothing.

You can sit down while doing the dishes. You can have wash baskets and trash cans in every room in your house. You can brush your teeth for twenty seconds. You can buy kiddie tooth paste. You can brush your teeth at any time of day. You can get yourself a rubber duck. You can get yourself a huge IKEA shark if you want to. You can leave the curtains closed and your bed unmade. You can shower at any temperature that's comfortable to you. You can shower with the lights off. You can shower long. You can shower short. You can cover the mirrors. You can shower in bathing clothes. You can even shower in normal clothes if it'll make you feel better. You can shower without soap. You can just use soap on the places that need it most. If touching any one part of yourself triggers you, you don't have to wash it. You can sit down while you shower. You can wear the same clothes for a week. You can decide your outfits days before you wear them. You don't have to brush your hair. You don't have to take off your shoes at the door. You can rip out the tags of new clothes.

You can add and remove whatever it is that'll make things easier and less triggering for you, even if it seems silly. Even if it only helps a little. Even if you 'should be doing it better'. You don't owe people as much as you think you do. You don't owe anyone your prettiness, your dedication. Having a mental illness or a disability is hard. Most people don't understand that, but guess what? You don't owe them an explanation. You don't have to conform to neurotypical standards of 'good'. Your depression standard of 'good enough' is allowed to be less than that.

Seeing as this got more attention than I thougght it would, I need to add; I know there's other factors. I know you can't always afford to get yourself a huge IKEA shark, I know you don't always have time to shower for forty minutes, I know sometimes you get less tips/work if you don't look pretty. The point here isn't the details, it's the mindset of the fact that the details don't matter. A job doesn't always have to be well-done, in fact, a half-done job gets you half the way there.

(I wrote this with neurodivergent/mentally ill people in mind, but a lot of this also goes for disabled people so I'll also tag that. If that's like, ableist, in any way, please tell me and I'll fix it!!! I just wanna be helpful but I know that that doesn't always mean I am)

#depression #disability #depression tips #disability tips #neurodivergent tips #disabled hygiene tips #actually mentally ill #tw depression #encouraging words

120 notes · View notes

talks-with-the-void · 3 months

Text

I tried to tag the commenter but the blog doesn't show up, so I can't. TW: this post does contain what could be interpreted as reality checking and although I don't mean any harm, this could potentially be triggering!

But anyway, this requieres a longer answer - I'm gonna give them the benefit of the doubt and just assume they just don't know better, which is fine, we're all here to learn. So please don't read an attack into this! I also do not experience delusions myself and certaimly don't want to speak over those who do. I am doing my best to be respectful and not accidentally spread misinformation, but if I mess up, please let me know!

Firstly, "delusion" is not a bad word. a delusion isn't "somethign stupid someone believes in, what the fuck is wromg with them", it's a (symptom of) a serious mental illness, often seen in schizophrenia and psychosis. it's an unshakable belief that contradicts Reality (= in this post, Reality with a capital R refers to the reality that is generally shared by all people and can be seen and experinced by everyone - aside from those who may have delusions). "touching grass" won't do anything to help that, it is reality for them and absolutely nothing and nobody can change that. at worst, telling them they're wrong and should just "touch grass" will make them suffer even more.

so, yes, you could say that all p-shifters experince delusions, because nobody but them can see their transformations. at least, there hasn't been any proof at all until today and their beliefs absolutely clash with science and Reality. but here's the thing: there is a condition called clinical lycanthropy or clinical zoanthropy, which describes exactly the experience of believing you can, have turned or will turn into an animal. there are quite a few of them here on tumblr, having their own community which also often kinda overlaps with alterhuman spaces. those people are not p-shifters! p-shifter is not a medical term or anything, instead it is a term that has evolved here on the internet and has a history of cult-like behaviour, lots of manipulation, malicious people, etc. the "original" p-shifters also oftentimes had a lot of ableistic opinions, openly shitting on clinical zoanthropes, using delusional as an insult, etc. the term p-shifter was never ever meant to describe the experience of clinical zoanthropy. it was invented to create the feeling of belonging to an elite group, to put yourself over others. it's even questionable if the majority of p-shifters actually believes they could transform or if they just wanted power over others, promising them to teach them how to turn, knowing all to well it can't work.

