#what are they supposed to do in emergencies. how are they supposed to participate in absolutely anything
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Jesus christ I am so sorry for grade school kids, it's just getting worse and worse isnt it?
For those who dont know about the most recent horrible implementation in schools (atm this seems to be centralized to Australia and the USA, but it's entirely possible it's being implemented elsewhere too), apparently a lot of school districts have decided it's a good idea to start forcing kids to lock up their phones without immediate or easy access to a key, with threat of immediate suspension if they're found not complying.
Schools are using something called a Yondr pouch (that costs those districts tens of thousands to buy, by the way) that is made to put phones in and lock with a magnetic lock. One of these is given to each student, and they are expected to lock it at a magnet set up outside the school (at least at my siblings school, I'm not sure if that is the universal set up or not) at the beginning of the day, and unlock it in the same place at the end. I couldn't find any articles talking about the issue in general, only for specific schools. Just look up Yonder pouch at schools if you'd like to read more into it, theres plenty of articles.
I'm sure that, as long as you've thought about it for more than two seconds, you can see how at best this is unnecessary, stupid, and useless (kids have Already figured out tons of ways past unlocking it, obviously), and at worst it could be fucking deadly.
How are kids going to coordinate their ride home from after school activities? Ask family to bring in things they forgot? Receive important and/or sensitive information from family during school? Go without alarms for medications? Call for help or warn others when someone is hurt or a fucking shooter breaks in?
I could go on and on and on about how fucking stupid and dangerous this is. It is Going to get someone hurt. No one deserves their school record being ruined by this. And even if some schools arent that strict, I can sure bet they'll play favorites.
Please, please, please, if this is happening in a school district that affects you or your loved ones raise as much of a complaint about it as possible. Talk to parents of other kids, talk about how dangerous this could be, email your districts, do what you can. If you're not affected, reblogging/letting others know and/or supporting people who are helps. And kids affected by this please just do your best to stay safe. Magnets will not damage your phone, so I reccomend finding any that are small and strong enough to open the lock to keep with you if you can, or look up other methods of unlocking them. Please, stay safe. I'm so sorry you're being treated this way.
#school#important#im just. so fucking mad right now.#they're really going to endanger students and make their lives harder over a fucking powerplay#what are they supposed to do in emergencies. how are they supposed to participate in absolutely anything
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true temptation ☆ cl16
genre: sainz!reader, humor, nnn (mommy, i can explain), smut, fluff, whipped!charles, established relationship
word count: 2k
Your boyfriend makes a decision to participate in NNN, but immediately regrets it when he realizes just how difficult it is to stay away from you.
nsfw warning under the cut!
18+...car sex, riding, fingering
req!... probably the longest drabble i’ve done so far, but i hope you all enjoy!
“You’re never going to last.”
The Monegasque’ eyes challenge you as you stand there unimpressed, hands on your hips. It had all started with him barging in on you and calling an ‘emergency couple’s meeting’.
Pacing the room, he goes back and forth, mumbling slowly, as if creating a plan up in his head. As far as you’re concerned, he was never going to actually do it. The man was obsessed with you.
“Have a little faith in me,” he groans, hands brushing his hair back in despair.
His so called - ‘emergency’ - was that he would be taking part in No Nut November. No kissing. No sex.
Or anything remotely related to it.
Walking up to him, you pat his chest. His hands find their way down to your waist, doe eyes staring back up at him.
“I will… But I’m going to make your head spin.”
-
He started off strong. He even felt a bounce in his step when he entered Ferrari Hospitality; he swore he felt like he was walking on sunshine.
“You’re actually doing it?”
Joris, too, had no hope for his friend. He had seen the way the green eyed boy would cling onto you as if it were the only thing he knew how to do. The way he talked about you, even when you weren’t around.
“Oui. Why? Do you not think it’s a good idea?”
His friend tilts his head to the side as he thinks about it for a minute. “Not sure. All I know is that your and Pierre’s bet on who can last longer is never going to end up good. You can’t even go a single second without kissing her!”
“He said he could last longer than me? I have to prove him wrong….” His mind slips over to the last part. “I can live without her kisses for a month. It’ll be fine.”
The Ferrari driver makes his way to his team, properly analyzing what faults his car had and how he can make the best out of it. Frustrated, Charles rubs his eyes.
“I will do the best I can, but I can’t promise a podium. Not with a car like this.”
Taking notes, Xavi nods as he walks away. “Hi, Xavi!” The sound of your voice instantly makes him ease up as he searches for you. His jaw goes slack.
“What are you wearing?”
Smiling wide with eyes crinkled, you rush over to him. “It’s only a dress.”
But it wasn’t just a dress. He knows you did it on purpose, wearing the little black dress he had last fucked you in. It’s the way it fans your thighs as the wind gently teases anyone passing by.
“You’re supposed to be on my team. Are we really going to let Kika and Pierre win?”
Rolling your eyes, you tippy toe, naturally about to kiss him, but stop yourself before you do. He frowns.
“You are sooo right!” You comedically screech as you slap your hands against your cheeks. “I do want us to win! Forget the kiss, my mistake.”
He chuckles darkly, shaking his head.
“You’re a fucking nightmare.”
-
He’s a week in and he’s finally starting to lose his grip.
“You’re sweating buckets, mate,” Daniel points out as he lets out a loud laugh, doing a muppet dive. Charles unbuttons his collared shirt.
“It’s the heat, it’s the heat.”
The Aussie furrows his eyebrows and he raises a hand up to feel the air. Light breeze. Shivering, you strut over to your boyfriend.
“Can we leave? It’s getting too cold.”
And he hates the way that dress clings onto your body, your figure being completely shown off. Nothing but dirty thoughts have entered his mind from the moment he first saw you.
“Sure.”
Kicking off your heels, you throw yourself onto the bed, face first. Shooo tirefff, you mumble against the sheets. He purposefully takes a seat across from you, knowing he’d be tempted to cross the line if he didn’t.
Tossing over, you reach out for him. And he’s about to turn you down, but he notices the way your nose is painted pink - your cheeks, too - and soft, tired eyes meeting his. His heart melts at the sight. So, he reminds himself that a hug with his girlfriend is nothing bad.
Climbing onto his lap, you dig your face into his chest, short dress riding up. He physically has to stop himself from letting out a loud moan. Instead, he traces his fingers up and down your spine. You shudder.
“Are you sure we can’t fuck, Charlie?”
Right there, is his breaking point. He’s ready to kiss you, finger you, eat you out, fuck you, anything. But you giggle teasingly as you pull back, a wicked smile drawn.
“Whoops. Never mind.”
-
He’s known you wouldn’t make this easy on him. It’s almost as if you’ve made it your mission to screw with his head - and while he would normally love it - in this case, it was killing him.
Dance with me, you would beg him and you sway in front of him. It was a rare moment of it just being you two, so naturally, you took advantage of it. You showered, did your skincare, watched a movie, but the moment you heard Sparks by Coldplay echoing from his phone, you immediately jumped up like a bunny.
Then, his heart would melt, and melt, and melt - and melt some more. It would only be a reminder of what a perfect match you both were. He would memorize your face once again; no makeup, eyebags due to long travels with him, a small cut on the bridge of your nose from earlier when Lando had accidentally hit you with his frisbee, pink lips he so desperately missed.
He would oblige, the way you knew he would. He found home within you as you would both sway, your feet on top of his as he would lead you both, you having to do nothing but close your eyes and feel his heartbeat. And it was so sweet to know that it was only yours.
I love you, he would remind you as if he didn’t already tell you a million times before. As if it were a way to make up for all this. And you would say-
“I know.”
-
“How are you keeping up?”
The Frenchman smiles proudly as he takes a sip of water. “I’m actually doing fine. You?”
Charles gulps, green eyes following to where you stand next to Kika.
“Good.”
-
“It’s actually not that hard.”
Kika and you had been touching up on your boyfriend's challenge. She would say it as if it were the easiest thing. You slump against your chair.
“That’s not fair… Mine has the most beautiful face ever!”
“Hey!”
You squeal as she aims a pillow at you. I’m sorry! The Portuguese laughs too, sticking her tongue out. You sigh. “I do miss him, though.”
“Yeah…”
“Have we seriously just been talking about how horny we are?”
“Don’t say it like that!” She bites her lip. “We have.”
“Why did they ever think this was going to be a good idea?”
Propping her arm against the table, she beams. “It’s not, but I heard from Pierre about how much Charles is struggling.” You groan.
“Yeah, well that’s nothing but his own fault.”
-
It’s now been 2 weeks and he’s already given up. His pleads were convincing.
C’mon, baby. Let me fuck you.
It’s been too long. I miss the way you taste.
But you stood your ground.
“No, no, no.” You shook your head, running away. Seeing Carlos, you hide behind him. “You brought this onto yourself! Now you’re just going to have to deal with it.”
Confused, Carlos questions you both on what you’re talking about. It’s just that your sister won’t let me-
“Stop! That’s my brother!”
The Monegasque shrugs as Carlos turns to you. What is he talking about? Your face burns up as you brush him off. “Nada, nada - he’s just being a jerk.” And so, he believes it and walks away, too tired to deal with any of it.
You let out a squeal when Charles plunges towards you. He picks you up, carrying you to his motorhome.
“Let go!”
Dropping you onto his small bed, he stares down at you like a lion salivating over their prey. You suppress a whimper, clamming your legs shut. He raises a brow.
“You’re telling me you don’t want the same thing I do? I promise I’ll do it just the way you like it.”
Closing your eyes, you can picture it. You can feel him already, pressed up against you. You do want it, you do. Opening your eyes, you shake your head.
“Just two more weeks to go.”
-
“We lost.” Taken aback, you snort. What do you mean? Your friend blushes before dragging you to the corner. “I mean that last night Pierre and I went out for dinner and one thing led to another and-”
“Okay, okay, I caught on!”
Giggling, she shimmies her shoulders towards you. “What are you going to do?” You pout as you stare back blankly. She sighs. “I’m talking about you and Charles! I mean you both already won - you could do whateverrrr you want.”
Stuttering, you cough before saying, “You made it loud and clear, thank you very much.”
-
Shivering, you climb into the passenger's seat of his Pista as you thank him for opening and closing your door. As soon as he climbs in, he turns on the heater. The Monaco streets were lonely, everyone already in their homes, sheltering from the light rain that had picked up.
“You want to pull over?”
You sound so sweet asking that he almost thinks he’s hallucinating or that any second now you’re going to surprise him with a, just kidding!
But he quickly could tell you weren’t and he doesn’t want to let the moment slip away. Not when he’s been waiting for so long. Screw it if he lost.
Pulling over on the side of an isolated street, he hauls you onto his lap. You thank the universe for skirts. Pushing your panties aside, his long fingers slide against your wet folds. You let out a wail.
“Fuck, you don’t know how I’ve missed hearing you.” He slides two fingers in. “Feeling you.”
Dazed, you find yourself grinding on his fingers. Every single time they would brush against your g-spot, you would kiss him harder. He slips them out, bringing them up to his lips.
And he moans in a way you’ve never heard before. So fucking sweet. Blushing, you lean in to kiss him. You can still taste yourself.
“Charles, please - do something.”
Never during your entire relationship has he ever fucked you as hard as he did that day. His grip on your waist hurt, but it hurt so good. His cock would continuously brush against where you needed him the most, so much so, he left you seeing stars. Drooling all over him, you hold onto his shoulders, bouncing up and down rapidly.
“So tight – So warm.” He chokes when you ground your hips deeper. “So fucking good.”
Then, he finishes inside of you. His fingers slide down to your clit as he rubs it. You finish with a loud cry. Kissing you one last time, he slaps your ass. You scowl playfully.
“Admit it - you’ve missed it, too.”
-
“Just a few more weeks and you would have won!” Pierre clicks his tongue before kicking his legs up against the table in front of him. Charles rolls his eyes.
“I’m never doing that again.”
Kika smacks the Frechman’s thigh. “You both lost, remember? Only, you did before him.” The Monegasque quickly springs up.
“You’re saying we won?”
“You’re acting as if this were the fucking Olympics, Cha.” You drag him by the arm to sit back down as he starts celebrating his ‘accomplishment of the year’.
“What are we clapping about?”
Your brother strolls over to an open seat as he opens up a water bottle. Hurriedly, you screech, “Nothing! Only that the season is almost over-”
“He’s yapping about how he won No Nut November, except, he didn’t. 2 weeks and fucking does not count.”
“You did what?”
Jumping up, Charles trips over his feet as he tries backing away from the angry Spaniard. “I think I forgot my phone! I’ll be right back!”
Chasing after him, your brother yells out, “That’s my baby sister, cabrón!”
#f1#f1 imagine#f1 x reader#charles leclerc#charles leclerc imagines#charles leclerc x reader#charles leclerc drabble#charles leclerc smut#charles leclerc f1#charles leclerc imagine#charles leclerc one shot#charles leclerc x you#charles leclerc x female reader
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sweet cream, cold brew | lmh ( m )
something about mark lee keeps you up at night, and you’re pretty sure that it isn’t the lingering smell of espresso on his shirt.
alternatively: mark is shy until he isn’t.
read the second part here!
pairing: nerd!barista!mark x reader
verse: college au
rating: r ( minors, do not interact! )
warnings&tags: unprotected sex, oral (f!receiving), fingering, slightly possessive/jealous dialogue, mark has a thing for tummy bulges because why not, implicitly that also means he has a big dick, a slight???? exhibitionism kink (not actually something that happens, only talked about), johnny exists in this simply to trigger something vaguely feral in mark, reader is a little bit assertive and schemes to get mark's attention, jaehyun is a nosy lil eavesdropper, i think that should be it??
word count: 26.4k
a/n: hello so this was a mess and honestly not a fic i would say showcases my best plot-wise but… what can I say apart from booty wurk mark has me in a chokehold and I needed to release some thoughts and feelings !!! please do not expect too much from the development of the story; i fear it’s quite long and choppy because my ideas were all over the place and i was wringing my hands and brain constantly and i was eager to get to the spicy parts !! this is also not beta’d/proofread, it’s currently almost 1am, and i’ve been writing this on and off for a full week with very few breaks so it honestly felt like a fever dream for me LMAO please forgive any oversights and mistakes; i’ll try to go back on them another day and fix them little by little! finally and …most importantly belated happy birthday, my beloved morkly!
p.s. this will probably be flagged as ‘mature’ by tumblr, which means there’s a high likelihood it won’t appear in tags or searches. please consider reblogging to boost the fic, if you feel so inclined!
You’ve heard tell of how caffeine has inherently addictive properties.
The more of it you have in your lifetime, the more likely you are to experience symptoms of withdrawal whenever you try to have orange juice for breakfast in its stead. It sounds bad, actually, considering most addictive substances are, but you suppose that its benefits somehow outweigh its milder drawbacks. You’re not much of a coffee connoisseur the way some people — see: your best friends, Yeji and Jisu — are, trying one cafe after the other in pursuit of being able to nominate the winning beans of 2023 (an annual heated debate they participate in for no better reason than their own slow and useless entertainment during their six-hour long breaks), but you do know you’ve only ever experienced good things from having a cup every so often: better energy, a more focused approach to mental activities, and the ability to drive through fifty percent of a road trip without needing pop punk music blasting out of your speakers to keep yourself alert.
The three of you are generally particular about the coffee you drink, only in different ways. While your friends have a tendency to demand only the best from any establishment — lest the staff hear fiery commentary about the flatness of the brew or the evident coarseness of the grind — you, on the other hand, are a singular individual of rather simple tastes. All you need to survive long days is a glass of vanilla sweet cream cold brew. No modifications to the sugar level or fancy new milk types are necessary; you’ll drink it as it’s served in a grande cup (or a venti, when things prove particularly grueling).
Of course, you’re strict about other things in the experience of consumption — like where it’s served and, more importantly, who serves it to you.
While Yeji and Jisu have rated the Liberal Arts building’s on-campus Starbucks branch as a five with the strict label of POEO — ‘passable on emergencies only’ — branding the menu as “nothing revolutionary” and criticizing most baristas for subpar brewery, you happen to be extremely drawn to the place. Initially, you may have argued that this has to do with the fact that it’s walking distance from most of your classes, confined to the same general compound on campus, so you can always grab a quick recharger whenever needed, no matter how short the timeframe to do so is. Sometime later on, you may have found yourself asserting that the layout of the cafe, albeit small, is very convenient, considering that every table is situated next to an electrical outlet, so you’re never out of battery (important to other students for their laptops and powerpoint presentations, important to you because you have an unhealthy obsession with passing time on TikTok, scrolling past video after video of ASMR girls clicking their twenty-inch long acrylics with their crazy candyland designs), and this makes you feel at ease.
A month ago, you finally came clean to yourself and, soon after, to your friends, and they came to understand, albeit begrudgingly and with no small amount of amusement, what made this Starbucks unbeatable in your eyes; it had one thing no other coffee shop could lay claim to.
What you know of Mark Lee is accrued from two major sources: long, surreptitious glances in the Modern World History class you share, and irritatingly brief interactions when you place your order from the other side of the counter behind which he stands, long fingers always poised to punch in your order at the speed of light. Sometimes, those encounters get cut even shorter when irate upperclassmen start prattling their orders out before you can even say anything past your own, except even this has its own consolation prize — an apologetic smile at you that seems only for you, although you’re not sure how much of this assumption is true. You’ll just believe it as you feel it.
And what you’ve learned about Mark Lee has funneled down into two key points for you: first, he is single, a fact you were clued into when a group of his friends came to the coffee shop and sat around the table next to you. You hadn’t been eavesdropping; they’d just been pretty loud, but you’d also perked your ears the moment the one everyone seemed to call “Hyuck” — you aren’t sure if it’s his full name or a nickname, and you don’t particularly care — had leaned in for a conspiratorial whisper about having a vague master plan to set Mark up with an old high school friend’s younger sister that he was just waiting to spring on said Mark, busy slaving away on their six impossible orders near the espresso machine.
You don’t really know what became of that plan, nor if anyone had telepathically been on your side to outright call it crazy (someone should have had a better reason than you, anyway) since the next moment, Hyuck’s voice becomes significantly louder when it orders the one named Jisung to collect the completed coffee and snacks waiting for them on the counter. However, you feel safe in the assumption that even if it had happened, no repercussions had followed, seeing as Mark still presently comes and goes from his shifts alone and in no clear hurry to meet any cute girls that are sisters of high school friends of his friends. Or, maybe you’re just ignoring what could be truth, but that’s whatever.
Second, you’ve learned that Mark Lee should not actually be your type — at least, in theory.
Saying you’re out of his league would be a bit juvenile, but if you had only so many words to describe the situation, you’d say so under duress. It isn’t so much that he’s beneath you in any way, but your interests and general social circles run different routes. Yours tend to be more classically patterned after constantly changing trends, and the people you interact with all seem to have similar goals; you like to call it ‘vibe networking,’ which, from experience, involves connecting with both groups and individuals that are equally aware that they will benefit in some way from any resulting acquaintanceship — whether it be by climbing the social ladder a couple of rungs or being able to call in a quick, off-the-charts favor for something very important and/or very exclusive down the road. You and your friends spend a significant amount of time in a year watching your style and image, something quite a lot of kids in the first couple of years of college tend to do, which means that while you don’t particularly like to spend your time following your grade trajectory, you do have quite a lot of pseudo-friends that all seem to offer something entertaining or helpful to you.
Mark, on the contrast, prefers to keep his circle very close to his heart, it seems — that which acts as a receptacle for all his interests. You can tell that he likes to be up to date less with trending movies and more with comic books, a separate beast of a world that’s rather unknown to you. More than once, you’ve overheard him chat with his friends about Spider-man Issue Number Whatever-It-Is or engage in somewhat lively (sometimes rowdy, thanks to the Hyuck fellow) discussions about some webtoon you’ve come to understand is called Solo Leveling, which seems to have to do with monsters and hunters — two things you know next to nothing about. You’ve also never seen Mark holding anything remotely close to a magazine; his hands are always filled with either a freshly opened comic or a beat-up textbook. Maybe once or twice, you’ve seen him on his phone, but when you peeked over (surreptitiously, of course) on those occasions, you were met only with brightly colored panels and a singular word: BAM.
In conclusion — you and Mark Lee live very different lives, likely never truly meant to intersect.
And yet, you want him — not even in a way that speaks only to your curiosity, but in a manner that feels slightly delusional. More than once, you’ve found yourself having to shut your jaw close after realizing you’ve been watching him steam milk with your mouth slightly agape. Maybe it’s his side profile, which gives you a great view of the way his jaw tenses every time he puts whipped cream on someone’s frappuccino. Maybe it’s his eyes, which always seem to twinkle like he’s harboring some special secret every time someone in line asks for his recommendation on how to spice their order up. Maybe it’s his hands, steady and agile, with just the right showing of veins through the skin to tell you they’ve probably got significant strength to them too. Or maybe it’s just his mind — that thing he always manages to show off in class, working faster than lightning even when the rest of you are in your natural eight-in-the-morning stupor.
Whatever the reason for your interest, Mark Lee makes sure the Liberal Arts building’s Starbucks has you as a regular customer.
You’re fully aware that this is the twenty-first century, which is why you could, as Yeji and Jisu have so kindly made known, simply ask him out. Under normal circumstances, you would have.
Unfortunately, in this particular area of your life, separate from all others, you’re something of a traditionalist.
Actually, you just want to know what Mark asking you out would look like. Curiosity has fully gotten the better of you — how can it not, with how he breaks eye contact with you the moment it happens by accident in class, or with how pleasantly and shyly he smiles when you say ‘hey’ to him once you’re about to order? You’d like to see, first-hand, as a recipient of the experience itself, what he would look like taking control of a particular situation like that — something someone like him, so mild-mannered and laid-back, never really seemed to do upfront.
You’d like to think you’ve given him clear signs. There’s a reason you always come in during his shift times, and it’s the same reason for why you have the same damn drink from the menu over and over again despite not even caring too much about coffee in the first place (something he admittedly doesn’t know and probably wouldn’t puzzle out, given how often you’re in that Starbucks, anyway). It’s that you want him to remember you.
Selfishly, it’s that you want him to think just a little bit more about you every single day.
But if he does, Mark has never made it very clearly known; apart from taking your order in his genial customer service demeanor or letting a look of brief recognition pass his face over when you cross paths in the hallways, he’s never really shown heightened inquisitiveness about you. For all your differences, only you seem to actually care.
Frankly, that frustrates you, because if you have to think about him unhealthily, it would only be right for him to do that for your sake too. Still, you’ll shrug that hit on your pride off for as long as you can get his attention one way or another.
All you really need is for your plan to pan out as well as you think — and hope — it will.
The thing is, you’re not even that bad at math. You’ve never really excelled at it, of course, but you wouldn’t go so far as to say you’re in dire need of help from anyone — the kind of help that feels like babysitting, at least.
However, Mark Lee doesn’t know that, and you’re not compelled to make that fact known to him when you notice that he’s leaning on the counter with his elbows, shoulders rolled forward and head bent down. He’s twirling his ballpoint in hand, wrist hovering over a worksheet, and you’re briefly distracted by the rapidly moving shadow underneath it.
His head snaps up when you gently knock on the counter, and the rest of his body follows suit, straightening as he shoves the paper away, one edge crumpling in on itself as it meets resistance in the form of the pastry display glass.
“Hey — hi, _________.” He knows your name, says it easily, and while you’d like to believe it’s because of his unprecedented interest in you, you know that it’s just because you’re always here and always having him write your name on the side of your cup. “Can I get you the usual?”
There’s no particular reason you order what you do; maybe it’s just rooted in the fact that when you first asked Mark for a recommendation, he said that the Vanilla Sweet Cream Cold Brew was pretty good, and you were inclined to believe him (while pointedly ignoring the fact that it was, at the time, a new item all of the baristas were required to push to indecisive, slightly moony-eyed customers such as yourself). Whatever the case, you found the drink generally palatable, and you were also able to score the first of many smiles that fed into your two-semester-long infatuation with him, so it was basically a win-win scenario for all. He even got to do his job by getting some rube (see: you) into trying a new product.
“Hey, Mark.” You’ve long since given up pretending that you don’t know his name and have to check the tag on his cute green apron (why is it cute? You don’t know. It’s the same, standard, Starbucks green, but Mark makes it look homely and natural, somehow). You’ve been here way too many times over the last academic year for a nonchalant, were you talking to me? approach to work, anyway. “That, plus a lemon loaf, if you don’t mind. What’ve you got there?”
His eyes follow the trail of yours over to his wrinkled worksheet. “Oh — no, sorry. It’s nothing.”
“Is it secret?” Your bottom lip juts out, and you see his Adam’s apple bob dangerously, a small telltale sign of minute nervousness before he lets out a short laugh. “Didn’t know we kept stuff from each other.”
You don’t know what makes you say that so naturally. The both of you don’t do much beyond exchanging pleasantries.
“We — uh, well, it’s just a worksheet. For Park Hyosung’s class. College algebra?”
“I’m in Kim Junghwa’s. Can I have a look? I want to know if you’re suffering just as much as I am.”
He pauses, considering your request for a moment, likely wondering if there’s any harm in it before he smooths the paper out and turns it towards you. His handwriting’s a little messy, but his solutions are extremely neat. You see, like, one erasure, max. You also don’t see anything that interests you — except the name written at the top. Still, you can see at a general glance that more than half of his answers are correct; the logic of his organization is way too elegant and his writing’s too sure to be anything else. You whistle low, and his eyebrows shoot up.
“Something wrong?”
“Pretty much the opposite. How is it that you’re doing this without breaking a sweat?”
“Oh, well — it’s not…” He doesn’t even know how to brag. Yet another item in the perpetually growing list of things you find cute about Mark Lee. “I mean, anyone… can?”
“I must not be anyone then.” You meet his quizzical look with a wry smile. “Either you guys are leaps and bounds ahead, or I’m really not going to make it through this semester.”
Another silence passes, just for a fraction of a second — short enough to be passable to others, but long enough for you to wonder if your humor code isn’t up to par with the rest of the world’s — before Mark’s chuckling lowly. His large palm comes down, covering a majority of his answers in the process.
“You’re kidding. I’m sure you’re doing just fine.”
“Mark, look at this face.” You gesture to your evidently dumbfounded, blank expression. “Does this look like the face of someone that’s doing just fine?”
You’re pleased to hear another laugh from him; you don’t know if he really finds you funny or if he’s just the type to be easily amused. You don’t want to know, anyway; assuming is better than actually finding out.
“That bad, huh?” He slides the worksheet away again, like he’s afraid his correct answers are going to offend you into leaving the cafe. Instead, his hands start working on your order, grabbing a cup and scrawling the shorthand of the drink on one of the little boxes. “Ever think about getting a tutor, maybe? If you really feel like you’re drowning, that is.”
“A tutor? I guess that depends. Are you free on weeknights?”
The marker makes a soft screeching sound as he drags it down with too much force, ruining the penmanship of your name. Mark takes a moment to stare at the mistake on the plastic before he looks at you, pointing the rim of the cup towards himself. “Sorry — am I free—?”
“You said I should get a tutor, right?”
“I thought — no, sorry, I was thinking more like one of those department-assigned tutors you can ask the faculty for, or something.”
“Oh. Are you not one of them?” You sigh, albeit a little over dramatically. Thankfully, he doesn’t really cotton onto your acting, too caught up in befuddlement at the turn of the conversation. “That’s a bummer. I was kinda hoping that if I was going to ask for help, I’d get an actual genius. You know — someone like you?”
You can tell by Mark’s expression that he’s torn between denying your compliment again and responding to your actual question; he looks both relieved and miffed when the student behind you clears her throat.
“Sorry, but— you know that there’s a line, right?”
You both apologize, Mark’s much more sincere than your own, and you step aside. His gaze follows you for a moment before it snaps back to the next customer, his voice abandoning that bemused uncertainty it had taken up with you. You don’t really mind; as far as you’re concerned, any dent in his barista persona when he talks to you is a step in the right direction.
You hang around the pick-up area, receipt in hand, watching Mark clear the line before moving to the actual stations near the kitchen area. There’s a concentration on his face that you find all the more attractive; he has a habit of chewing on his bottom lip when he’s trying to focus on getting the drizzle just right inside the cup’s cylinder.
He tends to try his best at everything, you figure. Not an unattractive quality — not by a long shot.
Mark finishes your drink first; the milk’s still only seeping, cloudy, into the coffee when he brings it over. He doesn’t even have to call your queue number, opting to meet your eye — albeit slightly nervously — instead. You reach out to hold the cup, a calculated move that allows you to brush hands against his without him being able to pull back on instinct. He doesn’t, nor does he really seem to want to, but his jaw tightens as a flush creeps along the curve of his ears.
“You really won’t help me?”
Your question’s abrupt, almost a little demanding, even if your voice is sweet. You’re not above asking this much, anyway, even if you technically want him to make the first move. The redness sinks down to his earlobes.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t really say anything,” you tease. The cup’s on the counter now, so he can easily relinquish it to you at this point, but he still hesitates, only one hand slipping out from under the heat of your palm. He uses it to rub the back of his neck, chuckling softly, and you take this as a green light. “What time does your shift end?”
“Five-thirty. You sure you wouldn’t want someone better?”
You pull your cup slowly to yourself, and his hand, still lightly trapped by your own, follows for a few inches before he’s withdrawing, the counter between the two of you forcing the distance. A smile follows the shaking of your head, and you take a small sip of the drink before you respond simply.
“There’s no one better than you.”
Mark is a prompt kind of person; you learn this when, at five-thirty, he comes over to your table, tugging his apron off over his head. Of course, you might attribute that to his overall personality, but the fact that you spend the remaining two hours of his shift casting him glances from the left side of the coffee shop might have also been a contributing factor. The looks you give him aren’t even furtive; they’re deliberately long, so you never miss whenever he looks over to you from time to time.
He doesn’t hold eye contact for very long (he does it well enough when he’s talking to customers, but it’s not like you’re ordering another cold brew from across the room at that point), but you can read snippets of his thoughts through the fleeting gaze exchanges. He’s curious as to why you’re asking for help, now, of all times, when the semester’s more than halfway over. He’s surprised that you asked him, of all people, because he just can’t conceive of a world that isn’t within a television show where this kind of abrupt, overt request makes sense. He’s flattered that you even asked him out of the blue. He’s equal parts anxious and eager to know what’s meant to happen after his shift, once he starts fulfilling your request.
Most of all, he’s unsure if he’s reading you right — if what it feels like you’re doing is something he’s attaching too deep a meaning to. If he’s right in reading your signs.
You don’t really mind it; you like knowing that Mark somehow wears his heart on his sleeve, even if he tries to remain neutral for the sake of appearances. You also bask quietly in the fact that he’s looking at you twice as much as he ever has in the time you’ve loosely known each other. Still, his bubbling confusion and inquisitiveness seem to be interfering with the rest of his work, especially when you notice that he’s been wiping down the surface of a table two down from where you are for more than seven minutes.
In the hopes of easing whatever tension might be in his heart, you offer him a small smile, but that’s only met with his eyes immediately glazing over and inching a couple of centimeters above your forehead, where the story of Starbucks’ origins is drawn out in a faux-manga style. He pretends to find it interesting, as if he hasn’t seen it a million times from coming into this establishment day after day — you know it well enough, and you don’t even have to, considering you don’t work here — and you can’t do anything but hold back your laughter.
A small part of you says you should just give him the affirmative answer to his biggest question, but every other cell in your body says that it’s no fun if he doesn’t ascertain it for himself.
He has his school bag and textbook in tow when he approaches, taking the seat across from you. There’s a steely resolution on his face, like he’s been emotionally preparing himself for such a daunting task, but it eases up the moment you laugh lightly.
“You don’t have to act like I’m going to eat you.”
“I’m still not sure why you’re suddenly asking me to help you,” he admits. He’s also very honest, you note. Again, not an unattractive trait. “I’m not complaining. I just didn’t think you even had an opinion of me.”
“Why’s that?” You’re genuinely surprised. Mark drums his fingers on the front of his textbook, thoughtful — less for the sake of thinking what to say and more for the sake of considering how to say it. It’s clear he wants to avoid calling attention to the fact that before now, you two have had no reason to run the same track, let alone sit together and talk at a coffee shop, as if you’ve always been the best of friends.
“Genuinely just thought I was the guy who gave you your afternoon coffee every day,” he finally settles. Your eyes widen, and another laugh escapes you — a little louder this time, enough to call the attention of a couple of jumpy freshmen nearby.
“Well — let me put it this way.” You lean over slightly, cupping your chin in your palm. “Was I just the girl you made coffee for every day until now?”
There are clear cogs turning in his head; his eyes unfocus slightly as he thinks of the possibilities. His silence suddenly makes you somewhat nervous; your tone had been confident, and you’d only said that to prove a point, to push him in the right direction, but you realize that you hadn’t previously factored in the possibility that he might simply say yes — or, worse, say no just to avoid hurting your feelings.
You watch his lower lip curl in; he uses his tongue to smooth out the skin that’s slightly dried from work fatigue. You would much rather it peeked out, so you could imagine it against your own. His response is mumbled in a lower register, but you catch some key syllables — didn’t… not … stranger — pretty … you?
“Sorry?” You ask patiently, but the fact that he turns red and laughs again — something you realize is not only a trademark of his personality but also downright delicious of him to be doing — is all the answer you need to let the apprehension seep from your shoulders. “I didn’t catch that.”
Mark clears his throat. “No, I… didn’t think of you that way. I mean… you’re my classmate.”
“Sure,” your tone’s breezy, but the somewhat sloppy confirmation of interest in you makes your heart soar. He just needs more of a push. “And we’re basically friends, right?”
“Yeah.” His voice is unsure at first, like he can’t seem to wrap his head around the concept. You can tell that Mark’s notion of friendship is likely based on shared interests, of which you admittedly have none. Technically, if you were his friend, you’d spend less time just telling him the exact same order every single day and more time sitting around a table trying to learn how to play Magic: The Gathering with him. Still, he takes one long look at your grin and suddenly gains confidence in his next words, as if it somehow convinces him that the briefness of your old conversations had been a mutually agreed-upon thing and not the product of social distance between the two of you. “Yeah. We’re friends.”
“Right. Friends help friends, don’t they? I’d definitely feel more comfortable having a friend teach me than some stuffy upperclassman I don’t know.”
You see Mark’s lips move slightly, in such small movements you could have imagined it as breathing if you didn’t care too much (which you do). He mouths, to himself — friends help friends. For some reason, that boosts his conviction even further, and he nods.
“Makes sense. Well — for as long as you don’t mind me, then.”
“Mind? I asked you, so I should be saying that.”
“I’d never mind — I mean, of course I don’t mind.” He’s quick to correct himself, and you have to stop your own hand from reaching out to try to satisfy your curiosity, the desire to know just how hot his cheeks get when he blushes. “More than happy to help, actually.”
“And I’m more than happy to be here.” You beam at him, and he mirrors your smile. You don’t know what it is about the look on his face — the brightness in his eyes, or the slight lift of his eyebrows, maybe — but it gives you the impression that he might be feeling at least a fraction of what you are: the feeling of your heart lifting off a few inches from your rib cage. “Since we’re on the same page, I hope — should we get to it?”
From the moment that Mark opens his textbook to a chapter on inverted parabolas, he assumes a personality you feel you haven’t seen from him before. You realize that you really do know him in only two limited capacities — his classroom persona that seems to really only view himself and the material, focused on the board and the professor’s words (even up until the useless anecdotes) to absorb as much information as possible, and his more genial customer service form, always happy to assist in the trained, easygoing way you’ve come to meet so often.
Right now, he’s a blend of both, yet somehow neither all at once. He’s quick to catch the parabolas you draw, either wrongly or downright poorly. Despite initial hesitation, he always manages to say something; there’s already a pattern to how he does it, from his slightly awkward, “Ah, sorry, actually —” to the way his finger traces over what you’ve written, outlining the right curve. You find his interruptions so endearing that you start drawing them wrong purposefully — not enough for him to realize your schemes in their entirety, but enough to cast you a few amused glances, like he can’t imagine why you’d map out such an absurd graph. You get the feeling he wants to actually laugh at how ridiculous you’re acting, but he can’t tell if you’re seriously struggling or not, so he settles for a smile he thinks he does well in keeping to himself, but that you catch anyway. He’s patient, even when you have to rip out pages from the back of his notebook because of your ‘mistakes,’ like he’s still catering to your request for an extra pump of syrup for your coffee on sleepy days.
But there’s also that side to him that comes out when he suddenly remembers the distance between you that, before today, had felt unlikely to be closed. It peaks at odd moments, like when you’re borrowing his pen because yours is currently holding your slowly unraveling bun up, and your fingers brush against his. It surfaces abruptly when you lean in to watch what he’s drawing until he realizes how close you are, arm lightly grazing his, and his pen freezes, ink blotting on the paper for a second. It’s in those times that you can almost hear his brain churning out questions — like he’s wondering if you’re just oblivious or if you’re doing something on purpose that he can’t quite believe. Like he wants to ask you what’s on your mind, but he just doesn’t know how.
If he asked, you would reply without missing a beat. The answer, after all, is simple (him). But Mark never raises the question, only does something without fully acknowledging what he’s doing — the adjustment of his glasses on the bridge of his nose, the ruffling of his hair as though to shake off his thoughts, the clearing of his throat to normalize his tone before he explains something you’ve just asked about. There’s always that light tinge of pink to his face that makes him look even more endearing, and it fades and returns every so often for the better part of two hours.
By the time he rubs oncoming fatigue out of his eyes, the sun has already set; there are far fewer people around you at this time, and for as much as you like spending time with him and breathing in the scent of his shirt — always a tinge of Downy, barely cutting through the much more overpowering scent of espresso and sugar — your back has begun hurting from your front-heavy posture and determination to have your face as close as rationally possible to Mark’s. Still, you don’t miss out on the fact that the act of him cracking his neck to relieve tension makes your lips curl inward, trying to stifle an inappropriate noise in reaction to the view.
“I feel like I talked your ear off,” he pipes up, sounding a bit sheepish. “Sometimes it’s hard to know when to stop once you’ve gotten started. I’m just hoping I didn’t bore you to death.”
“Meanwhile, I’m here hoping you aren’t sick of my questions already.” You smile, closing your notebook and hanging the clip of your pen on the spiral. Your arms stretch up first, followed by your back, a light twist to relax your posture into normalcy again. Mark’s breathing falls quiet, like he’d been preparing to say something in response but had let it die in the back of his throat instead. You let your eyes drop, expecting to see him looking at you, as he mostly has been — on and off — since his shift ended, but his eyes are far lower than yours, the telltale redness now growing in evident splotches across his cheeks.
The hem of your shirt has ridden up; while there’s nothing outrageous about it, there’s a short expanse of skin that it reveals, for a brief moment. His eyes are slightly glossy, brow furrowed like he’s trying to find a solution to something he can’t fully understand. You’re not even sure about what he could really be looking at, or if there’s something he’s just thinking of that caught his attention while his eyes focused on a rather unfortunate spot. To test your theory, you suck in your stomach slightly alongside an inhale.
It should be objectively funny to watch Mark blink unevenly, left eye going first before his right tries to catch up, but you manage to stifle your laughter — poorly, though, because you end up coughing a little and breaking him out of his strange trance. You avert your eyes quickly enough for him to look vaguely relieved that you hadn’t caught him looking. So he thinks, at least.
“Anyway.” You feel bad that you have to tear his mind away from whatever faraway land it must be trying to burrow a hole in; the dazed expression on his face dims into hastily hidden embarrassment. You don’t want him to feel awkward, so you just busy yourself with packing up, making an unnecessary show of stuffing your notebook back into your bag as if it isn’t half-empty at this point. “I really appreciate you taking the time to help me.”
“Any time.” His first attempt is a little raspy, maybe from overuse of his voice today, so he clears his throat and tries again. A slow smile builds on your lips. “Any time, really. I’m glad that this is actually helping you; you pick things up surprisingly fast.”
“Wait, really?”
“Yeah. Give it a couple of weeks, and you’ll probably be ready to tackle it on your own again, I’m sure.”
He smiles reassuringly, but all you can think about is how that’s not good. You should pretend to be a little dumber next time, or this will end much too prematurely.
The next five minutes pass in silence; you don’t expect to be knee-deep in conversation anyway since, as much as you try to convince him, you aren’t actually anywhere close to being those kinds of friends yet. There’s an unspoken rule to the give and take of things, where he pauses for you to get an item off the table and push it into your bag before he does the same with his own belongings. Neither of you really intersect paths, save for the moment you both grab your phones and stand at the same time.
His jaw falls open like he’s preparing to say something, then shuts as if he’s better decided against it. You decide to take the initiative to say what you’re assuming he wants to. “Same time, same table?”
“Oh — uh, yeah, for sure.”
You want to ask him to walk out with you. You want to lace your fingers with his, tug him out, and kiss him under the green and white glow of the sign outside. You want to know if kissing his collarbone means you’ll taste a hint of coffee. You think about doing it all somehow, especially since he’s fighting back a slight smile at the promise of tomorrow.
But it just isn’t the right time.
Instead, you place a hand on his shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. The slow movement of his throat — yet another hard swallow — isn’t lost on you, and his eyes land on where the two of you connect. With a grateful smile, you bid him a soft goodbye, taking your leave first.
You don’t look back — at least, not until you’re fully in the cover of the darkness outside. On the gravel path, just out of reach of the lamplight, you chance one last glance back into the store. Mark is still rooted to the same spot, his backpack slung over one shoulder, staring at the table like he’s dissociating from what just happened — like he can’t believe the last couple of hours.
Your smile grows when you see his own, and his hand comes around to the back of his neck, rubbing it lightly like it gives him small comfort to let him know that it was real.
Baby steps, you remind yourself. You’ve already got one foot in the door, after all.
As the days trickle by, you fall into a more comfortable standing with Mark; there’s a routine to your meetings that seems to eliminate the initial and abrupt awkwardness of that first day. You come into that Starbucks at four, greet Mark, who doesn’t ever have to ask for your order, and spend the next hour and a half slowly sipping on it until the ice has thinned and watered down your drink substantially. In that time, you allow yourself to do whatever you want (as if you’ve ever done otherwise anyway), and what you usually want the most is a good view of him. You therefore use most of the minutes you have on hand to regard him from different angles — from the side when he’s frothing milk, upfront when he turns to leave cups on the pick-up counter, from the back when he’s clearing tables — interspersed with moments of checking your TikTok feed, clearing group chat messages, and sometimes re-curling your bangs with a portable iron from the school’s co-op center, a relatively new purchase you tote around these days. You do essentially anything in between to avoid acting too suspicious while he works.
Sometimes, you catch Mark’s eye too; the more your meetings increase in number over the course of a few weeks, the more deliberately he looks over at you, and the longer it lasts. You feel like you’ve made significant progress when your gazes lock and he smiles slightly, albeit a bit unsurely, instead of turning away like he used to. The other day, he’d even passed by while apologizing for how long you always waited for him — not that you ever minded, something you made a point to clarify with him before he walked away, carrying a couple of chairs from the back room with him to replace rickety ones.
That he’s able to transport them easily, as if he’s lugging a bag of apples from the grocery, does not escape your watchful eye.
What you like the most is that you start to learn more about him in a way that isn’t fueled only by your expectations and, therefore, limited by your imagination. You find out that he’s from a close-knit family with a rather cushy background, and this barista job is just for interest funding and experience, in that exact order. Most of his earnings are funneled into the things he collects, which apparently isn’t limited to comic books and special edition blu-rays with director’s cut but also a rather stupendous amount of PopMart blind box figurines. Apparently, he particularly likes the Skullpanda series even if he hasn’t completed it yet; your last session together had adjourned thirty minutes earlier than usual so that he could catch a pre-rush hour inner circle train to Hongdae, where the flagship store was set to open on that day. He’d promised to show you his pulls (as long as they weren’t embarrassing dupes). You learn that he likes to listen to loud music when he studies to stimulate his mind, and he has a playlist that’s just a jumble of songs from Punk Goes Pop volumes that makes him feel empowered for some absurd reason, like he’s going against the grain. You don’t really get it, but you do like that spiced-up rendition of Ariana Grande’s Problem that he let you listen to once.
Of course, there are things that you find out not through conversation but through continued, closer observation. You notice that he likes to put on chapstick even if his lips aren’t particularly dry, but he does worry on them often, most especially when he’s thinking hard about something. He has a habit of saying honestly… at the start of every other sentence, as if he’s concerned you won’t take his word on anything, even though he’s just talking about how unnaturally hot it was at noon despite it still being spring. He has long eyelashes that you’re equal parts attracted to and jealous of, and he bites the inside of his cheek whenever he wants to pep himself up after grueling shifts. He plays beats you’re not even sure he knows he’s creating against his knee with his fingers, so enthusiastic and consistent in this habit that you want to offer your thigh instead. His shoulders always go first before he laughs, and he does this thing where he raises his hand to cover his mouth at the start of it, which is a shame, because you’d do anything to keep seeing him smile like that — or, better yet, to be the reason for it.
Then there are those things you notice he tries to hide. He always turns his face halfway to the side when he blushes, something he seems to do without fail every time you smile at him. He has to temper the intensity of his grin when you take the time to compliment him on how cool his shirt is, or how nice his hair looks today, or how smart he is, like he doesn’t want you to know how good it makes him feel even if you want him to feel good about it, around you, because of you. Sometimes he denies it for the sake of responding, and his voice always lilts on the first syllable in his refusal to accept what you say, even though he knows you won’t take it for an answer.
And after a couple more careful experiments, you notice that Mark, out of the many things he’s interested in, seems to have a particular thing for your stomach.
You don’t know if it has anything to do with him not really seeing much of it in real life in his own time or if he just has his own kind of fixation on it, but you start to cotton on by the fourth time you meet. An hour of being hunched over a table that’s not at the greatest height in relation to your neck and torso has you stiff, and you’d leaned back in your chair, arms pulling to the air, hoping your spine might feel like realigning if you exerted enough tension pressure that way. Your shirt hadn’t ridden up this time, considering it had been tucked into your jeans, and it was because of this that you’d caught a flicker of something new in his face that you hadn’t seen before.
You could have sworn it looked like disappointment.
Of course, he hides it quickly, as he does with most of his emotional candor, but it’s enough to make you suspicious — enough to make you wonder if Mark is also just keeping something to himself. Or maybe you’re just projecting your own presently secretive nature onto him. Regardless, you think it’s odd that whenever you stand up or stretch, his eyes almost immediately fall to your midriff, like he wants to challenge your clothing into a staring contest before he thinks better of it.
You don’t mind, anyway. He can look as much as he likes. Maybe when the weather’s warmer, you’ll even cater to that interest and wear a crop top. Hopefully, that’ll be the push he needs to act on human instinct and ask you out or, like… bend you over. Maybe.
You’re often plagued with these kinds of thoughts in between the ones you try to keep as family-friendly as possible — now, more so than ever.
Sometimes, it’s easier, especially when you’re caught up in talks with him; despite the fact that he doesn’t seem like much of a conversationalist when it comes to generic matters, when either he or you are enthusiastic about a particular topic, he has a tendency to get carried away. There’s nothing impure about how his eyes light up when you remember to ask him about the movie he saw with his friends over the weekend or the way he hums old Nickelodeon cartoon theme songs under his breath whenever he’s looking for a page in the textbook. It’s more of a situation where you’ll observe something and immediately run with it despite it being an objectively normal action.
Like right now, as you’re watching him turn his pen between his fingers. Now, while he’s shaking his knee in mild impatience, as if he’s trying to will the answer to the worksheets you’ve both been trying to get through for the better part of the day faster. You’d made copies of the problems your professors had assigned and exchanged them under the premise of being able to practice more intensely.
However, whereas Mark is actually focused on solving, you’re just watching him out of the corner of your eye, wondering if he’s ever been told that his fingers are fuck-worthy on a singular, unique level or if it’d feel good for you to ride the thigh he’s currently moving, jeans and all. You consider the feeling of his warm palms on your bare waist as you do it, and you end up wondering if that’s what crosses his mind whenever he sneaks glances at you, too.
You’d know the answer to all those things if he’d fucking ask you out. Maybe you could do it after all. Maybe you should, instead of relying on slowly increasing the probability over such a long period of time. Maybe if you asked nicely, Mark might pull the shades down on the storefront windows and rail you against the glass.
You’re so lost in thought that it genuinely startles you when he plops his textbook over the worksheet, rattling your eraser dangerously close to the edge of the table. You’re still clutching your heart while he rubs his eyes a little too violently.
“Can’t,” he groans, and his neck gives into the weight of his head, allowing it to loll backward. “I feel like the numbers are just melting into each other. I swear, I thought I could read words out of them.”
“Maybe we were a little too ambitious with the double worksheet agenda,” you admit, even though you’ve barely gotten past half of yours and certainly haven’t touched a single item on his. “Should we call it a day for now?”