nowadays, some clinical zoanthropes try to "reclaim" the term p-shifter - which is a problem, because you can't just take a term that was NEVER meant to describe your experinces and also never used as a slur against you. a different example in alterhuman context would e the word kinnie - originally made by trolls and to shit on otherkin, it always directly addressed otherkin, even if in a deregatory way. it was meant to be used for otherkin. p-shifter was never meant to be used for delusional people. p-shifter will always have its ties to manipulation and cults, it will always be a harmful term.

I don't and will never allow people who call themselves p-shifters on my blog, because of the terms roots.

there is nothing wrong with truly believing you can transforn into an animal, even tho it contrdicts Reality. there is absolutely nothing wrong with being delusional (as in, it doesn't make you a bad person, of course it almost always comes with suffering). there however IS something wrong with proudly using a term that was NEVER meant for you, never described your experiences and instead has a history of manipulation and online-cults. if you proudly call yourself p-shifter and just basically decide to ignore that history, I don't trust you.

THIS is what my post was about, not about the fact that some people are delusional.

#nonhuman #alterhuman #alterhumanity #otherkin #nonhumanity

53 notes · View notes

psychiatricwarfare · 1 month

Text

PLEASE tag unreality posts properly

ok so ive noticed that some of yall really have no idea what unreality means and i can tell because i have the tag blacklisted so i dont get needlessly triggered while scrolling through tumblr dot com and as long as im told its not real its usually fine so ill click on the button to view it and itll be like... a picture of someones childhood home.. that... that is Not unreality. even if it is YOUR childhood home and it makes YOU disassociate. that is Not unreality and you're needlessly making Other delusional/psychotic/disassociative people's minds run wild as it tries to guess What in this picture isnt real & can spiral into convincing ourselves that nothing is real

on the other hand, sometimes ill be hit with a post with No Warning that says some shit like "THEY are coming for you. Hide." and like do i need to explain how this is harmful??

im not saying you cant shitpost or weirdpost or creepypost or whatever but pls tag properly (learn how under the cut)

if you dont know what should be tagged as unreality, its anything that isnt actually real/true, i would say that most importantly, unreality should be tagged on posts that could trigger delusions in people. think back to the me or ps5 song, the guy who originally duetted her has come forward asking people to please tag it as unreality due to the lines "its me boy im the ps5 speaking to you from inside your brain" and "listen to me, boy, your free will is an illusion" triggering people into experiencing delusions. in general, if the goal of your post is to harmlessly scare someone at 2am by making up a spooky scenario or evil creature or whatever, it needs an unreality tag

"you have been chosen" type posts are a form of unreality as well and can trigger delusions of grandeur, religious delusions, etc.

eerie and unsettling posts (i particularly see this with photographs) with no words and/or anything fake added are NOT unreality, it is only unreality if there are UNreal elements or if the entire thing is made up

common tags that unreality is found in are things like weirdcore, dreamcore, liminalcore (<- this one is usually mistagged unsettling photographs of real places), chaos posting, etc.

if you have any more questions i highly recommend interacting with (& befriending) more people who experience dissociation/psychosis/schizophrenia/delusions/paranoia/etc so you can get a better understanding of what people like us experience

#bug talks #bug rants #actually dissociative #actually paranoid #actually delusional #delusions #psychospec #schizospec #shitpost #weirdcore #dreamcore #liminalcore #chaos posting

43 notes · View notes

Last Seen Blogs

apricusnights

Apricus Nights

willbyersapologist

ness

glambykirstenxo

kirsten

alemdar1

goudavibrations

look! listen! vibrate! smile!