“Yeah,” he agrees, although he still takes the time to encircle his final answers before clapping his palms to his cheeks (an act that has your mind dangerously close to wandering off inappropriately again) to wake himself up. “Woah. I didn’t even notice how dark it is already. I’d say time flies when you’re having fun, but I’m not too sure about the ‘fun’ part of it…”
You trace his gaze towards the glass; the moon’s already out, surrounded by a smattering of low-light stars. You hadn’t realized how late it had gotten, probably because your mind had been on R-18 mode for most of the afternoon. Also, the days are getting generally shorter, but that fact doesn’t make you feel as embarrassed, at least.
“You got a ride?”
The question once again shocks you out of your small trance, and you turn back to him with wide eyes. “Well — no. Wait, I didn’t know you had a car. Why’d you take the subway, then?”
“Oh — no, sorry, I… don’t.” He looks suddenly sheepish, eyes dropping to the shiny surface of the table for a moment before they snap back up, as if he’s actually actively reminding himself to look at you. “I was wondering if you wanted me to — actually, more than that, are you going home already? Not that you need to stay; it’s not that important, but…”
You try to gloss over the fact that he had just been about to initiate another huge step in the right direction (i.e. offering to walk you home) by beaming at him, maybe a little too widely, if only to mask your disappointment at the sudden shift in conversation. “I have nothing waiting at home for me but a sandwich dinner and Singles Inferno, so hit me with whatever it is.”
“Oh, cool.” His lips turn up, and the corners shake, this show of happiness once again tamped down by his own inexplicable desire to maintain a safe distance. How are you supposed to tell him you’re desperate to bridge that gap without using those exact words? “I came from the flagship store yesterday — the one in Hongdae that I told you about?” He allows the smile to widen slightly when you nod in genuine understanding. “Got the last six boxes of the collection I’ve been trying to finish.”
You whistle appreciatively. “Can I ask you for a loan on my next phone bill? You know, once I’ve upgraded to something pricier.”
“Nah — just itching to complete the set,” he laughs. You wonder if he’s been doing that more often because he knows its crippling effect on you, though you doubt he’s that sly. Again, maybe you’re just projecting too much of your own motivations onto him. “This was probably about two months of saving up combined.”
“No new Iron Man issues to look out for, then?” Your voice is warm even though it takes on a teasing tone; Mark’s hand rubs the back of his neck, and his expression is a little sheepish, but you’re happy that the times he used to go completely quiet, opting only to blush at your attempts to act more familiar with him are pretty much gone now.
“Maybe next month.” You also like that he doesn’t really treat his hobbies as secrets, neither out of shame nor snobbishness. He explains these things to you the same way he does the topics you study — with an air of contentedness, like he’s happy someone listens to him without interrupting. On your end, you have no qualms with listening to his voice for hours, wondering when he’ll stop using it to greet you when you come through the door and when he’ll start saying your name in a way that makes you feel like you’re the only one he sees whenever you’re near. It’s a win-win situation (sort of). “I was actually debating between this collection and a really rare copy of Spi— well, never mind that. I just thought — since you were asking me a bit about blind boxes last time. You know, if you wanted to. With… me.”
As much as he’s become comfortable talking to you about things that don’t involve coffee orders and school, you can’t say that you aren’t doing your fair share of the work in connecting the dots; the demand for your efforts is exponentially higher in moments like this, when you think he’s trying to ask you something but can’t seem to find less-than-eager words to avoid what he thinks might spook you.
Luckily, he augments his fragments with action; reaching into his backpack — which you notice seems to be bulkier than usual — he starts extracting small brown boxes, all with the same design; it seems, for lack of better words, aesthetically gothic, and you reach out to pick one up, turning it over and examining the print on each side with vague interest. Mark starts laying them out on top of each other until there’s a small, somewhat unstable pyramid in front of him, then shifts his attention fully to you, just as you’re putting the box in your hand atop all the rest.
“I’d love to.” You beam as he does, and there’s a wondrous relief in his eyes that tells you he’s glad you manage to catch onto his words — or lack, thereof — surprisingly well. “For as long as you don’t blame me for any bad draws.”
“The contents have already been decided by my own hand — sort of,” he chuckles. “Point is, I would never do that to you. But I won’t lie; I kind of want to rely on your luck a little more.”
“What makes you think I’d have any of that running through my system?”
“Not sure — beginner’s luck, maybe? You just kind of look like one of those kinds of people to me — like… you’re just made of good things.”
You don’t know how to take this compliment; on the one hand, it’s easily one of the sweetest things Mark has ever said to you that doesn’t involve anything with actual sugar content. On the other, you know you’re not as lucky as he makes it sound, considering you’re still striking out on getting past the borderline of friendship with him. All you can do is smile, nodding and making to move closer to him by sliding into the next seat.
It’s hard to ignore the sight of him stiffening; something like surprise mingled with both fear and interest flashes strong across his face, but you don’t do anything to acknowledge the slight change in atmosphere, choosing to settle down comfortably and clap your hands. “So. What are the rules? What can I do, and what can’t I?”
“Uh.” His throat constricts at the right moment, the syllable getting caught and causing him to clear his throat. You know that this is the nearest you’ve ever been to him, the sleeve of your shirt tickling his arm. Upon closer, albeit brief inspection, you note that he’s also rather veiny. That doesn’t do your impurity any favors. “Not… really rules, or anything like that. Just — these are the ones I’ve been looking for. Not that you can really control it, but in case you were curious about that.”
You squint intently at the scaled-down images he points out. There’s one that looks like a penguin caught in an oil spill; another that seems to be in a polar bear costume, dozing; and — “What’s… halo? Halo…bios?”
“It just means marine life,” he answers quickly, like the thought means close to nothing to him to know something that obscure. Whoever said that smart is the new sexy wasn’t joking. “Like… all things that live in the ocean, that kind of thing.”
“And you know this because?”
He pauses, looking thoughtful. “I’m not sure. I guess I must have just learned it when I was curious about what it meant some time ago. Isn’t that how we all learn things?”
You shake your head incredulously, and he smiles a little apologetically. “You never cease to amaze me.” Your nail drums against the silhouette of one with a question mark on it. “What’s this supposed to be? Can you draw your own figurine, or something?”
“No.” He’s clearly amused, but his expression’s still patronizing enough for you to not feel too bad about saying something idiotic. “It’s a secret design — a money drainer, basically. You could buy a full set of this and still not get it. Some people will open hundreds without any luck, so it’s really rare.”
“You don’t want it?”
“I try not to get too caught up in the secret thing,” he admits. “Otherwise…”
“No rare print comic books for the rest of your life, basically?”
He taps his nose, and you both share another laugh. It’s nice, you think, to have come this far — to be someone Mark can share his interests and thoughts with. You may have been stretching the word to its limit when you first punched your way into his social life and called yourself his friend, but it feels more real now, more natural to think about and say. Even if he still sometimes seems to be hyperaware of the gap between the both of you, there’s no denying, at least, that it’s been significantly reduced, and this much is a testament to that.
“Well, leave it up to me. I’ll let all of this beginner’s luck rub off on you,” you announce with overflowing albeit unfounded confidence.
You both decide to open a box each at the same time; Mark suddenly panics and asks you not to unseal the foil bag right away without looking at the card inside first, earning him one slightly alarmed look followed by a burst of laughter at his pained expression when you pretend to rip open the packaging. Comparing pulls, you identify them using the set chart — your luck doesn’t seem to be operating at full capacity yet because you can only offer him the card of one that looks like a floppy pigeon, which he responds to with a slightly apologetic grimace before saying he’s already pulled that thrice in the past. He, on the other hand, is turning the card of the polar bear over in his palm, trying not to make you feel bad for your duplicate pull by slipping it under his textbook when your eyes land on it.
The second round isn’t much better; both of you manage to pull something he’s already added to his collection, and as you’re ripping the seal to your third box, he pauses and watches you. You think it’s because he’s concerned about the obvious shit luck you’ve had thus far and wants to snatch it from you before your negative energy transfigures whatever’s inside into something he doesn’t want, and you’re just about to offer the half-opened package to him before he pushes the one on his end to you.
“No way, Mark.” Your eyes are wide, a palm up to reject it. “If that turns out to be another dupe by my hand, I’m literally going to walk into oncoming traffic.”
He has to control his amusement at your words so that it doesn’t completely shake his voice into incoherence. “I picked all of these while I was there, so if anything, you’re only riding off my bad luck. Besides, this is your first time doing this. I want you to have fun.”
“But,” your voice is pained. “Your money.”
“It’s not a big deal. With how few I need to complete them, I was definitely bound to run into more repeats than new ones.” He taps the front of the textbook — or, at least, the part of it not buried under the figurines and sealing tapes yet. “Probability mathematics.”
“I thought we already ended the study part of the day,” you grumble but concede, putting aside the one you half-opened to tear the top of his. You’re careful when you shake out the foil packaging, making sure to place it upright on the table before extracting the card. Both of your faces fall — yours more than his — when you see it’s a repeat of the polar bear.
“Almost. It would’ve been a pretty lucky pull earlier, so it’s technically not bad,” he tries to reassure you, but you childishly feel like you’ve been the sole source of his disappointment thus far. “Try the last one.”
It’s irrational, but you’re suddenly anxious about it. For some reason, you’re worried that this will topple the carefully constructed ladder you’ve propped up against Mark’s tower of social defense. Even if he’s being genial about your rotten pulls, you don’t know how much of it is just resignation to dismay on his part.
You say a small prayer, then fully rip off the seal; you don’t even take out the packaged figuring anymore. You just shimmy the card out of the box, turning it over when you notice it’s upside down.
For a moment, your shoulders deflate. It’s closest to this pastel purple figurine in the middle of the line-up, its stupid puckered lips almost taunting you. He hadn’t even mentioned it as something he’s looking for, so you almost feel like this has come to a horrible full circle. But then he grabs the box, checks the list, and looks back at your card again. He looks shell-shocked, and you’re not sure if it’s the strong air conditioning directed towards the two of you or if it’s just his hands, but the image he’s holding is shivering slightly.
You look more closely at it, and something just doesn’t feel right. Color palette aside, there are notable differences — different colored lips, a more intricate ear design, and closed eyes. It’s…
“Dream eater,” Mark’s voice is hushed, almost reverent, and very, very close to your ear. “It’s the secret one. You’re… incredible.”
“What are you talking about,” your words are just as raspy; you’re not sure if you’re actually choked up with emotion or something — over a figurine, you have to remind yourself. “You picked all of this. I just ripped open the box.”
The hush that falls over the both of you feels very concrete, weighty on your shoulders. His fingers creep towards the foil packet — the only one he actually opens because there’s no way he’s not keeping it. The shiny purple head gleams under the fluorescent, the glitter around the star and moon designs catching the light as he turns it left to right, like he’s worried it’s a fake. You can tell why people want these things so much; there’s a thrill in you that lingers, makes you feel warm and alert. It’s anticipation, despair, excitement, and triumph all in one sitting.
You’re stroking the smooth curve of the design by the ears lightly when Mark speaks up again and says the most outrageous thing.
“I want you to have it.”
“What?” You actually have to pop your ear canal in front of him with your pinky to make sure he knows how ludicrous he sounds. “This is… you said it was crazy rare.”
“Yeah. And you pulled it, with your magic. That’s like… unimaginable luck. Even more than beginner’s luck.”
“Like I said, I literally just opened the box.”
“No — you have like… the golden touch.”
“Please,” you hiss, a genuine testiness to your voice. “Do not. I was just here for the ride — the experience, and all.”
“Seriously, take it.”
“Absolutely not—”
It’s a chaotic moment of him trying to hand you the figurine and you outright rejecting it, with both your palms working hard to push it back to him. Instead of nudging the plastic back, though, you end up placing the full force of your hands against his fingers.
There’s no actual spark when you touch, but your reactions make it feel like there might as well have been; you even lock eyes in startled unison, like you can’t believe that just happened, before you pull away quickly, Mark drawing the figuring back to his torso while looking away towards the counter, where a lowerclassman is wiping down the stains. You want to scream at your warped reflection in the window. You barely initiate contact with him, but you imagine that if you ever did, you would prefer to not be saying something as abjectly negative as absolutely not while doing so.
Your mind flails in an attempt to mitigate the issue and water down the embarrassment, and clearly he’s struggling to figure it out too, because he pipes up before you can piece your thoughts together.
“No, really.” His tone is a lot milder and, consequently, a lot more persuasive this way. “You should take it. I want you to.”
“It’s not mine. This is your thing — your hobby.”
“That’s why I’m giving it to you. I swear — I want you to keep it.”
“Why?”
He lapses into silence again, but his face is much redder than earlier. His mouth opens in an attempt to say something, but he just manages to uh his way back into a state of quiet, which gives you a chance to speak instead.
“We can… share it,” you suggest. “Shared custody…. ish.”
His eyebrow cocks involuntarily, and his jaw falls again, but all he does in actual response is nod — slowly at first, then with more sureness to the act.
“Yeah. We can share it. I’d… like that.”
You’re glad that the bulk of the awkwardness has fizzled out fairly easily, and when you think about it, this feels like a pretty good course of action; you like that it’s this little link between the two of you now — something you share that no one else can touch.
Mark, you notice, is smiling as well — more to himself than towards you, it seems. His thumb grazes across the face of the figurine, slow across the lips, and you’re once again falling into a pit of nonsense by wondering when he’d do that to you.
“Thanks for staying with me, _________,” he finally says, and your heart jolts and melts all at once. “And for… doing this. For chatting with me. And giving me your luck, and all that. Great way to end the day… with you.”
You say no problem, but you instantly regret it when you realize you could have just said it didn’t have to end just yet.
“__________? Hello? Come back down to Earth?”
“Shut up,” you sigh at the guy seated across you — Seo Youngho, an upperclassman, your Gender Studies classmate, and current project partner, waves in front of your face. You shoo his hand away, which only joins his other one as he throws them in defeat above his head. “Stop moving. Be quiet. Don’t talk.”
“That’s the same thing as shut up and be quiet. What’s up with you?” He demands. “Fifteen minutes ago, you were full of ideas. Now I feel like I’m talking to a wax figure.”
You’d been engrossed in your report for the last hour and a half, and the subject matter is admittedly something you enjoy — the role of gender in Twenty-First Century Korean marketing and advertisement, a title Youngho had taken more than ten minutes to type into the Google Docs header because he was pissed off at how the numbers looked like in the fonts he chose. He’s an enthusiastic classmate and someone you’ve come to be friendly with, not only because he’s genuinely approachable but also because he has fits of nosiness and talkativeness at the strangest moments, so a chunk of your relationship is mostly based on social terrorism on his part. You like him well enough most of the time — save for the last fifteen minutes of this hour.
Because Mark had just come in for his shift fifteen minutes ago, and suddenly Youngho is much too noisy for your taste, and his head is honestly way too big to the point that it gets in the way of your opportunities to see Mark behind the counter. You even resent him for choosing a booth instead of your usual table all of a sudden, because your view of the central barista’s area is much more limited from this angle, especially since the huge espresso machine is in the of your field of vision.
You’re also (currently and abruptly) mad at Youngho because you remember that he’s the reason you’ve had to skip out on a couple of sessions with Mark. Like, it technically isn’t his fault that you have a lot of research to do for the literature review section of the paper, nor is it his fault that this is your final requirement that comprises a whopping forty percent of your grade, but like… you’ll blame him anyway. So you’re much more irritable, and you’ve definitely been missing Mark’s presence. In fact, you kind of just want to shove Youngho’s balloon head away and call Mark over to sit with you, but you’re not that much of an animal to actually do that.
Probably.
There had been inquisitiveness across Mark’s face when he’d come in; his eyes had trailed to the table at which you usually sat, surprised to find two guys hunched over a single phone there instead of the usual you, waiting for him with your eyes bright and your smile wide. You’d like to think it’s because he’s gotten as used to seeing you as you’re used to waiting to see him — like he just expects you to be there.
You hadn’t really known how to call his attention to where you were, especially since Youngho was prattling very matter-of-factly about the academic journal he’d unearthed yesterday and how he thought it would be useful in reshaping the methodology of your paper (whatever). There was a moment in which you briefly considered ordering another cup of coffee just to get in line to talk to him, but your hands were already shaking from the venti you’d had to keep yourself from passing out in front of your partner.
So you’re more than relieved when, half an hour into his shift, Mark finally steps out from behind the huge machine, a mug of water for himself in hand, and turns away from the front of the store to drink it — only for your eyes to lock as he twists his torso in your general direction.
The mug stops just inches from his lips, but you could swear he smiles at you briefly when he recognizes you, so you return the favor. Youngho’s face contorts into abject befuddlement, turning around to see what you’re grinning at.
“Oh, you poor sap,” he snorts, finally letting the puzzle pieces fall into place.
“What?” You’re still distracted even if Mark has taken a gulp of water and is now attending to a gaggle of girls still in the throes of discussing what to order.
“What what? You gonna spend the rest of the day eyefucking Mark Lee from over here? At least let me get a different table.”
“Shut up,” you repeat sullenly, coming back down to his level and finally — albeit reluctantly — meeting his eye (just because Mark isn’t looking your way). “What were you saying about the sample size?”
“That it’s much too large to be feasible, a point we closed twenty fucking minutes ago,” he says pointedly. “Is it a thing for baristas or a thing for smart guys?”
“It’s a thing for Mark Lee,” you sigh, following Youngho’s suit and shutting your laptop close. You’re at least glad he’s not annoyed that you’re delaying work for a crush, or maybe he’s also just equally lazy at this point. “You ever look at someone and think you would give it all up for a chance to hit that?”
“No, because this isn’t a porn movie, and I’m clearly not the main character in whatever’s going on in there.” He jabs at your forehead; you swat his hand away again.
“Well, I would.”
He rolls his eyes. “So do it, dumbass.” He says this so simply, like he can’t imagine why you’d be holding yourself back, which is a valid thing to feel, except it’s not really any of his business.
“Can’t.”
“Because?”
“Because it doesn’t fit into my elegant master plan. Also because I want him to ask me out. I just want that victory.”
“Oh yeah, there it is.” Youngho leans over, wiggling his fingers at your ears like he’s greeting a next-door neighbor. “Hey, delusion. Good to see you. Do you even understand how crazy it is that you’re taking a Gender Studies class while waiting for your dick-in-shining-armor like a damsel in distress?”
“Asshole,” you grumble, violently opening your laptop monitor again. “Get back on Google Drive.”
Thankfully, Youngho complies, and the next two hours pass in relative silence and productivity, with you hammering out a vague references list that he promises to format in your stead so you can ‘spend more time dreaming about Mark Lee between your legs.’ You want to strangle him, but there are far too many people in the cafe for you to get away with it. Also, aforementioned Mark Lee would only be a witness to your criminal record, and while you think there’s something romantic in killing for love, or whatever, you’re not sure it’d make the best impression on him.
“Next week’s my birthday,” Youngho announces as he stands to tug on his jacket.
“Congratulations,” you say wryly, peeking over his bulletin board torso to see Mark tugging off his apron and picking up his school bag. Your heart hammers in your chest as he looks over at you briefly, and something like embarrassment passes over his face before he busies himself with neatly folding the fabric. “Go away.”
“Usually people look uncomfortable for not knowing and then start thinking about what gifts to get the celebrant, but I always felt you were kind of a revolutionary.” He snaps his fingers right in front of your eyes, and you look up at him, a little offended. “I’m having a get-together — and by get-together, I mean it’s gonna be a rager. You should come.”
“When?”
“Next Thursday.”
“Can’t,” you chew on your lip, wondering if Mark is leaving. His movements seem particularly slow, but you wonder if he’s just taking his sweet time because he has nothing better to do. Of course, he would have something better to do if Youngho stopped fucking obscuring you from him and vice versa. “Busy. School… whatever.” Not completely untrue. Most of what you do with Mark has to do with school.
“This moony-eyed thing is just not for you, I fear.”
“Are you going to be here all day?”
“Are you? Why don’t you just fucking ask him out, you lunatic?” You can’t imagine why he sounds so exasperated. It’s not like this is his problem — or his business, for that matter. “Maybe if you did, you could fuck him and move on with your life and be an actual contributor to society’s development.”
“Has anyone ever told you how nosy you are?”
“Constantly.” He brings his palms down on the table, the thud shaking you out of another oncoming stupor. “Think about it. Maybe it’ll make you stop making that stupid face.”
“You’ve got a stupid face,” you mumble, sulking as he pinches your cheek as a goodbye before heading out of the shop.
At least you finally get to see Mark in full, glorious view — and you get to watch him come closer, although his stride is somewhat cautious.
“Hey.” Even his voice sounds unsure — almost like the way he used to sound earlier in your friendship. “I didn’t want to interrupt you and… your friend?”
“Oh. Well, you wouldn’t have been interrupting,” you inform him, completely genuine. “He was spouting a lot of nonsense.”
“You guys seemed pretty close.”
“I guess it’s a proximity thing,” you sigh, and Mark raises his eyebrows slightly in question. “We’re partners.”
“Oh.” The way he draws out the syllable is slow. “That definitely makes sense.”
The silence stretches out between the two of you again, with Mark checking his shoelaces. You almost grab your head; it hadn’t occurred to you until now how damaging missing meetings with him would be to your friendship. You feel like you’re slowly being dragged back to square one, and you want to give him an explanation.
“He’s actually… I haven’t been able to see you because I’ve been working on something with him.” you offer, trying to answer a question he didn’t even ask. “Sorry about that. I swear I’ll be back on track tomorrow.”
“No, no — I completely understand.” He pauses thoughtfully. “Thank you… for telling me, though. I— uh, appreciate that.”
“I’d love to see you tomorrow, though.” You try injecting more pep into your voice. “I’ve really been behind on my algebra. I’ve definitely been drowning without you.”
“Oh, yeah.” A small smile graces his lips, but you can’t tell if the reluctance behind it is from fatigue or something that looks oddly like sadness. “I’m down for tomorrow. Same time, same table, right?”
“Yeah, for sure.”
“Cool. See you, _________.”
You watch him turn on his heel, walking to the front door, and something like fear mingled with desperation clutches your heart. Fuck the traditional route, you think. You don’t know what it is about how he’s acting now, but it’s making you feel like he’s slipping through your fingers. All that hard work — there’s no way you’re letting him go.
“Mark, wait.”
You’re at his side, fingers curled into the sleeve of his jacket before you can figure out exactly what you want to say. You feel as surprised as he looks at your sudden liveliness in action, and his gaze trails from your clenched fist to your face slowly, like he’s trying to memorize this whole position.
Your exhale’s shaky, but even still, you try not to sound overtly self-conscious when you ask, “Do you like Chinese food?”
Something in the furrowing of his brows tells you he can’t seem to see where this conversation is headed, and that slightly bothers him. “I like it well enough. Why?”
“There’s this really good dim sum buffet near my mom’s office. We tried it before — the Xiaolongbao is awesome.”
“Hey, that sounds pretty cool. I love Xiaolongbao. I’ll definitely have to check it out then.”
You want to tear your hair out. “How about — you know, checking it out with me? Tonight? You know… together. With me.” You already fucking said that.
You’ve never seen Mark blink this rapidly; he looks like he’s trying to crunch large numbers in his head. A small part of you actually worries that he’s malfunctioning, but just when you think he’s going to glitch out completely, he clears his throat. It bothers you how uncomfortable he looks. “Tonight? Oh man… it’s my cousin’s birthday tonight. I can’t… reschedule. Well, obviously. Maybe some other… time?”
Your ‘oh, yeah’ is small, and so is the ghost of Mark’s smile. You can’t help but feel like he’s pitying you a little, although he doesn’t seem like the type, but the thought of it alone makes you want to puke. He makes no motion to move, and you think he’s extending this awkward moment out on purpose until you realize you’re still hanging onto him and he has no way of telling you to let go nicely.
Fingers unfurling from his sleeve, you take a careful step back, but when he walks away, it feels like you’ve gone much, much further away.
The worst part is that you can’t even figure out why.
Luckily, the next few times you see Mark, you manage to rebuild a rather shaky bridge back to where you had been. You even manage to strong-arm him into sharing an apple fritter one afternoon, and you know it’s a bit sad to think about it a particular, untrue way, but you can’t help but pattern what you’re doing into some kind of pseudo-date. Pathetic isn’t a word you normally associate yourself with, but you’ve been borderline desperate for progress where there seems to be none, so you take small victories where you can get them.
Unfortunately, you haven’t been able to revisit your stupid dim sum plan; sometimes, he says he has somewhere important to be, but most of the time, it’s actually your fault. No — it’s Youngho’s fault, because he keeps bothering you to finish the project. You’re aware that he can’t do it himself, but since he’s informed of your current plight, he could at least stand to be more sympathetic.
And you hate the way Mark looks every time you splutter out that you have to take a rain check for that reason; it’s not even disappointment, or something, which would be much more understandable. It’s this mysterious kind of faraway look, where his eyes glaze over a bit and he seems suddenly very lost in thought — or completely dissociated. He never strays away from his normal response of “next time, then,” but that ‘next time’ fades into the weekend and into the start of next week, and you have to spend every other evening with an annoying Seo fucking Youngho on a Google Meets call instead of eating soup dumplings loveshot style with Mark Lee.
Thursday night rolls around, and the former performs the most irritating stunt yet: blowing up your phone with so many KakaoTalk messages that it almost buzzes off the table during your session with Mark. Luckily, he seems to have learned a thing or two from his comic books, catching it before it hits the floor.
“You sure you don’t want to answer it?” He asks, gingerly handing the phone to you like he’s afraid it’s going to explode from all the pinging.
“Without the shadow of a doubt,” you sigh, flipping the screen downwards. Buzz.
“It kind of seems important. Or, like… urgent.”
“He’ll live. Unfortunately.”
Mark falls silent, fiddling with the page he’s on. He’s neatly highlighted the formulas on the page with blue ink, and his finger keeps scratching at the slightly wet paper. Buzz.
“Didn’t you say you two were partners?”
“Yes. Also unfortunately.” Youngho is actually a great person, but you kind of hate how Mark’s paying more attention to his texts than to you right now. “What did you get for number ten?” Buzz.
“A hundred and twe— are you really just going to let it keep ringing like that? What if he’s… I don’t know. In trouble? Like, he needs you?”
You smack your phone on its back, hoping that the punishment reaches Youngho because he absolutely is in trouble — only with you. “He’s just making a racket because it’s his birthday and he probably wants a bunch of people to trash his parents’ house, or something.”
“Sounds like fun.” The dubious tone in Mark’s voice indicates that his idea of fun definitely isn’t that. Buzz.
“Not really, but I assume he’ll only pipe down if he manages to get his way.”
“He must really want you there.”
There it is again — that weird, distant expression that makes you feel like he’s trying to free himself from the tethers of the earth. You close your textbook in defeat; it wasn’t even like you got the answer to number ten correct anyway. Buzz.
“He just wants everyone there, I bet. But I probably should show up so he shuts up.”
“Oh — yeah, okay. We’ll call it a day, then?” He’s avoiding your eye as he starts packing his things, which is actually impressive because you have practically nothing but your book to keep in comparison to his pencils and protractor, so you just stare, willing him to look at you.
You want to know what’s going on in his head. You want to know what’s going on in his heart — what he thinks of you, why he seems warm one second then almost like a stranger the next. You want to know if he knows you like him and if him not doing anything even if he knows is a sign that he doesn’t like you back. You want to know if he’d let you kiss him, if he’d kiss you first, if you can meet not because of sweet cream cold brews or algebra but because you just want to be together.
You just don’t know how to ask. For as much as you like him, for as much as you want him, you haven’t figured out the most basic part of this — if you mean anything more than a two hour talk to him at all.
“Mark.” This feels awfully like the dim sum conversation, only somehow ten times more disastrous. “Come with me.”
“Sorry?” The appalled look on his face makes you squirm in your seat.
“I don’t really want to go, but maybe if we go together… we can just hang out a bit and leave once it’s boring… I think it’d be fun,” you explain lamely, deciding at the last second to drop the with you that had originally come with your sentiment.
“I don’t think your… partner will like someone uninvited showing up.”
“I’m inviting you.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s not how it works.”
“You’d be, like, my saving grace or something — my excuse to scram. We’ll say we came right from a study session; we only popped in halfway through for the sake of greeting him a happy birthday. Then we can just go. We can say — uh, we’ve got more work to do.” You’re practically begging him at this point, and you don’t even get why. You just don’t want him to leave looking the way he does — confused and a little detached. You want the Mark that had smiled at you while giving you your coffee — the one that had kindly pointed out an arithmetic mistake in the most gentle way possible. You want to open blind boxes with him, whine about your rotten luck, and part ways with his warmth still against your coat sleeve.
You don’t know what comes over you then, but you pluck up the courage and initiative to slip your hand in his. He stiffens a little, but you don’t care; your fingers squeeze his in urging.
Something in his expression breaks — cracks first, then falls away, before he’s nodding, still looking vaguely thoughtful.
“If you think it’ll help you, then… okay.”
The bus ride to Youngho’s neighborhood is uneventful because it’s quiet. You stand close to Mark at all times, but you barely touch, save for the times your knuckles accidentally brush his when you lurch forward slightly as the vehicle comes to a dangerously abrupt stop. He doesn’t ask anything about the party or the company that’ll populate it, which is just as well, because you don’t have a clue.
You know it’s the right house because the door’s wide open and there’s music coming from inside; you can’t make out much more than the deep bass pumping through the concrete, but you’re pretty sure it’s making your heart jump in your chest even more than it already is. There are quite a few people you vaguely recognize on the lawn, and even more that you absolutely don’t; a good number of them glance at you and Mark as you step through the threshold then look away, probably deciding you’re of no real consequence or harm to their moods.
Youngho’s easily spottable because of his massive height; he towers over the rest of his guests, and the red plastic cup in his hand calls even more attention because he’s lifted it over everyone else’s heads. You throw Mark an apologetic glance that he responds to with a short nod before you dive into the crowd alone, trying to weave your way to where you’d last seen Youngho.
“Bro, finally!” Youngho greets you, pretty much shouting over the music. “Where’s the gift? Did you leave it on the table?”
“Happy birthday, Youngho. Do you know how close you were to being blocked?”
“I see you brought mister espresso with you,” he ignores your comment completely, nodding to Mark. When you turn back to see him, you notice he’s squishing his arms closer to his sides, trying to minimize the space he takes up. “So what? Y’all get to hook up already?”
“No. I brought him here because we were in the middle of something and someone,” you stop, offering him a pointed look that’s also ignored. “Wouldn’t stop texting.”
“Cockblock,” the guy next to Youngho, who you now realize has been eavesdropping, singsongs. “Oh, sorry. You looked angry when you stomped through the crowd, so I wanted the juicy details. Name’s Jaehyun.”
You take the hand he offers you briefly, introducing yourself. When you say your name, realization dawns on his face, and he jabs his forefinger at you.
“Oh, dude. You’re that girl — the Starbucks Showstopper.”
“The what?”
“That’s what his friends call you.” He scratches his ear, seemingly racking his brain for more information. “I’m with Mark and a couple of his friends — Lee Donghyuck and Na Jaemin — in College Algebra.”
You completely gloss over the fact that you’ve finally found out the real government identity of the mysterious figure named ‘Hyuck.’ “They… talk about me?”
“From time to time. Not really. Once or twice. Donghyuck only calls you that because Mark apparently keeps blowing them off to hang out with you.”
“How do you know this?”
“I have ears. It’s not hard when they talk like no one’s around.”
You shush Youngho’s exclamation of and you’re saying I’m nosy?, your heart hammering hard in your ears, practically drowning out the music. “What… what else did they talk about?”
“Not sure. Something about not seeing you that often these days. Jaemin teasing Mark about getting dropped now that you don’t need his help anymore. Donghyuck piling on and saying you’ve got a boyfriend.”
“What?”
“Don’t shoot the messenger.” Jaehyun still inches away from you when your voice rises in pitch and decibel. Some people around you start, then move away as well, as if scared you’re going to incinerate them. “They were just teasing him that you probably ditched him after you started dating someone. Your partner in some project, or what.”
“Oh gross.” The realization hits you like a speeding truck. Youngho’s expression is affronted.
“First of all, you bitch. Second of all, as if I would date someone who didn’t even buy me a gift. Or want to come. Or yelled at me after coming. Wow — now that I think about it, you’re terrible, _________.”
“Oh, shit; that someone was you?” The only person that isn’t tense in this conversation is Jaehyun, who laughs point blank at Youngho’s sour face. “I think they were offering to put you into one of their Death Note notebooks. Sucks for you, hotshot.”
“What a smudge on my good name,” Youngho sighs mournfully. “On my special day, too.”
“I desperately need you two to be quiet for one second. I have to — where’s Mark?”
Even when you stand on your tiptoes, you’re not nearly as tall as the two of them; it’s Youngho, with his freakish height, who manages to spot Mark by the bowl of nachos, looking as though he’s trying to decide if they’re safe for consumption. You hardly excuse yourself; actually, all you say is a distracted “later” that dismisses Jaehyun’s cooing that something’s going down and you should clue him into all the mess later as a thank you. Your appreciation of his sudden and somewhat short-lived presence in your life is still up in the air.
Mark’s busy making a sour face at the sip of punch he’d just taken; he only straightens up when you’re right in front of him, putting his cup down next to the nachos. “Hey. Did you get to find… um…”
“That’s not important.” Your hand bunches the fabric of his jacket in a death grip, something he barely has time to register, let alone question, before you’re tugging him through the throng of people. You want somewhere quiet, somewhere private, and you initially consider the lawn, except you know it’s strewn with cups and has stragglers debating whether to go home or not. You can’t risk any of them being expert eavesdroppers like Jaehyun, so you make a beeline for the stairs instead.
“We’re not leaving yet?” He has to shout over the music, but there’s no resistance in his stride; he follows you up and waits patiently, although a little perplexed, as you check the doors on the second floor. Two are locked, one is a bathroom, and the other is a messy, musk aftershave-scented place you can only presume is Youngho’s room. Talking in front of a sink and a toilet doesn’t feel like it’ll be very productive, so you just drag Mark into the bedroom, kicking aside the crumpled shirt on the floor — which you could’ve sworn you’d seen Youngho wear for class yesterday. “_________, what’s going on?”
“Mark Lee,” you burst out, ignoring the fact that his eyes widen slightly at your tone. “What’s your fucking deal?”
You don’t think you’ve ever sworn in front of him before; that much is evident when he continues to gawk silently, unable to find words to respond to your question. Or maybe it’s just the volume and force with which you demand an answer. The problem is that you don’t even know what kind of reply you want. A small part of you nags that this is uncalled for, especially at this level, with you practically caging him into an unknown room. In fact, even now, you’re still embarrassed at your behavior, wondering if you’ve gone too far and stepped over a line between you.
But the source of all your frustrations is, in fact, that line — one so strangely drawn, clear at some points and almost invisible at others. Sometimes, he seems simply content with the barest minimum of friendship: talking to you, helping you, politely laughing at your (terrible) jokes. But there are also times he blushes too hard for it to not mean anything, times that he makes you feel like you could mean a little something more to him too.
Yet, from there, he wavers, stepping back so as not to get entangled in something you don’t understand — like when he grows distant every time you mention Youngho to him. You don’t understand why he would unless he echoed, even just a little, the longing in you. But you also don’t get why he stays and builds more walls around himself, like he’s determined to ignore all the other signs — like he doesn’t want to know if it’s really true and will just accept the assumption that it is. You hate not knowing where you stand with him, and while you could easily ask, you know you don’t want to.
And for a long time, you’ve convinced yourself that it’s because you want to see Mark step out of his comfort zone and initiate something, but the ugly truth is staring at you: it’s simply just that you can’t stand the idea of seeing him come to the conclusion that you can’t be anything more to him than someone he makes a sweet cream cold brew for every so often.
There’s a moment of tense silence between you two, where you’re just staring at each other — him, perplexed, and you, agitated — and the only sound that passes is the faint but unmistakable voice of Youngho going who has the cake cutting knife? from somewhere down below. You try not to get caught up in the fact that Mark still looks cute when he’s dumbfounded.
“Sorry?”
“What,” you repeat pointedly. “Is your deal? Why have you been acting so weirdly around me these days? I thought — I thought we were… getting closer. I thought… we…”
You’ve confirmed it now; you’re the epitome of cowardliness. You can’t even say I thought we liked each other — because you know that you do, but you still can’t honestly, assuredly tell if he does. Maybe you just read too deeply into the smallest things — smiles before he asks for your order, glances at you when he thinks you’re not looking, sharing the dream eater figurine — to fuel your own emotions without really checking the depth of his.
“I thought we were cool,” you reroute your words, and they come out flat and lame. “But just when I think you’re warming up to me, you suddenly pull away. Like… you’re afraid of me. Or you don’t like me. I don’t know.”
“It’s not — I don’t — I’m not afraid of you,” he stumbles over his words, and even in the darkness of this space, you see his face turn bright red, very quickly. His feet shuffle, not because he’s lost his balance but because he seems to want to get rid of a sudden restlessness. “I do like you. We are — we were getting — we’re close. We — we’re friends. You said that, and we are.”
“Is it only because I say we are that you agree?”
“What? No, I—” His hand passes over his face, slowing at the curve of his chin. “I really like being friends with you. I like being around you.”
“Then why do you act so weird these days? Like — you’ll be fine one moment, then you’ll back off, like you suddenly remembered you don’t want to be around me.”
“It’s not like that. I’m — I don’t get…” He takes a deep inhale, recalibrating himself for a moment before his voice comes out again, less strained this time. “I just don’t want you to feel uncomfortable around me.”
“How could I?” There’s something more than confusion coloring your voice; there’s hurt, too, and he looks as surprised as you feel at hearing it. “I wanted to be your friend. I was the one that asked you to hang out. I was the one who wanted you to talk to me, to help me, to go to a goddamn dim sum place with me. Why would I feel uncomfortable? Or are you just using this as some roundabout way to say you feel uncomfortable?”
Mark falls silent, and you don’t know why this speaks volumes all of a sudden. His eyes are trained to the tips of his sneakers, which are rising in soft bumps every few seconds; he’s curling his toes inside them. You feel like you’ve gotten the worst answer possible, and something grows cold in your chest.
“You feel uncomfortable around me.” You rehash, but it’s no longer a question. “You don’t know how to get rid of me.”
“No, it’s not that.”
“You think I’m only using you.”
“No.”
“Then what?” Your voice breaks, no longer out of anger, but a desperate sadness. The moment your eyes feel hot and prickly, you decide you want to end the conversation. It’s embarrassing, you think, for someone like Mark Lee — whom you like, who only ever sees you as a friend — to see you get choked up at a fucking birthday party at someone else’s house.
A beat later, you’re mumbling a half-hearted forget it, and you detest overdramatics, but you hate the idea of being in a room with someone who’ll never return your feelings even more right now; you push past him, already on the thought of calling a cab home instead of taking the bus so that no half-drunk businessmen coming from their company dinners see you crying.
But something warm wraps around your wrist, then closes over your hand, and you’re unable to move, Mark’s palm pressed against the back of yours. When you look back, you notice he’s still not looking at you, but his ears are practically on fire with how red they are, and you feel his fingers tighten slightly, tremble slightly against yours.
“It’s not that. I didn’t ever want you to think — I heard about you two. That you were dating someone. Seo Youngho.”
“What does that matter?” Your words come out a little more bitterly than you expect, and you have to remind yourself to reel it in. “That doesn’t explain your discomfort.”
“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he repeats, still evidently careful in choosing his words. “Because you wanted to be friends.”
“I don’t understand,” you state bluntly. In the back of your mind, you note that Mark’s grip keeps tightening and loosening, unsure of whether to keep holding on or let go. But there’s something else, too — the soft graze of skin against yours, his thumb gliding over your knuckles.
“That was all you said you wanted to be, right?” He waits for a response, but when you don’t give him one, he lets out a shaky breath and continues. “You kept saying — we were friends. You wanted us to be close like that. I just wanted to respect it, even if…”
“Respect what?”
“That you didn’t want… anything else.”
The music downstairs is a bit tamer now; you hear the door opening and closing every so often, signaling guests leaving here and there, but there are still enough footsteps downstairs for you to know that there’s a crowd Youngho hasn’t gotten rid of and therefore has to attend to. That much is good; you’d get slapped with a homicide charge if he came up here all of a sudden.
“You were jealous.”
Mark’s fingers pinch the bridge of his nose for a moment. “I tried to stop. I don’t have a lot of practice with — well, I didn’t know how to approach the situation. I thought I was still acting normally; I didn’t think… I didn’t want you to feel weird and stop hanging out with me just because… I couldn’t fix it.”
“Your friends are assholes,” you mumble, and he finally meets your eye, equal parts startled and amused. “We aren’t. Weren’t. We never were dating.”
“Even without that, I thought… it was a bit embarrassing. Liking someone like you — someone as pretty as you, as nice as you — I thought it would make you feel weird. Then you’d start avoiding me too. Or, worse, you’d keep doing it just because… you… felt bad for me.”
You don’t know what you find more ridiculous — that you hadn’t seen figured it out or that you could have avoided all of this if you’d just been a little more honest with him too. Mark’s hand starts loosening around yours, a little too much, and you turn your palm and grip his hand before he can escape. He stiffens again, just like earlier, but you now understand better why he does.
“I just wanted to keep hanging out with you as much as I could. I thought… It’d be fine, just spending time with you, and I’d be able to like you for a while, on my own, then…” He looks a little pained. “Then just let you go. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry you couldn’t let go?” You sigh softly, your palm guiding his until they connect, face to face, and you can finally lace your fingers into his. There’s no resistance, but his hand trembles slightly in yours still. “If there’s anything you should be apologizing for, it’s that you ever thought of doing it.”
Something clears in the air, lightens in his expression, and he chuckles, albeit a little shyly still. “It’s because I never thought someone like you would like someone like me.”
“I like you.” And it feels right to say it now, not at all out of the blue, never in fear of an answer he’s already given. “I like you when you smile at me every time you ask for my order. I like that you never get impatient when I’m getting my answers wrong. I like seeing you excited when you talk about a new series you’re looking forward to — something new you really want to collect. When you blush, when you laugh loudly, when you spin your pen in your hand — I like you in all those times.”
“Even when I’m jealous?”
“Especially when you are.” Your free hand comes up to cup his jaw, and you’re reminded of the fact that you’ve wanted to feel the strength of the angle under your palm for ages now. It’s not at all a disappointment, and your heart flutters irregularly in knowing you could’ve done this a long time ago, but it doesn’t matter because you’re doing it now, and fuck if Mark Lee doesn’t look good this close to you. “So be jealous — because now, you know you can be.”
Kissing him is better than you imagined, and you’ve imagined a little too much to be embarrassed at this point; there’s a heat to his lips that matches the one across his face, an upturn to them that makes you smile too. The setting’s not at all an expected one, but you’ll take it, not because it’s dark or because it’s private but because Mark’s in here with you, and you would have kissed him in a brightly lit football field full of people for as long as he’d let you.
You’d like to think he’s flushed for a reason other than shyness when you pull away, even if his laugh is quiet and breathy. In fact, when you murmur not enough, he’s the one that closes the gap this time, offering freely what you ask for with such little eloquence. The natural trepidation in his mouth relaxes, gives way to a curiosity that keeps you locked for so long that you forget you need to breathe, much more intent on finding out if Mark’s tongue tastes as good as you’ve imagined for so long.
It doesn’t; it tastes even better.
It’s still not enough, not by a long shot, but you have to resurface before you pass out like this, and even he looks a little dazed when you pull away — not in a bad way, with a grin on his face that you can only classify as endearingly goofy: slightly lopsided and a little shy, but with an unmistakable air of satisfaction.
“Months,” he mumbles, his lips still dangerously close to yours. Your eyebrows rise in questioning, and he laughs in that infectious way that makes you want to join in without even knowing what the punchline is. “I’ve been thinking of kissing you for months.”
And you do share the laughter this time, not out of amusement but of a happiness that spills without restraint. “But you’re suddenly holding back now?”
“Just letting myself bask in the moment, I guess. Letting it sink in so I remember everything.”
The two of you stand there quietly, still trying to fully parse the progression of events, and a small part of your mind registers that Mark’s thumb is still drawing circles on your skin. It’s also not enough — this touch, this closeness. You know now that he’s been thinking of you for months, and it reminds you that you spent that time dreaming of him too. And you remember you’ve always wanted to be even more familiar with him, and suddenly the desire is overwhelming; he’s right here, and you don’t ever want him out of your grasp again.
“Where are you going?” He’s only curious for the sake of it; there’s no alarm in the question because you keep your fingers tightly woven in his, tugging him along as you walk past him to the door. He’s still staring in wonder after the lock clicks shut. “What’s… happening now?”
“You waited months to kiss me, right?” He nods in response at your question. “I’ve been waiting just as long to have you too.”
His mouth falls open, but he doesn’t manage to say anything; his jaw tightens just as quickly when he feels your free hand trail down his chest, feather-light and asking for a green light. Your index finger stops just above his navel and draws back slowly, but not before you feel the shiver that runs down his torso.
“We don’t have to if you don’t want to,” you murmur, giving his hand a little squeeze. “But I just want you to know — I want to. I want you.”
A thoughtfulness settles on his face, and his eyes graze over yours, trying to read your seriousness. You don’t know how honest you look, but your words hold enough truth in them. A silence stretches over the next minute, but to you, it feels like an eternity, and you lose the test of patience somewhat, smiling softly at him.
“You don’t want to?”
“I—” His tongue peeks out, running over his bottom lip. “I do. It’s not that I don’t want to, but…”
“You seem worried.”
A hesitant nod. “I’ve never — well, no, I have, but not — with someone like you.”
“What’s someone like me?” You laugh airily.
“Someone pretty like you — I don’t know. Someone who seems to know exactly what they want. Someone who seems like… they could do better than me.”
“Mark.” You can’t keep the incredulity out of your voice. “I do know exactly what I want. I want you. The rest — I don’t care about. As long as it’s you, I want it.”
He cracks a smile, half of relief, half of disbelief. You don’t miss his hand coming up to press, warm, against your waist. “For real?”
Your fingers curl into the front of his shirt — an anchor to bring you closer, until the tips of your noses are brushing. “For real.”
The third time you kiss is slow, almost careful; there’s lingering worry in the line of his mouth that your lips try to ease until his slightly part under the movements of yours. You feel the tension leave his form in waves — first in his shoulders, then in his arms, until you’re able to press yourself closer and feel the slight give of his frame against your smaller one. He’s radiating an immense amount of body heat that’s pricking your skin and keeping you alert, and you’re hyperaware of the smallest things — the weak tremble in his mouth, the slight roughness of his teeth under your tongue, the ridges of his palate above it.
He tastes nothing like what he smells, you learn. Instead of the air of earthy coffee stuck to clean linen, you inhale a combination of spearmint and mild saltiness that’s made slightly sharper by the lingering splash of alcohol from his accidental sip of punch earlier. You decide then and there that this disparity is important to you; it makes you feel like you’re the only one who can have this experience — that everyone else can know his scent, but now, only you can know what Mark Lee tastes like.
You have to keep your wits about you to avoid this addictive stimulation of your senses; you let go of his hand only to lock your fingers around his neck, and there’s a show of trust in how he lets you lead him backwards, until his knees are hitting the edge of the unmade bed. The kiss breaks as he’s forced to settle on the mattress, and he looks up at you in what can only be described as a quiet kind of awe. He doesn’t complain when you place your hands, heavy, on his shoulders, using his sturdy form to keep you stable as you move to straddle his lap.
“I feel like,” his voice is hoarse as he speaks up. “We should have picked a different location. Someone… could walk in.”
“I locked the door,” you remind him, a light reassurance in your voice. He doesn’t say anything immediately, but it’s clear there are cogs turning in his head, and you think it’s unfair that he’s thinking way too hard about something else that isn’t you, right now, in this position. In a bid to rectify this, your face presses into the side of his neck, breathing in that familiar scent and leaving a light kiss on his skin right after. Your lips mark the moment he swallows hard at the contact. “Besides, would you really be that unhappy if someone did?”
His hands tighten against your waist, prompting you to leave another kiss against his collarbone. “What — what do you mean?”
“You wouldn’t like it if someone — say, Youngho — walked in to see me on your lap like this?”
The silence that follows your words is tense, and you can tell that Mark’s breathing has become shallower. Again, you can feel his throat constricting slightly, and you can’t help but laugh breathily as you nip at his skin, just under his Adam’s apple. He’s surprisingly easy to tease, you realize — quick to turn speechless and prone to hanging onto your words.
To say that you wouldn’t want to use that to your advantage would be a downright lie.
“Tell me,” you urge, your tone deceptively gentle. “You wouldn’t want him to see you kissing me like this? To see me wrapped around you, begging for more, saying your name over and over? You don’t want him to watch you take me — so he knows you’re the only one that can?”
A strangled groan punctuates your words, but it comes from him; his fingers dig hard into your side with barely constructed restraint. “What do you want from me, _________?”
“I want to know if kissing me was the only thing you wanted for months.”
You pull your head away, nudging his chin with the tip of your nose. Another groan escapes him, and his head tilts back slightly, almost like he’s praying. But when his gaze comes down to meet yours at your level again, you see a firm resolution in his eyes that stirs your heart — which takes off the moment he shakes his head, slowly but surely.
“Then,” you whisper. “What do you want from me?”
He doesn’t say so much as shows; he takes from you your breath, steals another kiss that’s now firmer and more openly demanding. Suddenly, his mouth can’t seem to stay still, trapping your lower lip in between his, drawing out your taste until it mixes with his against his teeth. You feel your head growing light again, and you’re pleasantly surprised that it’s suddenly become difficult to keep up with his lips, asking more from you without restraint. A hum of need sounds in the back of his throat, vaguely dissatisfied, and he’s telling you wordlessly that it isn’t enough right before he attaches his lips to the base of your neck, just above your collar. You think he’s just about to return the favor, but a laugh leaves you when you realize he’s taken it a step further, his teeth grazing your skin lightly, soft nips signaling how eager he is to sink his teeth in with only his slowly weakening self-control stopping him from doing it. Mark’s breathing is slightly labored when he pulls his lips away, warm breath fanning over your chest.
“It’s crazy — and stupid,” he croaks out, voice slightly raspy. “But I want it, and I don’t.”
“What do you mean?” Your fingers drag into his hair, combing it upward messily from his nape. He leans in for a quick kiss that’s somewhat misplaced, landing on the corner of your mouth instead of squarely atop it.
“I want them — him to see us. To see me with you, kissing you — fucking you, too. I want everyone to know we’re like this.”
You’ve never heard Mark say anything so forwardly before; a sweet, warm flush builds in your face, pleased at how comfortably he manages to say it — pleased that he’s saying it to you. “Then what’s the problem?”
“I don’t want him to see you.” There’s a bluntness to his words, but hiding behind them is an undertone of pleading — a serious request. “I don’t want him to see how pretty you look. I don’t want him to see you when you’re bare, or how you look when I’m inside you. I don’t want him to see—”
His voice wavers and dies, and you wonder if he’s embarrassed, but when you read his expression, you see an unyielding longing. A smile tugs at your lips, and your hand comes around to cup his chin, thumb extending upwards to drag his lower lip down.
“You don’t want him to see what’s only yours.”
He swallows hard again, but he doesn’t wait long to nod. Understanding passes between the both of you, silently but completely, and Mark presses his face to your throat, feeling the hum resonate as he places another long, firm kiss there.
“You’re mine,” he whispers, in a way that almost feels like he wants to convince himself of something impossible to believe. He doesn’t even wait for your affirmation, prefers to read it in the way you shiver lightly once his lips travel further down. His kisses trail past the collar of your shirt, and his hands are unabashed in how they seek skin, pushing the fabric upward so he can settle the palms of his hands, warm against your waist. Oddly, they don’t travel upwards; they only brush against the dip, down slightly over the upward rise of your hips, then upwards again, almost soothingly. It’s almost like he wants his mouth to meet them, but he stops halfway, sidetracked by the curve of your breasts.
He barely pulls away, only does for a moment, enough to meet your eyes.
“You’re only mine,” he repeats, his voice softer now. You realize he’s still waiting for some confirmation, and when you do, you’re quick to give it to him — quick to erase any doubt.
“I’m yours,” you affirm in the same tone, in the same careful volume. “Only yours, Mark.”
Whatever else he wanted to ask for, he knows you’ve given assent; that much is clear when he buries his face between your tits, inhaling your scent. You briefly wonder if he might feel just as intoxicated around you as you do around him, if your pleasant dizziness in being this close to him, in tasting and smelling him is something he experiences too, but you don’t get much time to dwell on it the moment you feel his lips part, a slight wetness seeping through the fabric. He’s kissing your chest, teeth grazing just above the cup of your bra, nipping without any real objective other than to feel the pad’s slight resistance to his mouth.
You almost miss what he says as he shifts his head, lips brushing over the curve of your breast — another breathless ‘mine’ that isn’t ever punctuated; his lips still stay parted, mouthing at the cloth, like he’s desperate to feel what’s underneath through it. There’s pressure where his tongue presses flush against the shape of your tit, tightness whenever he chooses to nip, attempting to take the flesh and all that’s between you and him between his teeth.
Not enough, you think, even when a whimper of need bubbles out of you; you want to be closer, your thighs pressing against the sides of his. You’re close in almost every way, but you still inch yourself further forward, enough to feel the taut hardness in his jeans. Your hips settle right there, letting fabric ride against fabric as you center yourself.
No sooner do you press yourself flush against him do you gasp; the light sting sends a jolt up your spine when his teeth close around your nipple through your bra, and when you look down at him, you see the corners of his mouth pulled up in evident satisfaction. He’s quick to atone, his tongue dragging your shirt slightly upwards in his attempt to soothe, and for some reason, the push of fabric and the barely-there feeling of motion leaves you tingling.
“Mark.” Your voice comes out in a whine, but in the haze you’re in, you don’t really have a clear idea of what you’re asking for. All you know is that you want more of him, and for as much as he’s already given you in kisses and words, you aren’t even halfway down the list of everything else you wish you could demand from him. You say the only thing that comes to mind — the only thing that really encompasses what you feel. “Mark, I want you. I want more of you.”
His hands on your waist are replaced by the significant tightness of his arms, locked around your torso; you don’t even have the time to take in your awe at the fact that he can easily carry you, turn you over until you’re on your back, until he’s already eased one knee between your legs.
The way he looks down at you is a mixture of hesitation and desire, but the former’s erased when you reach out for him, murmuring another ‘more’ so you can pull him in. With one palm pressed against the mattress, he lets his free hand graze against your side again, bolder in its movements, and his fingers trace a path up to your breast, squeezing the soft flesh through layers. Your back arches upwards in response, eager for more contact, for touch that’s almost there but not quite, and he smiles when you make a noise of frustration from his fingers tweaking the soft nub of your nipple.
“Mark, please—”
“Would you really let him see you like this?” His thumb’s still idly grazing over your breast, following the rise and fall of its curve. You swallow hard, trying to keep your voice level despite the growing want that threatens to break through it. “Would you really let him watch you… get fucked?”
You shake your head, and his brow furrows.
“I’d let him watch you fuck me,” you correct him, and the confusion in his face gives way to pure satisfaction the moment you make this nuance clear. “It has to be only you.”
His grip tightens briefly against your breast again, and he leans down, pressing a surprisingly chaste and brief kiss to your lips.
“Then I’ll unlock the door next time and give him a show.”
You don’t know if it’s what he says or what he does after — his hands bunching your shirt upward until the hem’s just below your neckline — that makes your breath hitch, but you decide it doesn’t matter when you realize you’d much rather be focusing on the journey his lips take, slick against your stomach as he presses languid kisses down to your navel. His fingers hook into the waistband of your jeans, the weight naturally pulling them down, and you see his muscles tighten for a moment as he stops himself from tugging them off completely.
Mark’s mouth is unparalleled in its attentiveness, seemingly intent on making sure he’s covered every inch of your stomach in warm kisses, but you only realize he’s somehow stalling when he starts the cycle again, his nails digging into the taut elastic of your jeans as though to remind himself to curb his desire.
You take the initiative instead, raising your hips slightly to signal your want, acutely aware of the fact that you brush lightly against his thigh when you do so. His eyes lift first, followed by the rest of his face, and he’s watching you quietly. You might have thought he was unsure of what to do all of a sudden again, but his knee pressing closer, an unmistakable pressure against you, is enough to tell you that he’s only curious to know what else you’ll do.
The second time you grind against his thigh, his hands catch your hips, keeping them aloft just long enough for him to tug the band of your jeans downward; he peels them off you with surprising ease, returning to the same position between your legs, hands still firm on your waist. With that done, he only has the thin garter of your panties left to curl his fingers into, bunching it into his fists when you roll your hips up one more time. You manage a shaky noise when you feel the stark difference — the roughness of the denim against you, the stick and drag of flimsy cloth. Mark lets out a low but unmistakable hiss.
“I can’t believe—” his idea is cut short by the movement of your hips again, and his grip tightens, knuckles pressing into your skin. “Can’t believe you’re here. I can’t believe we’re doing this.”
“What am I supposed to do,” you breathe out, the sound momentarily getting stuck in your throat. “So that you know it’s real?”
His fingers relax their hold, palms now pressed against your thighs; they travel between your hips and your knees, a soothing and thoughtful motion. “God — I don’t know. I just want — I just want you so badly. Like… I’m going to go crazy if I don’t have you now.”
You lean up, your weight resting on your elbow, and your other hand reaches out; Mark meets you halfway, bending just a little lower to press his cheek against your palm. There’s something intimate, something so giving about the way he turns his face to your fingers, pressing a fluttering kiss just under your thumb. The tips of your fingers trace the shape of his lips, even when they pucker again under your digits.
“Take me,” you murmur quietly. “Right now — from now on, every part of me is all for you.”
His exhale is shaky, but his fingers have a sureness to them; they slip under your thighs, cradling the backs of your knees, and lifting until they’re folded over your chest. You don’t even have the time to wonder if you should feel exposed all of a sudden; his breath warms the inside of your thigh as he presses his lips there — not a kiss, just a touch as he speaks.
“I want to taste you,” he mumbles, partly distracted with the act of inhaling the mild scent off of your skin. “Every inch of you — I want to know just how sweet you are.”
He lets his hold on your thighs relax, letting them fall apart; he busies his hands with your panties instead, hooking a finger into the strip of cloth just covering you. It’s clear you’re both aware that the fabric sticks light to your skin, poorly masking your wetness, and interest mingled with hunger flashes across his face as he pulls it aside.
“You’re so pretty,” he says, sounding like it’s a comment more for himself than anything else. His gaze flickers to you for a moment before it moves back to your pussy. “The prettiest fucking girl in the world.”
The pressure of his thumb between your folds causes you to forget what you wanted to say, and you know Mark had been nervous, but you realize that it doesn’t mean he’s supremely inexperienced by any means; there’s a quiet, understated confidence in the way he rubs slow, thorough circles, moving upward towards your clit. Your face, your neck, your whole torso feels flushed, but you power through the instinct to tilt your head back so that you can keep watching him — the minute changes in his expression, the slowly building strength in his touch.
“I want to taste you,” he repeats, looking up at you. “I want to know what you taste like when you cum against my mouth.”
You’re not sure if you’re gawking because you can hardly believe Mark Lee — your eternally blushing, mild mannered campus crush — had said all those words strung together into such a lewd sentence, but you’re sure as hell not going to deny him. Your hand travels down your torso, and he watches, curious at first, then awestruck when your index and forefinger settle against either side of your folds, pulling them apart in offering.
His eyes end up transfixed on your pussy again, observing how your fingers ease your folds further apart the more he massages his thumb against your slit. His mouth is slightly agape, intent on drinking in the sight, unaware that you’re trying to memorize this view of him too — Mark Lee, touching you, wanting you, eager to take you fully.
“I’ve always wanted to see what it’d look like with your face between my legs,” you say in a hushed tone, but he catches it anyway, briefly looking up at you again. “I’ve always wanted to know what your tongue would feel like against my pussy.”
Your index finger bumps against the tip of his thumb, and he stops its motions, allowing you to move his digit down until the pad of it hovers just in front of your tiny hole. You can see one cheek tucked between his teeth, bitten to muffle the groan you wish you’d heard louder.
“Won’t you show me?”
You think you hear him rasp out a ‘fuck yes’ before he bends down, pressing his half-open mouth against your pussy. The squeal of delight that leaves you is half-strangled as his thumb curls, hooking into your entrance. It starts a shallow, distracted motion, with his attention funneled much more clearly into keeping his tongue working. Flush against your slit, it drags up, and he releases a guttural noise at your taste, lips pursing slightly on the way back down — like he can’t stand not trapping every drop of wetness with his mouth.
The intensity of his tongue, the idle thrusting of his thumb — you’re not sure what you want to focus on more, and the result is you whimpering incoherently at the starkly contrasting combination of the two. Mark moves his mouth like he’s never tasted anything as good in his life; the sounds between your thighs are wet, sloppy — almost embarrassingly so — but you don’t have the presence of mind to dwell on that because Mark Lee is eating you out and that’s really all that you can think of.
The tip of his tongue suddenly flicks upwards; you keen, long and low, when it starts to circle your clit in that same intense, circular movement his thumb had gotten you used to. Your sensitivity skyrockets, and you’re completely unable to control the upward bucking of your hips, but Mark stays supremely unperturbed, his free arm winding under your thigh to keep the both of you steady. Your noises are growing embarrassingly loud, and you realize just how needy you’ve become when you vaguely notice that there’s a pattern in what you’re saying — his name, over and over again.
“Did you do that too?” He asks softly, his words slightly muffled against you. “Say my name, I mean — when you thought of me.”
“God, yes.” Your voice comes out strained, teetering on the edge of slurring. “So many times — every single fucking time.”
“Promise me something.” He lifts his head, and you see a fieriness in his gaze.
You nod — at this rate, whatever he’d ask you to do, you would without question. “Anything.”
His thumb presses in deeper, up to his knuckle and you reflexively tighten around his digit, but he keeps it anchored there, pushing down against your walls. He drinks in your gasp, the widening of your eyes, the way you chew on your lip with a singular kind of contentment on his face.
“Promise me — from now on, you’ll make sure I’m always there to hear it.”
The only kind of assent you’re able to make is a moan as he dives down again, mouth buried in your warmth, his nose pressed tight against your clit. His tongue moves in strong strokes, broad swipes that push your folds apart further, and his thumb, while not moving, increases in pressure to the point that you feel a heaviness adding to the growing pleasure. Your hands fly down, seeking some kind of sense and reason, and you thread your fingers into his hair, grip tightening as your climax builds in stride.
“Mark, I’m—” close, you want to say, embarrassingly so, but the moment he hears his name, his lips attach to your clit, and there’s suddenly so much more pressure as he sucks, almost like he’s desperate to draw out your orgasm. He chooses this of all time to start moving his thumb again, and this time, his movements are anything but slow and idle; they’re filled with the intent to drive you over the edge. “Fuck me, oh my god—”
“I want to,” he murmurs, pausing for just a moment to drag the tip of his tongue around the nub. “God, I want to. Let me see you cum first; let me taste how sweet you are.”
His thumb stops, buries deep into your pussy, and you’re not sure why this, of all things, is what pushes you beyond control; you’re only half-sure you say his name when your orgasm hits, the rest of your consciousness much too clouded by pleasure. He doesn’t stop, revels in the way you squirm under him as he hums low and keeps his tongue working against your clit. His licks become longer, more thorough as you come down from your high, your cries softening into whimpers as his tongue both attempts to clean you up and makes you messier in the process. His arm is still curled around your thigh, keeping you from inching away from him, even if instinct and stimulation are telling you to.
You’re barely lucid when you sit up, and Mark inches back, somewhat startled; you grab the front of his shirt, and the sight of his mouth, slick and glistening from your wetness, only makes you more curious to know what you taste like on him. You find out how tangy it is, how rich the two of you are together on his lips, and you’re able to fully appreciate the skill of the mouth that kisses you deeply, leaving traces of you against your tongue and teeth.
“Please — fuck me.” It’s the only thing you can say at this rate, only half-coherent and still trembling with desire, but Mark doesn’t seem to care that you’re stuttering over such a simple request. His thumb wipes traces of saliva off the corner of your mouth, kisses it clean for good measure, then straightens up, his hands working at his belt. You almost miss the fact that his hands are shaking slightly as he undoes the buckle and tugs it out from the loops.
You want to help — it’s the least you can do, after all, and your fingers push the button of his jeans out through the hole, his hands working in tandem to tug the zipper down. However, your movements falter when you hear a noise from just outside the room — the sound of the doorknob being jangled, the thud of a body gently hitting the door, as though worried it’s stuck. You glance up at Mark, ready to reassure him, but he either hadn’t heard or doesn’t care because he’s too busy stepping out from the pool of denim at his ankles, and you get completely sidetracked by the bulge straining against his boxers.
You almost ignore Youngho’s voice grumbling ‘Jesus Christ, now of all times? from behind the door, but you leverage it instead.
“Should we let him in?” You ask, tone innocent despite the evident deviousness in your words. It pays off, though; Mark’s cock twitches unmistakably under thin fabric, and he actually looks like he’s considering it. “You’re just about to fuck me, after all. Weren’t we going to — what did you say? Put on a show?”
He worries on his bottom lip, like he’s unsure if you’re serious, but in the end, he shakes his head, reaching out to smooth your hair away from your face and ushering you to lay back down. The lips that meet your forehead are gentle, almost apologetic.
“Not now,” he murmurs against your skin. “Right now, you’re all mine.”
You laugh lightly, nodding, and he chuckles too, but the sound of it slowly dies down when your finger hooks into the garter of his boxers. You can feel his breathing hitch as you tug it down, the elastic catching when it meets the shape of his cock, but you don’t make any move to free it just yet — for some reason, you want to see him do it.
“Show me.”
He complies without hesitation, one hand dragging the elastic down over his thighs, the other curling around the base of his length, and your face flushes as satisfaction works through your system at the bare sight of him.
Mark Lee is big — not monstrously so, but enough for you to make a pleased noise as your hand joins his, fingers barely wrapping around his girth. You give his shaft a gentle squeeze, and his exhale stutters, watching you stroke him, long and thorough in your movements. Your palm swipes over the tip, leaking precum, allowing it to slick up your hand enough to keep your movements smooth. You’re fixated on the tension in his lips, the throb of his cock against your palm, and the way his gaze never leaves your face, like a small, amazed part of him still can’t believe what you’re doing, even if you’re both half-naked already.
“I want to suck you off,” you plead, grip tightening slightly. He grits his teeth, stifling another groan, but he shakes his head clearly enough for you to slow your movements in mild surprise.
“Can’t — not now. I need to be in you so badly.” His breathing’s sharp and heavy, like he’s trying to keep himself in check. “You don’t even know — how long I’ve wanted to feel you.”
Your hold relaxes, and you let him maneuver you, his renewed hold on your hips dragging you closer to the edge of the bed. In this position, he can spread your thighs further, and you angle yourself optimally — enough for him to get a full view of your pussy, wet and still aching from your last orgasm.
“You don’t know how badly I’ve wanted to know how tight you are,” he continues, and there’s a faraway look in his eyes that makes you think he might be entrenched in fantasy. “How much I would have killed to see you — have you like this. I’m not gonna be able to wait anymore.”
His fingers dig into your sides, thumbs stroking your stomach in a weak pattern. The underside of his shaft presses against your folds, still half obscured by your panties, in a way that’s heavy enough to make you mewl, your hips reacting before your mind can, and he hisses softly as he feels his length glide along your slit before you relax your stance again.
“I can’t wait,” he reiterates, a breaking in his voice that sounds almost tortured. You don’t want him to either, want to see him buried to the hilt inside you, and you raise your hips again in need. “I want you so much it’s driving me crazy.”
“Then take me.”
And you’re not sure if it’s a demand or a plea, but he no longer stops himself; his hand fists his cock a few times, coating the slick of precum along his length before he lines the tip up with your entrance. His other hand’s flush against the inside of your thigh, a light pressure ensuring he always has enough space to fit himself between your legs — enough space to bottom out completely.
Mark’s considerate in his pace — maybe he knows he’s big, or maybe he’s just naturally careful, but he allows you the time to adjust to the stretch. Your nails almost puncture holes into the sheets, your grip so tight you wonder if it’s just to brace yourself or to hang onto the last threads of your sanity. He’s only halfway in, but you’re pushing fullness already, and he stops when his cock meets slight resistance, looking up at you in concern.
“You’re not—?”
“It doesn’t hurt,” you reassure him softly, and it’s true; the adjustment brings about slight discomfort, but it’s almost nothing to you — not compared to how much more you want. “Give me everything; I want all of you inside me.”
He pauses still, trying to read your expression for any lies, but when he can’t find any, he nods, his jaw tensing as he presses both palms against your thighs, keeping you open as much as possible to accommodate him. He doesn’t even stop when you whimper, feeling a tightening twitch in your pussy that also causes him to groan, until inch by inch, you’ve taken him, his hips flush against yours.
He doesn’t move — not yet, his eyes trained to where you’re connected like he’s once again unable to believe what he’s doing. You hear him mumble something to himself that you want to hear too; you squirm slightly, and he hisses through his teeth, looking up at you and finding the questioning in your face. He offers you a small smile, albeit somewhat strained.
“You’re tighter than I thought.”
“You’re bigger than I thought,” you hum, and neither of you is really to blame; the tight fit, the slight breathlessness it leaves you with, is perfect, you think — just what the both of you need. “Did you often think about fucking me?”
“Probably just as often as you’re making it sound like you thought about having me fuck you, I think.”
“Don’t get cocky,” you warn, but there’s no real heat in your voice.
“I won’t. But it makes me feel good — knowing you wanted me just as bad.”
“I still do.” Your gaze is lazy, a little hazy, even if you’re anticipating so much. Even just the feeling of Mark, throbbing inside you, is already slowly building the pleasure in your stomach again; you wonder if you could cum like this, given enough time, given enough patience. “I’m still waiting for you to fuck me. God, Mark— please.”
He chuckles good-naturedly, but even that’s drowned out by the long moan that leaves you once he draws his hips back; your body’s mildly shocked into a new adjustment, feeling a sudden emptiness that’s quickly mitigated by him filling you back up again. The pace is slow, almost torturous, although you know he isn’t doing it to get a rise out of you. He wants to ease you into speed, careful to help you adjust fully; his restraint in his movements is all the more evident on his face, in the furrowing of his brow and the determination in his gaze. Even with that, he can’t help what he says, so intent on controlling everything else he does that he lets his words spill out over your noises.
“Pretty,” he grunts out, and when your walls twitch around him, he accidentally thrusts sharper — just enough for you to whimper a little more loudly, and he has to reel his strength back again. “God, you’re beautiful. I should’ve told you sooner how much I wanted you. All those times I had to imagine you wrapped around me like this, wondering how much tighter you’d get once you came on my cock. All those times you drove me crazy while I was alone, when I could have been in you— I could have found out how good you felt. How pretty you’d look under me. And you’re still even prettier, even better than I ever dreamed.”
There’s an erratic melody of moans under his words, spilling from your mouth, and the fact that he riles himself up enough to increase his speed slightly doesn’t escape you. He’s a little less careful now, seemingly entranced by the view he gets, watching his shaft disappear into you only to come out glistening, and a part of you hates the idea of snapping out of his reverie, but the majority of your thoughts now lean towards wondering how much more you can get him to break free of his own self-imposed restrictions.
“I wanted to ask you so many times.” His eyes snap up, coming back into focus as he takes in the sight of you, flushed, hair tousled, gaze darkened. “Almost every day — I sat there, thinking about how all I could do was go home and fuck myself, frustrated you weren’t doing it for me. I should have taken you home with me right then and there — should have let you watch me touch myself thinking of you, should have let you touch me into cumming on your fingers.”
His breathing staggers as he leans in, eager to see you clearer, to hear your words, slowly becoming airier as they come out. For a moment, his gaze falls, torn between watching him move into you and meeting your eyes, but he ultimately chooses the latter once you speak up again, your tone even more hushed than before — like it’s meant to be a secret between just you and him.
“But there were times I wanted you even more than that, to the point that I almost felt like I couldn’t wait.” His eyes widen slightly, a few precious seconds of wondering if he understands what you mean, right before you confirm what he thinks. “I thought about making a move right then — I should have kissed you. I should have asked you.”
“Asked me what?” His voice is gruff with the effort to keep himself in check despite the fact that it’s clear to the both of you that it won’t last.
Your lazy smile’s illusionary; it hides the triumph swelling in your chest at knowing that he asked exactly what you hoped him to.
“I should have asked you to fuck me in front of everyone there.”
“God,” his eyes squeeze shut, his grip tightening. “Please. I can’t—”
“I should have bent over for you there, begged you to stretch me out right after our session,” you continue, bordering on merciless. “Mark, you don’t know — how badly I wanted to be on your lap, your cock in me, with everyone watching. How much I wanted you to fold me over that table, have people watch you pound me, have them listen to how good you make me feel. No one would ever even wonder; everyone would know I’m yours.”
You pause, allowing his eyes to fly open once again, and there’s a pleading in them that’s begging for release. Your eyes soften along with your voice, but you’re this far gone; you should at least see it through.
“And everyone would know you’re mine too.”
“Fuck,” he growls, and his hips stutter before new resolve fills him, his hips driving into you with the force of a strength you didn’t even know he had in him; your thighs tremble at the intensity, at the renewed impact, and feeling him drive his cock deeper into you has you crying out somewhere between a moan and a sob. “Fuck, _________. If I had known you’d thought about me like that — God.”
It’s your turn to shut your eyes for a while, allowing yourself to focus on his movements, breaching your tightness even faster now. You feel his hands skim up your sides again, fingers digging into the fabric of your bra and pulling them down until your bare tits are cupped in his hands. You shiver as his thumbs pass over your nipples, toying them into firm nubs.
“One day,” he hums out, his voice giving way to a slight hoarseness again. “I’ll do it. I’ll fuck you in front of him — in front of Youngho, in front of everyone. I’ll let them wonder how tight you are, how fucking warm you are, and I’ll let them leave knowing no one can know but me.”
It’ll never happen, you both know, but something about agreeing to something so absurd is what has your body almost shaking in longing, and it’s what causes him to press in deeper, folding your legs closer to your torso. Your hands do what little they can to help, keeping your thighs apart so as not to obstruct his view. You can tell it’s somehow not enough, not really all of what he wants when his brow furrows, and he shifts his weight, pushing into you at a new angle.
The stark difference has you gasping before you can control it. Immediately, Mark stops, and you’re already shaking your head before you even hear him say anything, presuming he’s paused out of concern. But before you can say you’re fine, his hushed voice cuts through the silence.
“Do that again.”
“What?”
“Do it again,” he mumbles, sounding distant. “Breathe in. Suck in your stomach.”
You’re not one to complain at such a simple request, albeit a little odd, so you comply, inhaling enough to tighten your torso. You’re surprised when you feel his cock twitch inside you, and you blow out the air alongside your question. “Mark, what are you—”
“I can see it,” he says in utter disbelief. “When you’re like this, I can — I can see my cock inside you. Just a bit.”
Your eyes follow his gaze, fixed just below your navel. From this angle, without any movement, you can’t see a thing, but you assume he’s not one to abandon fucking you so intently without good reason, so you press your palm against your stomach, just above your pelvis. Nothing really feels significantly out of place — up until the point when Mark draws his hips back again, and you feel the backward slide of his cock.
Your throat tightens, and you don’t really understand the feeling that spreads in you — a unique kind of arousal, knowing how deep he is inside you and how you’re taking all of him in despite the fit, because of the fit. Your hand falls away, allowing Mark’s to take its place, and he exerts just a little more pressure against your stomach in an attempt to get the most out of the experience when he thrusts back in. He groans, feeling the bulge push back up, and he quickly picks up the same pace, renewed in intensity so he can experience the rapid rise and fall he creates under his palm.
The faster he goes, the harder he presses, and you’re not sure if he knows it, but the onslaught of friction is what’s making you whine and squirm even more; you’re trapped, in the best way possible, in his hold, your hands back to clinging to the backs of your knees like a lifeline. Pressure from the outside builds on the slowly growing pressure inside, a knot in your pelvis that’s coiling so tightly you feel like you can’t breathe. If Mark notices how close you are, he doesn’t make it known; he’s busy feeling the outline of his cock against your stomach, and when he looks up at you again, his eyes are hazy.
“I would fuck you every single day, every single hour if I could feel this every time,” he whispers in a way that’s almost reverent. “Let me — I want to keep seeing you like this. I want to feel how deep I am inside you, too. Let me fuck you all the time.”
You nod, and your first attempt to say something is just another choked sob. When you do manage to get something out, it’s broken in tearful stutters. “M-Mark, I’m s— I’m so close… I’m — fuck—”
“Do it.” It’s not a harsh command but an urging made on short breath; through your misty vision, you see tension in Mark’s face and shoulders, like he’s bracing himself for something too. You barely register the ping in the back of your mind, too focused on the way he’s pressing his palm harder on your stomach, the way his hips quicken their pace — he’s close too. “Let me feel you — want to feel you cum all over my cock.”
You inhale, not to speak but to let out a loud whimper; your teeth dig into your lower lip as you try to stifle the moans that threaten to follow, but in the end, you whine out his name. Your thighs threaten to close, trembling as you finally reach your climax, an impossible explosion of pleasure, and you have to squeeze your eyes shut so that you don’t get dizzy from the stars that burst around your vision.
“Fuck.” Mark’s voice is strained, his one hand still firm against your stomach, the other sliding against the inside of your thigh. “You get even tighter — you feel even better when you cum.”
“Mark,” you hiccup, unable to do anything but flutter around him as he pistons harder into you. You don’t even know what you’re asking for when you say ‘please,’ but he somehow seems to, and you trust that your body’s saying something you can’t fully detect in this state, with your mind floating in the aftermath of ecstasy.
“I know,” his tone is soothing in contrast to the intensity of his thrusts. “I’ve got you. Just a little more — where do you want—?”
You blink slowly, his words sinking in at too leisurely a pace; his hips stutter dangerously before you’re able to respond. You barely even do that, your hand gently brushing over the one against your stomach, but he catches onto the meaning quickly enough.
You’ve never heard your name said in such a beautiful way; hearing him moaning it lowly is enough to make you whine again, and that noise is drawn out when he shifts and slips out of you fully. Your brain’s fuzzy, but your senses are at least sharp enough to drink in the perfect sight of him cumming — the way he leans his head back, jaw taut and eyes shut, as he pumps his cock and the heat of his release against your skin, pooling against your stomach once he finally cums. You see a shiver run through him, and then he’s still for a while in this position, the both of you basking in the afterglow of your highs.
You’re still weak and sensitive when Mark finally comes back down, a lucidity you don’t have right now coming back into his gaze. All you can do is smile when he leans in, catching your lips in another kiss — one that’s surprisingly soft and slow in comparison to everything else, but still leaves you breathless when he pulls away.
“Let me clean you up,” he murmurs, and you hum in agreement, your body limp as you watch him move off the bed and pull a handful of tissues from a box on the desk on the opposite wall. Even his hands are gentle when he scoops you up, shifting you until your head can lean against the pillows. They carry a scent you’re not used to, and your nose scrunches, rejecting the change, but that’s quickly overpowered by Mark’s familiar coffee-and-linen one when he presses next to you, careful as he wipes his cum off your stomach and thoroughly cleans between your thighs. From somewhere down below, you still hear hushed voices, and the front door slams shut again. People are still in the middle of leaving, but you know Youngho will likely run out of guests soon, and this makes you feel like the timing’s suddenly become urgent.
“I want to date you properly,” you start, slightly slurred but unmistakably blunt. Mark’s gaze snaps to yours, slightly amused, as he balls the tissues up in his fist. “You never asked me, so I’m asking you.”
He looks perplexed. “I just never thought you wanted me to, so I didn’t try.”
You reach up, locking your fingers into his hair and using your grip to pull him down. Your kiss is a little demanding, with a tinge of excess frustration, and he pulls away laughing lightly.
“Do you still think I don’t want you to?”
Mark hums thoughtfully. “I think you made a lot of things clear tonight. On my end, I was happy enough to be near you.” He smiles down at you, and in the faint light, you can see the flush slowly return to his cheeks. “Having you like this — dating you… there’s no way I’d say no.”
Your shoulders relax, satisfied with his answer, and you beam up at him — an act he easily returns, breathtaking and endearing all at once.
Moments later, you feel his arm wind around your waist; he allows you to lean into his side, his other hand crossing over his lap to stroke your thigh. His face turns, pressing a kiss to your hair, and you feel his lips move, hear the quick rush of a whisper. You tilt your head, eyes slightly wide in questioning. “What was that?”
He shakes his head at first, trying to pass it off as nothing. But when it’s clear your curiosity won’t abate, he chuckles softly, his hand gently cupping your chin so that you can only look at him. His thumb strokes your bottom lip gently, as if trying to coax the same words out of your mouth before he murmurs them to you one more time — and this time, he sounds fully convinced of them.
“You’re all mine.”
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did... shiggy just died i-. idk what to feel. So he is not coming bach huh..... :(. OFA is gone too....
I don’t know what to feel either, anon. We really have to wait and see what comes next. But I do think Horikoshi is trying to say something about rebirth, so the rest of this post is going to be something like an elegy for the Tomura Shigaraki we knew (and what that can mean for Izuku): Why rebirth? Why is Tomura doomed? Tomura’s entire existence was tainted by AFO. Tomura can change his name, change his hair color, kill the AFO vestige, etc., but it’s impossible for him to escape AFO. How society would view him or his “redemption” is irrelevant; it’s that HE now knows his entire life, from conception onwards, was never his own. For Tomura, a happy ending is being completely free from AFO, deciding things fully for himself, and knowing his decisions are his own. It’s not a happy ending to remove Tenko from Tomura’s origin trauma only to plunge him into Twice’s “am I really me” trauma.
What AFO’s final, awful reveal showed is that even if Tomura Shigaraki became Tenko Shimura again, it’s not a rebirth. The very first cells of “Tenko Shimura’s” being were stained by AFO since AFO manipulated Kotaro into conceiving Tenko. Tenko’s parents and childhood friends were totally under AFO’s thumb. “Tenko” has no path to freedom; he has to be rebuilt from ash, one way or another.
For my own aesthetic tastes, I would very much prefer for Tenko to have agency over this. If he was going to disintegrate, I’d prefer it to be a clear choice — like Katsuki and Toshinori choosing moves that brought them to the brink of death. I don’t like the idea that Tenko had no choice in life or death, and that disintegrating is just another indignity that AFO manipulated him into. But maybe his story was always destined to be a tragedy, no matter how hard he tried to fight it.
Of course, there are ways that the spirit/consciousness of Tenko Shimura could return in a new body, and many of them do have Tenko participating actively in the process:
Phoenix quirk — Tomura disintegrates to ash so Tenko can choose to be reborn free of AFO’s distortions. (Maybe fandom was right about this theory but wrong that the phoenix was Dabi!)
Overhaul or quirk awakening - It’s possible for Overhaul (who is very much still alive and in possession of his quirk factor) to reverse the disintegration. It’s also possible that Tenko can do it himself (or that Tenko gave Izuku a quirk to do it) since Decay is half of Overhaul. Personally I don’t believe this is likely because I think Decay disappeared when AFO took control of Tomura this final time? Unclear, the end got really rushed and messy on these details for me, but if Decay is gone then it’s hard for it to “awaken.”
Rewind - The MHA standby ever since Eri’s introduction. She doesn’t have her horn anymore, so it seems unlikely, but she still has her quirk factor. The thing here is Tenko’s agency and if he would want to be rewound back to the body that AFO built for him.
All For One - Yes, Tomura could have given Izuku a quirk when they touched. What if it’s actually…All For One? Yoichi said the AFO quirk could have been the kindest in the world…and Izuku did promise to “bring it all back”… so if Tomura’s parting gift was to give the raw All For One power to Izuku, then Izuku could Overhaul and Rewind his way into healing everyone. He could borrow any quirk needed (Recovery Girl? Erasure?) use it as a tool, and then give it back because of course Izuku wouldn’t keep a stockpile for himself (absent being told he could keep a quirk). FWIW, I’d be HIGHLY amused if this happens, because it sounds straight out of a DFO fic. :)
Aura Might/OFA shenanigans - The “heroic fire” of OFA has seemingly gone out before, only to re-emerge both in the same person and in other people. I could see Tenko emerging from this fire.
Wishing energy that twists fate - Izuku and All Might both lived when they were “supposed” to die, so it could happen for Tenko too.
However, Tenko returning in a physical, corporeal form is not the only kind of rebirth that can complete his arc. It pains me SO MUCH to say this, but there’s a real chance his body doesn’t come back. Tomura fought for someone to see what was swept under the rug and understand that hero society isn’t perfect. He wanted a hero who would save him and imperfect humans like him, and he got that someone in Izuku. (He actually got it in Nana too, because of Izuku.)
Izuku Midoriya taking Tenko’s message deep into his heart and influencing all the people watching him to care more about the misfits and “villains” that pro heroes can’t help is a form of giving Tenko a new life. In the same way that the vestiges extended their power decades beyond physical death, and the same way that Shirakumo’s heroic heart survived his death and Nomu-fication, Izuku can keep Tenko’s spirit alive long after his body died. Maybe Tenko’s spirit is a new type of “heroic fire,” and it’s up to Izuku to keep those embers burning. It’s all in Izuku’s rewound, notably non-decayed hands.
Looking at it with this framing, you can also say Izuku gets his win AND save. Because even if Izuku couldn’t save Tenko’s physical body — and how could he if Tenko was doomed before either of them were born? — choosing to carry on Tenko’s legacy IS saving everything he could of that crying boy. It’s also far more immediate and tangible for Izuku to take on Tenko’s legacy rather than being unwittingly thrown into the 200 year old OFA-AFO fight. There’s something so poignant and human about an ending with quirkless Izuku humbly fighting for what Tenko believed in compared to celebrity #1 Billboard ranked hero Izuku with OFA. After all, Tenko and Izuku are 2 sides of a coin. Tenko could have had Izuku’s role in another life if OFA kept passing in the Shimura family.
Even the fact that Izuku never told anyone outside of Ochako, Katsuki, and All Might that he wanted to save Tenko works in Izuku’s favor. Izuku can help the whole world become the people Tenko challenged them to be and they’ll never know they’re actually fulfilling the dreams of a villain. (‘Cuz they’d be too biased to do it otherwise.) Finally, you know all the complaints that Izuku’s character has been stagnant in MHA’s third act? That he hasn’t really been challenged in his ideals? Maybe that hasn’t happened yet because it’s just starting NOW.
After all, Toshinori modeled “All Might” after Nana’s ideals, and she wasn’t known to the population at large. Izuku could follow their footsteps by modeling his hero career after Tenko’s ideals. We’d have multiple generations of Shimuras posthumously changing society for the bettter.
Look, I understand how emotions are running high. I’ve loved this series for years and I cried reading this chapter. I personally don’t love it if Tenko is gone, even though I can make narrative sense of it. It’s a tragic and bitter-barely-sweet ending for poor Tenko, whose very dreams of being a hero were engineered to sow division in his family and break his psyche instead of lift him up.
But none of us will know what it all means for a few more chapters. We could still have several more chapters before we get Tenko’s real finale. It’s nearing the end, but it’s not THE end yet. In the meantime, take care of yourselves and as always, curate your fandom spaces lovingly.
#bnha spoilers#mha spoilers#bnha 423#mha 423#tomura shigaraki#Tenko shimura#Elegy for Tomura Shigaraki#mha meta#bnha meta#Izuku midoriya#Deku#Phoenix quirk#AFO#all for one
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Shuri x fem!reader request where she catches her as she’s falling somewhere relatively high? I just melt at the idea of Shuri just catching the reader mid-fall, not like a trip, like an *actual* fall; Shuri has the Black Panther powers (she’s super agile, great reflexes, can clearly move quickly, and I thinkkk would be decently strong) so she should get to put those powers use, dang it! Oh, and would it be cool if the reader is just like “oh. wow.” swoon and not really concerned at all while Shuri’s just freaking out (like “Are you OKAY?!? Are you HURT!!?!”)? I loveee smug/cool Shuri sm but having uncool/nervous/worried/sweet Shuri is such a rarity that I really love it. AND thank you so much for all your Shuri x Reader content. It’s genuinely so hard to find non-smut content of her and you just write her so well!
𝐬𝐚𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧?
pairings : shuri x fem!reader.
authors note : im so sorry this took so long😭! I had a hard time writing for this request, my creativity and motivation wasn't really participating so this is just very horrible💀
Your glare hardened on the enemies masked face as they inched closer to you, grabbing the stolen spear a Dora Milaje once held. You inhaled sharply, grabbing your own weapon tightly as you began to walk backwards, not noticing the edge of the cliff behind you.
Not wasting anytime, you striked your spear. The invader ducks, and a mammal behind them emerged and jumped on you. Your sword pierced through the animal instead, and it furiously let's out a pained roar.
The mammals impact on you semd you both backwards, and onto the edge of the cliff. Your eyes widened in realization when your foot felt nothing but air, and the mammals frightened look seemed like they realized it too.
The animal roared slightly as you pushed it away from you with harsh force, watching as it fell more faster than you.
You choked back a scream as you hyperventilated, unsure of what to do. Will you die? God no, you hope not. You'd rather die fighting enemies rather than a fucking mammal.
Your eyes stayed on the ground as the wind wiped on your face, your eyes dilated.
Your breath quickly hitched when you saw something from your peripheral vision, specifically, a black form from the sides of the cliff as it swiftly jumped on you.
A surprised yelp escaped your mouth when you were forcefully pushed to the side by someone's body engulfing your own. Your beloved savior clawed at another edge of a cliff, making a God awful scratching noise in your ears.
At the sound of the scratching, it gave you a clew who the hell decided to jump on a cliff to save you.
Shuris body collided with the rocky surface as she protected you from it by shielding you with her form. You breathed in a deep inhale, rocky huffing as you looked up to her.
Her black panther mask revealed her face, watching as she looked at you with worry as if she hadn't just threw herself on bulky rocks. "Are you okay? Are you hurt?" She hurriedly asked.
You shook your head incredulously, looking at her ridiculously. "..did you just fucking jump off a cliff to save me?"
Shuri opens her mouth to respond, but nothing came out. Her head tilted as if saying 'yeah, duh?'
"What was I supposed to do?" She questioned you, her hand on your waist gripping tightly as she looked down below you two. Her other hand remaind clawing at the side of the cliff.
You merely let out a chuckle, completely trying to forget the fact you were almost gonna die five seconds ago. Your head buried against the girls neck, letting out a sigh of 'holy shit im alive'.
"My love and savior."
Shuri sweatdrops at your words, unsure of how to feel. "Are you sure you didn't hit your head..?" She trails off, and you slightly grinned at her.
"I'm fine. I just fell off a cliff, that's all. You should be more worried about that damn mammal who attacked me." Shuri winced at that, glancing down as if she was looking for the said mammal.
"..yeah."
A few breaths exchanged, and a spark went out in your head. "Shuri how the fuck will we get back up." You removed your head from her shoulders, looking at her incredulously.
She looks at you the same way, eyes wide. "You know how to climb right?"
"Shuri im not some fucking superhuman with panther abilities."
"I'm sure they'll find us here."
"Baby, what the actual fuck."
Shuri grins arlt the nickname, booping your nose with her own slyly. "Say that again?" She hums, coyly looking down at your lips.
You playfully slapped her shoulder, but then ended up letting out a surprised noise when you slightly slipped from her hold. Your arm quickly wrapped around her neck, afraid of falling again.
"Please get us out of this cliff. This'll forever leave a scar onto my memory."
"Hey, it's your fault. You let that tiger tackle you."
"It was a tiger?"
"..it wasn't?"
THAT SHOULD BE MEEEEE AAAUUUUGHHHHHHHHH
#letitia wright x reader#letitia wright black panther#letitia wright shuri#letitia wright#shuri udaku#shuri fluff#shuri x reader#shuri black panther#princess shuri#shuri x you#shuri fanfiction#queen of wakanda#wakanda forever shuri#black panther wakanda forever#wakanda forever#wakandans#black panther fanfiction#black panther shuri#black panther#reader insert#character x reader#fanfic#fanfiction#mcu black panther#mcu shuri#mcu#—aoifics
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Another Chotiner interview, another official makes an idiot of himself and lets on far more than he should have. I honestly don't know how Chotiner manages to do this again and again, have these people just not read any of his previous interviews? It's not like his questions are particularly pointed. I suppose he simply gives people enough rope.
What I’ve been struck by in the last few months is the willingness of the Biden Administration to be humiliated by the Israelis. And I’m not talking about this in a moral or ethical sense. Antony Blinken, the Secretary of State, takes a trip to Tel Aviv and the Israelis embarrass him by announcing land seizures in the West Bank during the visit. Stuff like this has happened multiple times. Or Netanyahu, responding to Biden saying he “has a red line” around Rafah, defies him publicly and even says he has his own “red line.” I’m surprised the Administration doesn’t have a little bit more pride. I keep thinking, even if they don’t want to change the policy, they must be having some sort of human reaction to—
Oh, I’m sure that’s right. When Bill Clinton emerges from his first meeting with Benjamin Netanyahu, in June of 1996, Clinton explodes: “Who’s the fucking superpower here?” James Baker banned Netanyahu from the State Department when he was deputy foreign minister. This is part of what I call the system, the structure of the U.S.-Israeli relationship.
Someone might say, “Why is the most powerful country in human history essentially taking orders from a country that relies on it for aid? What exactly is going on here?”
I’ve been looking at the U.S.-Israeli relationship for decades. I left the government in 2003, during the second Bush Administration. I’d been in government since Jimmy Carter. There was a time when someone could say with a straight face that the three ingredients that made the relationship were a high coincidence of values, a high coincidence of interest, and a strong base of domestic support. During the past fifteen to twenty years, many of which are under Benjamin Netanyahu’s purview as Prime Minister, the value affinity, the perception that Israel shares common values with us, is under more stress.
No President I ever worked for sought a major conflict or confrontation with Israeli Prime Ministers. They sought to manage rather than to confront. The practical reality is that if you want to get anything done, even if it involves tensions and pressure, you have to find a way to work with, rather than against, the Israeli government. My analysis has now been tested six months into the worst Israeli-Palestinian crisis that we’ve ever experienced.
I just worry about a situation where we throw up our hands and say, “Well, the United States, the most powerful country on earth, has no choice but to keep arming a country that’s starving people.”
But, Isaac, look, just between you and me—
It’s an interview, but sure.
The question is: why? I’ve offered you the best explanation based on literally twenty-seven years of watching and participating in the U.S.-Israeli relationship. I can’t explain it. I think your question is a really good one.
[...]
You’re saying you have no investment in one analysis or another. I could be wrong, but when I was listening to you talk, and you discussed the horrors of October 7th, I sensed an emotion in your voice that I haven’t heard at any other time in this conversation. I don’t want to criticize that, but I do wonder if the people who make policy in America don’t have that same emotion when it comes to Palestinian lives. Do you think that’s fair?
I think it’s fair to say, yes, that America and Americans have a pro-Israeli sensibility. I don’t think there’s any question about that. Clinton wrote in his memoir that he loved Yitzhak Rabin as he loved no man, rarely loved any other man, which is extraordinary. I watched Clinton grieve in the wake of Rabin’s murder. And when Biden gave the speech on October 10th, you watched the tears well up in his eyes. He talked about the black hole of loss. He’s conflated the tragedies in his own personal life with what Israelis felt on that day.
Yes, that’s very moving, but there is another kind of loss going on now which he apparently can’t conflate with his own experience.
Oh, if you’re asking me: Do I think that Joe Biden has the same depth of feeling and empathy for the Palestinians of Gaza as he does for the Israelis? No, he doesn’t, nor does he convey it. I don’t think there’s any doubt about that.
Christ.
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The Wagner Group mercenaries marched 800 kilometers across Russia, shot down planes and helicopters, took over a regional military command, provoked a panic in Moscow—troops dug trenches, the mayor told everyone to stay home—and then stood down. Yet in a way, the strangest aspect of Saturday’s aborted coup was the reaction of the people of Rostov-on-Don, including the city’s military leaders, to the soldiers who arrived and declared themselves to be their new rulers.
The Wagner mercenaries showed up in the city early Saturday morning. They met no resistance. Nobody shot at them. One photograph, published by The New York Times, shows them walking at a leisurely pace across a street, one of their tanks in the background, holding yellow coffee cups.
Yevgeny Prigozhin, Wagner’s violent ex-con leader, posted videos of himself chatting with the local commanders in the courtyard of the headquarters of Russia’s Southern Military District. Nobody seemed to mind his being there.
Outside, street sweepers continued their work. Early in the morning, a few people came to gawk, but not many. After Russian President Vladimir Putin gave a panicked speech on television, comparing the situation to 1917 and evoking the ghost of civil war, one man pushing a bicycle was filmed berating the Wagnerites and telling them to go home. The troops laughed him off. But later in the day, more people showed up, and the atmosphere grew warmer.
People shook their hands, brought them food, took selfies. “People are bringing pirozhki, apples, chips. Everything there in the store has been bought to give to the soldiers,” one woman said on camera. In the evening, after Prigozhin had decided to stand down and go home (wherever home turns out to be), he drove away in an SUV with crowds filming him on their cellphones and cheering him on, as if he were a celebrity leaving a movie premiere or a gallery opening. Some chanted “Wagner! Wagner!” as the troops emerged into the street. This was the most remarkable aspect of the whole day: Nobody seemed to mind, particularly, that a brutal new warlord had arrived to replace the existing regime—not the security services, not the army, and not the general public. On the contrary, many seemed sorry to see him go.
The response is hard to understand without reckoning with the power of apathy, a much undervalued political tool. Democratic politicians spend a lot of time thinking about how to engage people and persuade them to vote. But a certain kind of autocrat, of whom Putin is the outstanding example, seeks to convince people of the opposite: not to participate, not to care, and not to follow politics at all. The propaganda used in Putin’s Russia has been designed in part for this purpose. The constant provision of absurd, conflicting explanations and ridiculous lies—the famous “firehose of falsehoods”— encourages many people to believe that there is no truth at all. The result is widespread cynicism. If you don’t know what’s true, after all, then there isn’t anything you can do about it. Protest is pointless. Engagement is useless.
But the side effect of apathy was on display yesterday as well. For if no one cares about anything, that means they don’t care about their supreme leader, his ideology, or his war. Russians haven’t flocked to sign up to fight in Ukraine. They haven’t rallied around the troops in Ukraine or held emotive ceremonies marking either their successes or their deaths. Of course they haven’t organized to oppose the war, but they haven’t organized to support it either.
Because they are afraid, or because they don’t know of any alternative, or because they think it’s what they are supposed to say, they tell pollsters that they support Putin. And yet, nobody tried to stop the Wagner group in Rostov-on-Don, and hardly anybody blocked the Wagner convoy on its way to Moscow. The security services melted away, made no move and no comment. The military dug some trenches around Moscow and sent some helicopters; somebody appears to have sent bulldozers to dig up the highways, but that was all we could see. Who will respond if a more serious challenge to Putin ever emerges? Certainly the military will think twice: Perhaps a dozen Russian servicemen, mostly pilots, died at the hands of the Wagner mutineers, more than died during the failed coup of 1991. Nobody seems particularly bothered about them.
One day after this aborted coup, it is too early to speculate about Prigozhin’s true motives, about what he was really given in exchange for standing down, about where Putin really spent the day on Saturday—some say St. Petersburg, some say a dacha in Novgorod—or about anything else, really. But the flimsiness of this regime’s ideology and the softness of its support have been suddenly laid bare. Expect more repression as Putin tries to stay in charge, more chaos, or both.
#current events#politics#russian politics#psychology#sociology#russo-ukrainian war#2022 russian invasion of ukraine#russia#yevgeny prigozhin#vladimir putin#wagner group
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Okay so I saw that @foxy-alien made art of a TLT house swap AU and it started me thinking about how I’d do a similar AU… I did that instead of sleeping last night btw.
So here’s what I have so far:
Ninth House: Ianthe, Corona and Babs. Once upon a time a woman and a baby fell on their planet. When they saw the woman’s red hair they thought “ugh what Third House bullshit is this” and while they kept the corpse, they sent the baby back. We don’t want this keep your trash. They have their own drama to deal with anyway; the tomb needs its keeper to be a necromancer. Corona, while officially the heir and Reverent Daughter, is not one. Ianthe and her started hiding her lack of talent before their parents explained the whole “unbroken chain of the tomb keeper’s necromantic bloodline” thing. So long as Ianthe is around, the twins expect that everything is still fine. Still, their house hovers on the edge of breaking a promise of ten thousand years once their parents die and Corona inherits the duties of the tomb… unless they find a way to make Corona a necromancer, either by turning her into a lyctor, by making Ianthe a lyctor and then Ianthe makes her necromantic (?), or they just straight up ask Jod for a boon.
Eight House: Abigail and Magnus. Everyone is surprised when they meet them, as they do not meet the traditional pattern of their house; especially when you know the fact that Abigail’s cavalier was supposed to be a cousin but was replaced by Magnus when he married Abigail — their blood type was, luckily (or unluckily?) compatible. Like, who the fuck would want to be an Eight House cavalier??? (Magnus would. He think going into the river is exciting. He also trusts his wife.) It’s usually only when Abigail starts actually doing necromancy that people remember she’s scary AF. Through her interest in ghosts, she has developed her own custom safeguards against Magnus getting possessed when she siphons him… or if he does get possessed, she is a quick and extremely brutal exorcist.
Seventh House: Palamedes and Camilla. Pal decided on his medicine focus due to his house’s propensity for weird necromantic cancer. He firmly believes that if he can just find a way to either stabilize or treat it, the inhabitants of the seventh house will live more comfortable lives. He is considered something of an heretic due to this, but house leadership is willing to ‘let him cook’ -> they’ll wait to see if a necromancer with a stable cancer is still powerful before they decide whether to censure his research or not.
Sixth House: Jeannemary and Isaac. They’re still young, but very good at getting into places they’re not supposed to be, particularly by breaking wards and then rebuilding them better. Both of them keep trying to apply into the cohort but the scholars of the Sixth see Isaac’s skills with wards and want him to pursue academia instead. When the summons to Canaan House came the council all looked at each other, remembered they still had to appoint a new master warden after the last one passed, figured that nobody wanted to abandon their current study/experiments to go participate to what would be sure to be a tedious dick measuring contest with the other house heirs, and decided to invoke an obscure emergency clause in a law book somewhere in order to appoint Isaac to the title. He and Jeannemary really were the only ones who actually wanted to go to Canaan.
Fifth House: Dulcinea and Protesilaus. It is a shame that her health is so poor, because she would otherwise have become a hell of an ruler. While she has an ease with history and academia, her true skill is diplomacy. Dulcinea can get a very accurate read on most people, and she knows how to use their own psychology against them to make them agree to her ideas. She looks nice and fragile, but she is cunning. Meanwhile, Protesilaus is surprisingly good at paperwork for a guy who looks like he eats skulls for breakfast.
Fourth House: Judith and Martha. This AU version of them is less cocksure, but just as proficient at gathering information, profiling people, and writing down ample notes. Their rank in the cohort is lower than in canon, and they often get assigned to the tasks nobody else wants. Such as: overseeing security on ships bringing prisoners to the Ninth House prison installation… and this is how Judith and Corona met.
Third House: Harrow and Gideon. Once upon a time, the Ninth House sent them an orphan they claimed was theirs. The King and Queen didn’t pay the mystery much mind and stuck the baby in an orphanage. They had their own troubles to deal with: the royal family had not been able to produce a necromantic heir yet, and the vassal families were closing in. They figured that they couldn’t let a lesser branch of the family inherit the Third; it had never been done, would discredit them in the eyes of the other Houses, and would cause political instability. So in order to ensure the necromantic potential of their latest vat baby experiment, the King and Queen sacrificed the children in one of the lesser orphanages. They claimed that an hull breach in the space station caused the poisonous air of the planet’s upper atmosphere to get inside the ventilation system… except there was one survivor. The King and Queen were weirded out by that seemingly unkillable toddler but public opinion was heavily positive towards the ‘miracle survivor’. Not to mention having at least one person survive the incident helps make the ‘it was an accident’ excuse sound more credible. So the King and Queen brought the child to the palace and decided to do some PR by giving her a place to live and an education, and eventually made her the Cavalier of their (powerful) new daughter.
Second House: Silas and Column. Duty-bound, fanatic, no fun allowed Silas is a bit young for military service, but that doesn’t stop him from climbing the ranks. Column is still used as a battery, even in this AU, except his role is to start killing people to produce the initial necromantic boom to give Silas something to work with when they deploy to new battlefields. He hates doing this btw.
#the locked tomb#the locked tomb AU#house swap AU#gideon the ninth#harrowhark nonagesimus#gideon nav#the locked tomb fanfic
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Tagged by: @mollywog
Tag game: write something based on the prompt “How am I supposed to focus when you look at me like that?”
Tagging: @rainymyx @thesweetnessofspring @vasilissadragomir and anyone I missed who would like to participate!!!
“How am I supposed to focus with you looking at me like that?” She laughs, making an incredulous face at him when he doesn’t back up.
Peeta’s eyes flick towards her briefly before returning to the brush in her hand. His brow is folded into an anxious wrinkle, and he’s actively trying to hide his downturned lips from her by covering his mouth with the palm he’s using to support his chin in a posture that exudes criticism. When he doesn’t respond Katniss rolls her eyes and sets the brush down on the easel.
“Seriously? What is it?” She turns towards him fully. “What am I doing wrong?”
“Hm? Oh, nothing. Everything’s fine.” But his voice is all wrong. Too high pitched. She raises an eyebrow at that and he sighs, “you’re just… that’s not… you’re gonna damage that brush.”
Katniss laughs, “that’s what this is about? You can just say that. I don’t know what I’m doing, I won’t get offended.” She lightly slaps her thighs as if to punctuate her point before turning back to the canvas. “So, what should I do?”
“Well…” he seems to hesitate for a second before deciding to go for it. “First, you shouldn’t be rubbing the brush so hard against the canvas. The hairs fall off if you do that. If you want to deposit more paint, you should probably choose a bigger brush. This one? It’s for fine detailing, not broad strokes.”
“Here,” he picks up a brush from the table where he keeps his collection. “This one should be perfect.”
“Okay,” Katniss trails off as she considers the brush in her hand. It looks rather beat up, she wonders if he’s shifting her towards his least favourite brushes.
She resumes her work, dipping the brush into a bright emergency-alarm red. She’s raising the brush to the canvas when she notices the pained face Peeta is making.
“What is it now?”
“Nothing!” He chuckles but it’s all fake, she can read him better than a billboard.
“Just tell me please,” she looks at him over her shoulder and he manages to look embarrassed.
“Don’t you think that’s too strong of a colour? To start off with, at least? What if you make a mistake?” He takes a step closer to her but seems to think better of it, forcing himself to walk towards the window on the far side of the room. “You know what? Never mind, ignore me!”
“Do you wanna do it?”
“No, of course not! Art is individual.” He raises his hands in a very placating, peacemaking, please let’s end this conversation way. “Just— yeah, I’m going to go sit down over here.”
“I really don’t mind if you want to do it,” she insists. “Peeta? You’re better at this anyway.”
“Pfft, no I’m fine.” He sits down on the old couch on the far end of the room, dust plumes rising up around him. He crosses his leg awkwardly, clearly attempting to look fine. “You go ahead.”
“Peeta—“
“I’m being serious! Just keep going.”
“Okay… I’m going to use the red paint now.”
“Perfect.”
“Uh huh.”
#lol idk why I went in this direction#the hunger games#everlark#thg#peeta mellark#katniss everdeen#fanfic
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I opened tumblr and saw gorgeous oc art and was like omg cool ocs who is this? And it was u. Of course it was u. Why are u so good. You gotta do lore drops now. (Pls tell me what “cleaners” are supposed to be)
HHHHHJKSBJ thanks?? ooughhh with that i have to go a bit deeper into the story and wahts actually happening in my comic, sorry if i dump (i tend to get overexcited and ramble, ill try to keep it short)
basically, grimms game (the story) is about a sick cruel game of pitting siblings against each other in a deadly survival game. abels twin sister got lost when they were little and she was proclaimed dead. he never recovered from this and in the belief that she still lives sets out to find her
everything leads him into this kind of messed up city and right into this game where hes forced to participate - against his sister. the game is organized and hosted by the so called "council" (or "suits" how theyre often called on streets) and has very strict rules. some of the council members (the lower rank ones) are usually the same and dont get swapped. the higher ups are the winners of the prior games and get swapped once a new winning side emerges from the game, finally free.
the "cleaners" are lower rank members tasked with the crappy job. they only consist of iza and mephi and like i said, theyre in charge of getting rid (executing) of any participant breaking the game rules, or whatever mess (corpses) is left behind the game - basically "keeping the city clean" of blood and cheaters
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Experimental
Story Content and Summary - 4,373 words. When Nathan's wife has a heart attack during sex, he is asked to participate in an experimental resuscitation procedure developed at the nearby research hospital. Explicit sex, on-site and hospital resuscitation, intercourse with a person who cannot consent.
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“Oh, God!” Jessica threw her head back, eyes rolling. Her legs were spread wide, toes curled, her hand working furiously at her clit. Nathan thrust into her, hard, knowing she was close and that he wasn’t far behind.
She was panting and moaning, her free hand balling into a fist and pressing against her own chest. Her hips matched his thrust for thrust.
“It’s so good, it hurts!” she exclaimed, breathless.
This confused him, but she still seemed into it so he leaned over and kissed her, plunging his tongue into her mouth until she pulled away and gasped for air. At the same time, he felt her walls begin to spasm, the muscles rippling against his dick.
It was probably the most intense orgasm he’d ever observed; her eyes rolled back in her head and she stiffened, making a croaking noise.
Then she went limp.
Nathan continued to pump into her, his own orgasm close. He reached down and cupped her cheek, chuckling a little at how thoroughly wiped she was. Then he leaned in to kiss her.
To his surprise, she was unresponsive, her lips unmoving beneath his. He stopped thrusting his hips and patted her cheek. “Babe? Jessica?
Then he grasped her shoulder, shaking her. “Jess!”
Her head lolled, but she didn’t respond. Nathan withdrew and crawled to her side. “Jessica! Jess, babe, are you okay?!”
He shook her again. “Can you hear me?”
His erection softened as concern gave way to fear. She looked very still, her muscles completely relaxed as he shook her. Nathan put his hand on her face and tipped her head back, leaning his ear close to her mouth.
Several long seconds passed with no breath stirring against his cheek. He pressed his fingers into her neck, waited. There was no reassuring pulse against his fingertips.
“Oh my God!” He stretched his body across hers, reaching for his phone on the nightstand and dialing 9-1-1. As the line connected, he gathered Jessica in his arms and climbed down from the bed. He laid her out on the rug, cradling her head as he rested it on the floor.
“It’s okay, babe, we’re so close to the hospital!” The instructions for compression-only CPR trickled through his head.
“9-1-1, what’s your name and the nature of your emergency?”
“Nathan Spalding. I think my wife just had a heart attack! She isn’t breathing and she doesn’t have a pulse!” Nathan traced the line of her ribs and found her sternum. He interlaced his fingers and pressed the heel of his hand to the lower half of her breastbone. “I’m starting CPR now! Oh my God, Jessica!”
When he pushed down, her ribcage felt stiff. He remembered he was supposed to press down two inches, but hasn’t given a thought as to what that would actually look or feel like. Her chest caved under his hands, springing back up when he relieved the pressure. Her breasts wobbled with the force, her stomach bulging out.
“Your wife is not breathing?”
“No! And she has no pulse! I’m giving her chest compressions! Please send an ambulance to the Star Condos on Main! We’re literally just around the corner. Our unit is twenty-nine!” He shoved his hands into Jessica’s chest. Her head fell to the side, shoulders popping with the force he exerted on her sternum.
“I don’t know if I’m doing this at the right speed!”
“Sir, I have an ambulance crew leaving the hospital now. Make sure you have your hands on her sternum and you are pushing her chest down two inches. Come all the way up each time. Go ahead and count out loud for me each time you push down on her chest.”
“One, two, three, four, five, six…”
“Good pace, keep it up. Nathan, will the medics be able to get into your condo?”
“…eight… Yes! The doorman will let them in! Three, four, five, six…”
Come on, babe! I didn’t know you were sick! You have to breathe!
He could hear the sirens outside. They really did live extremely close to Suncoast Research Hospital. The medics could have almost walked there.
“…six, seven, eight, nine, ten, one…”
Nathan was breathing hard, sweat beading up on his brow. Both of them were still naked, which was a thought that had only belatedly occurred to him, but he decided that didn’t signify.
“Sir, Nathan, does your wife have any health conditions?”
“…three, four… No, I didn’t think so! Uh… she had chest pains right before she lost consciousness… seven, eight, nine…”
“Drug use?”
“One… Just pot! And not tonight… not all week! One, two, three, four…”
“Okay, Nathan, the ambulance has arrived and the crew is making their way to you. Stay on the line until they enter your condo, okay?”
“Eight, nine—okay! One, two, three, come ON, Jess!”
The speaker in his apartment activated with a series of beeps, and he heard a man say: “Mr. and Mrs. Spalding, EMS has arrived and has requested entry to your unit. I’ve sent them up the cargo elevator with staff and am buzzing them into your unit remotely. Please respond if you are able.”
“Yes! This is Nathan! Mr. Spalding! Please, let them in, I can’t… One, two, three, four…”
“I’m disabling your door lock for the next ten minutes. Please let me know if I can assist further.”
Nathan heard the front door lock disengage, and shortly after there was a loud knock and the door opened. “Mr. Nathan Spalding? EMS here!”
“…five, six… BACK IN THE BEDROOM!” He heard the sound of them wheeling a gurney down the hall, and then three men were in the room with him, all wearing dark blue polos and black pants.
“Thank you, sir, I’ll take over from here.” One of the men, a tall red head whose nametag read “Adam,” kneeled across from Nathan. Nathan leaned back, watching as the man pressed his fingers into Jessica’s neck. She’d gone gray, her lips dusky.
Nathan stumbled to his feet, felt someone grab his elbow. “I’ve got you, sir. Why don’t you sit down?”
“Need to put clothes on,” Nathan said, pulling free. This man’s nametag read: “Scottie.”
“Resuming compressions,” Adam said. Nathan froze, watching as the man began to pummel his wife’s chest, his compressions seeming even harder and faster than the ones Nathan had been performing. He heard air huff out of her, and then the third EMT kneeled at her other side, laying a mask with a bag attached by her head. He was also unpacking some kind of display. Nathan looked at his badge, registering that his name was “Joseph.”
He found his pajamas in a pile at the foot of the bed and dressed quickly.
“Has EMS arrived?” he heard the operator ask from his phone.
Nathan snatched it up and said: “Yes, they’re here. Thank you!”
“Thank you, sir. Disconnecting now.”
“Sir,” Scottie said. “Nathan. What’s her name?”
“Jessica.” Nathan sat on the edge of the bed, watching as his wife’s body twitched, her stomach bulging and her breasts wobbling with each compression.
“Thirty!” Adam called out, and Joseph squeezed the bulb twice, making her chest rise. Then Adam started compressions again. “One, two, three…”
“Nathan, I’m an Advanced EMT with your municipality.” Scottie crouched by Jessica, applying white defibrillator pads to her chest.
He flipped a switch, and the device announced: “Analyzing rhythm. Do not touch patient!”
The men all scooted back. Joseph held a small plastic piece against the side of Jessica’s face, careful not to touch her.
“Analyzing rhythm, do not touch patient. No shock advised. Resume two minutes of CPR.”
“Adam and Joseph switch, I’m calling for ALS. Nathan, Adam is going to put an airway adjunct in to help with her breathing.”
Two of the men changed places. Joseph started chest compressions, while Adam retrieved the plastic piece and tilted Jessica’s head back. He slipped the piece between her teeth and rotated it one hundred and eighty degrees before letting the flange rest on her teeth.
“How old is Jessica?” Scottie asked.
“Twenty-nine,” Nathan answered. Then he pressed his hands to his mouth.
“Thirty!” Joseph said, and Adam quickly fitted the mask to Jessica’s face and squeezed the bulb.
“Dr. Perkins, please.” Scottie crouched close by, speaking into his phone. “This is Scottie Wilson, unit one-one, A-EMT. I have a twenty-nine-year-old patient in cardiac arrest. No known pre-existing health conditions or drug use. Witnessed collapse with chest pains. Husband started chest compressions immediately and called 9-1-1. Since our arrival we have given her a full cycle of CPR and connected the AED. AED advised no shock. We are requesting Advanced Life Support.”
He listened to someone speaking on the other end.
“I’m sorry, repeat that question.”
“One, two, three, four, five…”
“What was the patient doing at the time of the arrest? I’ll ask—”
“We were having sex,” Nathan said, too worried to be embarrassed, his eyes on Jessica as her chest rose artificially.
“Patient and her husband were engaged in sexual intercourse.”
“…three, four, five, six…”
“You want us to transport her and bring the husband. Is that—No, I understand. I’ll establish an IV in the bus. Okay. Yes, Doctor.”
“Analyzing rhythm. Do not touch patient.”
The medics leaned back.
“Guys, we’re transporting her back,” Scottie said. “Continuing with the AED until we start moving, and CPR all the way.”
“Analyzing rhythm, do not touch patient. No shock advised. Continue two minutes of CPR."
"Switch while we package her up, then I will ride the gurney down.”
Adam started chest compressions while the other EMTs began gathering up their bags and putting things at the foot of the gurney.
“Sir,” Scottie said. “You should go ahead and grab anything you need to take with you. Insurance cards, ID, shoes for yourself. You’ll be riding in the front of the ambulance. Okay?”
“Okay.” He stared down at Jessica, watching the EMT Adam forcefully compressing her chest. The mask was sitting to the side of her face, and he could see the plastic airway device jutting out between her teeth. He had a question that was floating in the front of his mind, one he did and did not want the answer to. But he drew a deep breath and asked: “Are… are they planning on declaring her dead at the hospital?”
Scottie shook his head. “Not to my knowledge. They’re holding a resuscitation suite and a specialist for her.”
Nathan nodded and leaned over, briefly gripping his wife’s foot, the closest part of her body. “I love you,” he murmured, before making himself stand.
He found shoes and grabbed his wallet. He also collected Jessica’s phone off the dresser and her wallet out of her purse in the kitchen. He briefly considered calling her mother, but by that time the EMTs were wheeling the gurney out of the bedroom. They’d covered her lower half with a sheet, and Scottie straddled her, riding on top of the gurney as he thrust his hands between her breasts.
Nathan held the door for them and then paged down to the front desk to activate the cargo elevator. He locked the door and ran after the gurney, sliding into the elevator as the doors closed.
As they were exiting the cargo elevator, the AED tried to chime in. Scottie turned it off, stating: “We need to stay on the move.”
The next thing Nathan knew, he’d been bundled into the front of the ambulance, Joseph driving, and they were headed the short distance to the hospital.
When they arrived, he found an entire group waiting for them in the ambulance bay.
“Mr. Spalding? I need you to come with me right away.” A female nurse ushered him inside and down the hall after the gurney. He caught glimpses of Jessica’s hair, but he couldn’t get close enough to touch her. A nurse was astride her now, continuing the chain of chest compressions.
He was escorted to a small room with a table and chairs labeled as a “Family Consultation Room.”
“The doctor will be with you shortly,” the nurse said, before closing the door behind her.
He didn’t wait long. He heard a quick knock as the door was opening, and a female doctor entered the room. She wore a surgical mask and carried a set of scrubs under her arm and a clipboard in her hand.
“I’m Dr. Perkins,” she said. “Have a seat, Nathan.”
“If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not.” He felt queasy, and his heart was beating fast. “Are you about to tell me you already called her? Is she dead?”
“Your wife is very sick. Based on the timeline, most doctors, programs, hospitals would be declaring her dead in the next five minutes. We don’t have any time, so I am going to have to rush you through this process.
“Your wife does not have any cardiac electrical activity. I have an experimental resuscitative process that I am pioneering. I have identified a hormone that supports electrical activity in the heart. I’ve named it corsexamine, and—”
“Do it,” Nathan said. “Do you need me to sign something?”
“Yes,” she said. “But you’ll need to be personally involved.”
“Okay… Sure, whatever you need me to do.”
“As the name might suggest, corsexamine is released during sexual activity. I am told your wife experienced onset of the cardiac arrest during sexual intercourse?”
Nathan blinked at her. She appeared to be interested for scholarly reasons only, so he nodded. “Yes, she said it hurt, but she didn’t want me to stop, and then she grabbed her chest, came really hard, and passed out.”
“She’s already tested positive via finger stick for a low corsexamine reserve. We need to do everything we can to get that elevated. This includes both natural and artificial methods.” She laid the clipboard on the table. “This document releases the hospital in the event that the procedure does not work, or if you develop PTSD or an STI. This process may be very disturbing and upsetting, Nathan. You’ll be doing something that would be illegal in any other context.”
“An STI?”
“Not a concern. If she has one, you’ve already been exposed.”
Nathan accepted the pen she offered her. He really wasn’t sure what they were asking him to do, but it sounded like he would certainly be going home without Jessica if he didn’t agree to this procedure.
He scrawled his signature. “I still don’t know what you need me to do, but I’ll do it.”
“We need you to have sex with your dying wife.”
Less than three minutes later, Nathan was barefoot and dressed in scrubs. A nurse retrieved him from the consultation room and led him down the hall, stopping in front of a set of swinging doors.
“Your wife is in here, Mr. Spalding. Prepare yourself. Now, Dr. Perkins is prepared to masturbate you should you need the assistance. Do you understand?”
“Er… Sure, yeah.”
The nurse escorted him into the room. He could hear a buzzing and a high-pitched whine and saw his wife laid out on the table. She’d been intubated and had a blue tube holder obscuring part of her face. A nurse stood at her head, squeezing a bag. Another nurse was giving her forceful chest compressions. He could see her breasts wobble with each thrust, her large areolas looking dusky in the harsh light.
To his surprise, a third nurse was thrusting their hands into her abdomen, moving in opposition to the chest compressions. The two nurses were bobbing like a see-saw over his wife.
“Interposed abdominal compression CPR,” his escort said. “Studies show it improves vital organ perfusion. Getting oxygen to them, I mean. we’ve also got a cooling vest under her, though we’ve had to unzip it for this procedure.”
There was a curtain drawn across his wife, blocking her lower half from view. The doctor, a tall woman with piercing eyes over her mask, stepped out from behind the curtain. His escort reached out and put her hand on his arm. “I know that we discussed the procedure already, but this part will be shocking. Are you ready?”
He stared at her, then nodded. “Go ahead.”
The nurse pulled back the curtain, and he understood why she’d stopped to ask.
Jessica’s legs were spread, her feet strapped to a pair of exam stirrups. A fourth nurse stood with her back to him. He couldn’t see what she was doing until the doctor motioned for him to come around the table.
“This is…” He didn’t hear anything else she said. His eyes locked onto what was going on between his wife’s legs. The fourth nurse had a vibrator pressed to Jessica’s clit and an arm wrapped around her thigh so that she could pump her gloved fingers in and out of Jessica’s pussy.
The doctor motioned for him to step closer. From this angle he couldn’t see Jessica’s face, just the underside of her chin and the long line of her neck. The nurses pounded her chest and abdomen, making her entire body shake.
“Do you consent to this procedure as described to you?” the doctor asked.
“Y-yes…”
He was staring between Jessica’s thighs again. In addition to the nurse working her fingers in and out of his wife’s vagina, a butt plug had been inserted. He had a vague thought that Jessica would be annoyed with the “butt stuff.” He felt his cock twitch in the borrowed pants.
The doctor reached out and pulled the scrub pants down to his knees. She held her hands out to the nurse in charge of the IV, who squirted a generous dollop of lube into her hands.
Then she reached out and took his dick in her hand, pumping his semi with one hand and cupping his balls with the other.
“How are we on time?” The doctor called as she stroked him.
“Nearing twenty-five,” one of the nurses said.
He tried to block out the sounds, and the violence of what was happening to his wife. He focused instead on the sight of the nurse thrusting her fingers into his wife’s pussy. She had three fingers inside of his wife, pumping hard and fast, all while the vibrator buzzed away.
After a minute, though, his eyes drifted up to Jessica’s breasts. The nurse there was caving in her chest, making her breasts bob. Her nipples were hard, and he surprised himself by groaning as the doctor jacking him off slipped a lubed finger inside his asshole.
Another minute of this, and the doctor directed the nurse to “remove digital stimulation” before withdrawing her finger and helping him to position himself between his wife’s thighs. He’d grown rock hard, something he would have sworn should be impossible in these circumstances.
“Enter your wife now, please, Nathan,” the doctor said.
He pressed the head of his cock against Jessica’s lubricated vaginal opening and then sheathed himself in one motion. He could feel the vibrations from the vibrator through her body. He pumped once into her before he restrained himself and glanced up at the doctor.
“I don’t expect you to try to match compression speed. Just keep a solid rhythm,” the doctor said. “It’s time for another dose of epi, then we will progress with this technique in two minutes increments. Remember, sir, you must withdraw if or when we tell you to so that we may use the defibrillator.”
He had a front row seat to the more traditional interventions going on, his hips pumping automatically as he took everything in. He saw the nurse assigned to medication press her thumb down, releasing medication into his wife’s IV. The nurse at Jessica’s head never stopped squeezing the bag. The two nurses working on her in the middle looked like they were making putty out of her internal organs. One thrusted down hard into her sternum, making her ribcage flex. Then, as that nurse raised their hands, the other would plunge his hands into her abdomen.
“After the next analysis, I need Parker and Bryan to switch, and Kyle and Marcy,” the doctor said.
Nathan wrapped his hands around Jessica’s thighs, pulling himself deeper into her. Her thighs were cool but her pussy was warm. He wondered how long he was expected to last in this situation, or if he should even try to cum at all.
“Pause compressions and vaginal thrusts,” the doctor said. Nathan forced himself to stop thrusting, though he remained buried inside of her. “She’s still asystolic. Resume compressions and thrusts. Push epinephrine, and ready the corsexamine.”
A nurse moved to the side, scribbling something in the chart, then returned with a syringe, which he handed to the doctor.
“Alright, everyone compressions and vaginal thrusts pause while we insert the needle.” Nathan stopped thrusting with difficulty. The doctor uncapped the syringe, watched while the nurse cleaned the skin on Jessica’s chest. Then the doctor palpated her way down Jessica’s bruised sternum before finding the spot she was looking for and inserting the needle.
She depressed the plunger, withdrew the needle, and sat the syringe to the side. “Corsexamine administered. Resume compressions and vaginal thrusts. I’m adding nipple stimulation now. We analyze again in two minutes.”
The doctor reached around the hands pumping Jessica’s chest and began rubbing and pinching Jessica’s erect nipples.
Jessica
She couldn’t move or open her eyes. But as awareness trickled back into her brain, she felt everything.
A tube down her throat. Air regularly inflating her lungs. Fingers pinching and rubbing her nipples. Strong hands on her sternum and her abdomen, forcing blood to pump from her heart with deep, painful compressions. She felt powerful vibrations on her clit, and a feeling of fullness in her rectum. Hands gripped her thighs, and she realized someone was fucking her vaginally, their thrusts hard and fast.
The sensations were overwhelming; Jessica could barely think with everything going on. Her body was responding regardless. The passage between her thighs was slick, her arousal unmitigated by the crackling pain in her chest.
The vibration pattern on her clit changed. She would have moaned if she could have taken an independent breath. Her muscles began to tense; her toes tingled. A whoosh of air inflated her lungs.
“Let us know if you feel her body orgasm,” a woman said. “Pause compressions and thrusts. Where are we on time?”
“Thirty minutes,” a nurse announced. "Two since administration of the medication.”
“We should have v-fib by now,” the doctor said. “Dammit, Jessica. Resume compressions and thrusts. Switching to oral stimulation.”
Warm, wet lips closed around her right nipple and applied suction. Her vagina pulsed.
“Attending to the other nipple now,” a male voice said, and then a second pair of lips locked onto her left nipple.
“I think she’s getting close!” A familiar voice said, sounding shocked.
Nathan?
The sensations built. Even the painful chest compressions began to arouse her. Her chest flexing, abdomen bulging. The pressure of the abdominal thrusts. The feeling of air artificially sating her lungs. The hands on her body. The mouths on her breasts. The pulsing vibrations on her clit. The warm, hard dick thrusting in and out of her.
“Hyperventilate her,” a woman’s voice said, mouth briefly pulling away from Jessica’s breast. The rush of air in her lungs increased, as though she were gasping for air just before orgasm.
“Increase the power of the vibrator.”
Oh, God…
“Nathan, don’t hold back. As hard and as fast as you can.”
Nathan…
He started jack hammering her, slamming his dick into her over and over again. Jessica was completely paralyzed. Normally she’d be meeting him thrust for thrust, writhing with pleasure. The sensations built and built and built until they crashed over her like a tsunami. Her body released a rush of fluid and her vaginal muscles contracted so hard they hurt.
“She’s coming!” Nathan cried out. She felt him spill himself into her, his fingers gripping her thighs to bruising. “God! So am I!”
“Pause compressions and thrusts while I analyze.”
Jessica felt Nathan withdraw, heard him breathing hard.
“V-fib! Continue compressions, charge to 200! Nathan, don’t touch her, hold tight! Okay, everyone clear!” The nurse squeezing the bag unhooked it and joined the rest of them in stepping back, arms raised. “Clear!”
There was a noise she couldn’t quite explain and then a mule kicked her in the chest, knocking her unconscious.
Nathan
Jessica’s torso jerked and the stirrups rattled. He watched as the doctor pressed her fingers against a spot in the crease of Jessica’s leg near her groin. Marcy grabbed Jessica’s wrist, and Kyle plunged his fingers into her neck. Parker reconnected the bag to Jessica’s tube and squeezed it
“Sinus!” Dr. Perkins shouted, looking up at the marker. “Got her! It worked! Close up the cooling vest, get her out of the stirrups, call neuro…”
Nathan sat down heavily on the stool. It was an odd place to sit; Jessica’s legs were still spread wide above his head. No one had explained exactly what had happened, but he gathered she had a normal heartbeat now. He covered his face with his hands and sat like that for a while.
“Nathan.”
He looked up, dropping his hands. One of the nurses, Marcy, was leaning over him.
“Why don’t you come see your wife for a minute before we move her? She’s still unconscious, but she may hear you.” She reached out her hand and helped him up, keeping a steadying hand on his elbow.
Jessica looked bad. Her body was bruised and pale, and her eyes were closed. There was a nurse still steadily squeezing the bag, inflating her chest artificially.
“You can touch her,” Nurse Marcy said.
He reached for her hand and then leaned close to her ear.
“Hey, babe. It’s Nathan. Hey, I love you. You’re going to be okay. You have to be. I’m gonna call our parents and tell them… some… of what just happened. I need you to work on waking up before your mom gets here. We both know how she is.
“I love you, did I say that? Listen, babe. Listen. You won’t believe what just happened…”
--
A related story: Sexual Healing.
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🍎 ｡:*• ─ SCARY MOVIE PLOTS. › ( to celebrate this spooky season, here’s a compilation of plot ideas inspired by some horror/scary movies. )
1. The invitation — muse A has recently found out they have family in another country/city and they meet a relative who eagerly invites them to visit, as there’s going to be a wedding and they’d be able to meet the rest of the family. Upon A’s arrival, they receive a very warm welcome and one of the best rooms in the old family mansion, as well as lot of attention from muse B. However, when the day of the wedding arrives and no bride or groom are to be seen, muse A quickly finds out that it’s them who’s supposed to marry muse B. How will they take these news ? What are their family’s intentions behind this wedding ? An attempt to honor old bonds with muse B’s family ? Join their fortunes and/or properties/businesses ? Or is there something darker going on ? Something supernatural, maybe ? Will A try to escape or have they already fallen for B ? What are B’s thoughts on having A as a partner ? Is this a match made in heaven hell ?
2. The party — muse A and muse B haven’t known each other for long, but are now friends/romantic partners. When A is invited to a party at an old friend’s house, of course they bring B along ! It’s one of those wild parties, where everything is fun and games ( maybe your typical truth or dare, or a find-the-killer murder mystery game ? ), with lots of flirtation and one too many drinks thrown into the mix. But as a storm rages outside, there’s a power outage and seemingly no phone signal. To make things worse, one of the guests is found dead ! Unable to call for help, will they stay together and look out for each other ? Was it an accident or a murder ? Did someone break into the house or is there a killer among them ? With B being the “new person” all suspicions are on them. Will A stand by them, or let doubt creep in ? Will old rivalries and secrets among the friend group re-emerge ? Will there be more victims ? Will they turn on each other or work together to survive the night ?
3. The gift — muse A’s birthday is coming up and B has found the perfect gift ! It was something A had been trying to find for ages ( it could be a doll, a hand-carved wooden box, a painting, a book, etc... ) and B almost couldn’t believe it when they found it online/at a garage sale for such a good price ! It was almost too good to be true, but it surely made A’s day and B was ecstatic to see them this happy ! Until things started to feel different. Little changes at first, with objects moving around the house or A feeling more irritated, and then terrible, gruesome things start happening around them, with A and/or the gifted object always being connected to them. How long will it take them to make this connection ? What power does this object hold over muse A ? Will they freely give it to B to take it away, or will they choose it over B ? How will this affect their relationship ? Will they simply try to destroy the object ? Try to sell/gift it to another person ? What if it keeps coming back ? Will they try to do some research on its origin and past owners ? Is it too late to break its bond with muse A ?
4. The experiment — muse A and muse B didn’t know each other previously, but are now moving in together along with some other people to a big, beautiful house in a remote place, as part of an experiment to study sleep disturbances/anxiety/another physical or mental illness of your choosing. Will A and B get along straight away or become enemies at first sight ? How will they pass the time in their new, luxurious home ? However, there’s much more to this experiment than meets the eye, as its true purpose is to study the participants’ response to fear. When increasingly strange, scary things ( moving objects, spectral visions, disappearances, etc... ) start happening, how will they react ? Will they try to help and protect each other, or save only themselves ? Are there any clues around the house ? Is all of this the scientists’ doings, or is there something truly dark and supernatural about this place ? Will they make it out alive ? Will the scientists/the house let them go freely or try to silence them, keeping them from revealing their secrets ?
5. The curse — muse A is cursed. Maybe they watched a cursed viral video, had sex with a previously cursed person, summoned an entity in front of a mirror ? Whatever it was, they are now being chased by an evil, vengeful entity who will grant them a very gruesome death if they don’t pass it along to another person. In order to save themselves, muse A chooses muse B. Will they tell B all about this curse beforehand, so they can make a conscious choice to help them ? Will B accept just because they think A is only messing with them and nothing bad will truly happen ? And in case A chose not to tell B anything, will they just walk away, leaving B to find out everything for themselves and fight for their life ? How will B react to now being cursed ? Will they just pass it along to another person and hope it never comes back, or try to find a solution and put an end to it ? Will they work together with A ? Will they just pass the curse between themselves and try to cheat death for as long as possible, sparing other people ?
#cw horror#cw murder#rp resources#rph#rp prompts#rp plots#rp plot idea#roleplay plots#1x1 plots#1x1 roleplay#plot bunny#plot ideas#wanted plot#rp wishlist#rpc resources#rpc#roleplay resources#halloween rp#halloween prompts#halloween plots#scary plots
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Affirmative theory
In many currents of radicalism—especially certain strains of Marxism—radical theory tasks itself with directing the course of struggle, pointing the way forward, or handing down instructions and fixed ways of being. This kind of theory generates necessities or suggestions to be implemented. Theory directs practice. Either this, or theory is tasked with critique of the world, of practice, and of other theories: it is supposed to reveal the limits of current struggles, discover the mistakes and flawed ways of doing or thinking, or reveal the root of oppression. Often, both these modes of theory generate positions defined in opposition to others. They give us things to be for or against.
But there are other modes of theory. Theory can also explore connections and ask open-ended questions. It can affirm and elaborate on something people already intuit or sense. It can celebrate and inspire, it can move. We want a kind of theory that participates in struggle and the growth of shared power, rather than directing it or evaluating it from outside. We are after a kind of theory that is critical but also affirmative. Rather than pointing to the limits or shortcomings of movements and declaring what they should do, affirmative theory hones in on the most transformative edges and margins.
In writing this book, we’ve been influenced by many divergent voices and movements, and we want to value them all. We combine weighty philosophical concepts with conversations, and draw on zines, academic articles and books, speeches, and interviews. Furthermore, we think there’s a lot to be said for bringing things together in unforeseen ways that might intensify their aliveness and dynamism. This entails asking and provoking questions, many of which we leave open and unresolved throughout the book. For us, the most compelling questions are those that can be answered in a multiplicity of ways, in different situations.
One of our basic premises is that transformative potentials are always already present and emergent. Not only can things be otherwise; they already are, and it is a matter of tuning, tending, activating, connecting, and defending these processes of change that are already in the making. People are always enacting alternatives to the dominant order of things, however small, and there are always new connections and potentials to explore. We see this kind of sensibility happening in currents of feminism, queer theory, Black liberation, Indigenous resurgence, youth liberation, anarchism, autonomism, and radical ecology, among others, and we seek to affirm these movements and practices throughout the book.
But this is tricky: how are we to affirm and explore spaces where something transformative is taking place without holding them up as ideals to imitate, or telling others to be a certain way? What we are after is not a new critique or new position, but a process. Not a new direction for movements, but the process of movement itself, and the growth of creativity, struggle, experimentation, and collective power.
#joy#anarchism#joyful militancy#resistance#community building#practical anarchy#practical anarchism#anarchist society#practical#revolution#daily posts#communism#anti capitalist#anti capitalism#late stage capitalism#organization#grassroots#grass roots#anarchists#libraries#leftism#social issues#economy#economics#climate change#climate crisis#climate#ecology#anarchy works#environmentalism
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have you ever written about the avulsion scene btw? bc you are very right and i always rotate in my head. so much going on there.
i think the first port of call for understanding the avulsion chapter is thinking of it as a rehearsal of sorts for the end of the book (or foreshadowing, if you prefer)—the three key agents are harrow, gideon, and cytherea, harrow ‘batterises’ gideon in a process that preempts that of full-on lyctorhood*, gideon ‘dies,’ cytherea mitigates this relationship between harrow & gideon that eventually becomes the conditions of subjugation that lead to that ‘death’ becoming possible, homoeroticism is there. harrow emerging naked with almost all of her hair singed off preempts cytherea emerging from the sickroom post-getting exploded; cytherea and harrow essentially swap places in a configuration which highlights gideon’s loyalty-slash-subjugation-slash-homoeroticism as shifting from being directed towards cytherea to being directed towards harrow. cytherea is this kind of … active narrative ingredient, ironically for the very thing she’s trying to prevent (and doing so badly. Flop queen), in that the narrative demands that gideon reach a point wherein she can kill herself for harrow, but cytherea is necessary to initiating the process by which she can get there and making clear the terms on which it has to happen.
*obviously ‘full-on lyctorhood’ is a combination of eight different practices, but the text draws our attention to the idea that avulsion is the most direct and immediate commonality at least of those we’re exposed to. the fight between silas and ianthe towards the end & the idea that silas of all those present would be the one to reject lyctorhood outright (on theological grounds, no less) gains its kind of narrative compulsion in part on the basis that silas’ position is a contradiction in terms; that soul-siphoning, and by extension whatever they were doing during avulsion, is the most immediate articulation of the lyctorhood process (batterisation!), that the practice was developed by mercy and cristabel, the latter of whom was of course was the most fervent devotee of The Process out of all the early disciples—like, what galvanises the eighth house (discursively speaking) is a contradictory tension between zealotry and heterodoxy, devotion and heresy, so it stands to reason that the eighth house trial would take a form closest to what lyctorhood actually ‘is’ only for its practitioners to reject lyctorhood outright. anyway that’s enough eighth house sidetracking lol—
—the driving force throughout gtn is this process of gideon ‘learning’ cavalierhood; i’ve written before about this question of categories, taxonomies, socially enforced vs socially maligned relationships wherein to make sense of oneself within these essentially imperial categories and act accordingly is to act as grist for the imperial mill (and in turn open up a bunch of questions about what conditions are needed to sustain the particular imperialism that tm evokes, which tldr is rape and death and hegemonic discursive ownership over both), and gtn is laying the groundwork for the sorts of questions that the rest of the series goes on to interrogate (as in like, how do these conditions come about? how are they enforced and to what end? why is edgar allan poe there? what about the new zealand of it all?). so if we understand avulsion chapter as a key step in that ‘learning’ process (ie. one in which gideon voluntarily subjects herself to the siphoning, which both implicitly legitimises harrow’s desire for lyctorhood in ways that she hadn’t before been willing to do and posits her as an active participant), we can treat the chapter as able to reveal particular key points of discourse around what lyctorhood is supposed to ‘represent,’ what it ‘does’ in the text and what kind of conclusions it points to.
so obviously i’ve done the whole “locked tomb is lolita” thing to death by now, but—lyctorhood, and avulsion as a rehearsal of lyctorhood, anchors itself in what is very simply just a literalisation of nabokov’s discourse. where nabokov figures humbert as coveting an ‘immortality’ afforded to him through reverence within the literary canon and then figures dolores haze as a muse-type figure who can be raped, killed, reconfigured as equally timeless, but necessarily remain dead and extant only on the terms of humbert himself through his literary discourse. lyctorhood as immortality through the batterisation of another person is just … this, put into literal terms, and this is the entryway through which we can think about the series as heavily thematically concerned with sexual violence articulated through these vectors of death, necromancy, reanimation … anyway, avulsion is kind of an overture to these themes that are going to go on to shape the whole series.
& like, avulsion posits a relationship between batterisation/siphoning/lyctorhood (which is ofc to say Lolita Discourse), (homo)eroticism, and exploitation. when i wrote about the use of don quixote in gtn i spent a little time with how gideon & cytherea’s whole situationship was constituted on these essentially chivalric grounds and thus introducing some key questions re: the relationship that chivalry holds not only to a specifically catholic imperialism but also to lesbian gender formations and how lesbian masculinity in particular is often made sense of on the terms set by chivalry with all its problematising implications. i think this is especially prominent in avulsion, which you can read as something of a ‘wounded knight’/lady setup (obviously ironised by the fact that this is a situation very much engineered by cytherea herself); there’s an erotic-romantic undercurrent running through how cytherea talks to gideon (“good girl,” “darling,” the hair-stroking) which works in tandem with the kind of flirtation-chivalric seduction that’s characterised their relationship up until that point to suggest that being the object of that kind of seduction can be made equivalent to subjecting oneself to avulsion, and by extension that the erotic logics of that seduction bear a relationship to lyctorhood. (similar to how, like, protesilaus as puppeted corpse cavalier—loveday as dead and batterised cavalier—gideon as effectively cavalier to cytherea before she un-defects back to harrow draws the three of them into one another’s orbits to make a narrative claim about how to be beguiling corpse’d is to be lyctorhood batterised is to be whatever chivalric butch/femme thing gideon and cytherea were doing. metaphors innit.) this then opens up the v broad questions of sexual subjectivity, the body as instrumentalised (& as imperial cannon fodder), sexuality as a site wherein that instrumentalisation can take place, and sexual violence & its attendant metaphors that the series then tackles in far greater detail elsewhere. like, again, it’s an overture for the kind of thematics we then see developed further throughout the other two books.
so tldr avulsion is this kind of microcosm/overture for themes that characterise the rest of the series & we can pick it apart accordingly. it’s maybe a reach to call avulsion an out-and-out rape metaphor, but certainly it introduces something which is later posited as equivocal to rape for the purpose of tethering otherwise disparate practices of violence and exploitation back to the common denominator of conditions by which the internal configuration of the imperialist social body is sustained and made sense of.
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How to Set Up Your Actors (Without Really Trying) (Barduil Month Week 1)
Actor AU: In which Thranduil and Bard are costars for a film and Bilbo is, as usual, rather confused on what's happening and very annoyed by everything.
It's Barduil Month! So I thought I'd participate and write some stories for a ship I love! This one was inspired by this Barduil comic drawn by the amazing @corndog-patrol ! Thanks so much for letting me write a story based on the comic! And thank you @bi-widower-dads for setting up this whole event! Hope you guys enjoy!
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When Bilbo’s phone vibrated the moment he sat down at his desk, it should have been a tip off of how the next hour would go. But since Bilbo was a very busy man (Valinor Talent Agency didn’t run itself, after all), who already had quite a lot to do, he elected at first to ignore it. Instead, he focused on opening his calendar and checking to make sure That Meeting was indeed today and he was ready for it. Sure enough, it was there, today at eleven o’clock, so in about twenty minutes.
He sighed and pulled out the drawer containing his emergency stash of headache medicine. He looked at it for a moment, contemplating whether he should be—
His phone vibrated again. He turned it over.
—whether he should be proactive and prepare for a potential headache. Anything was possible, especially when Bilbo didn’t feel awake and caffeinated enough for anything. Which usually ended up being all the time. Maybe he ought to see someone about that.
His phone vibrated yet again. Bilbo huffed and turned to pick up his phone and see what so desperately wanted his attention. What he found was a series of angry text messages from dear cousin Lobelia screaming in a flurry of poor grammar and an excessive use of capital letters. Nope. He was not dealing with that.
There was a series of smart, rapid knocks on the door. “Come on in,” he called as he set his phone down.
The door opened and Thranduil Oropherion swept into his office. Yes, that Thranduil Oropherion—professional stage and film actor, known for his cool professionalism, sharp wit, insightful intelligence, and fashionable dress. And also for his long blond hair that he refused to cut. Thranduil Oropherion also happened have one Bilbo Baggins as his talent agent.
Any lesser man may have been intimidated at the prospect of being the agent of such a high profile and equally high maintenance actor. But Bilbo Baggins was no ordinary man—even if he did often wonder why Thranduil refused to cut his hair when he was usually pretty reasonable about other things.
“Good morning, Bilbo,” Thranduil greeted as he sat down in the chair opposite the desk.
“Morning, Thranduil,” Bilbo returned. “Early as usual, I see.”
“I had to be,” Thranduil sniffed. “Have you seen the traffic this time of day?” He raised a hand to inspect his immaculately done nails. “Couldn’t this meeting have been scheduled at a different time?”
Bilbo sighed. Maybe he should’ve taken the headache medicine after all. “Well, it was the best time for everyone to meet,” he said. “Now, once your costar gets here, we’re going to take an hour or so for you both to get to know each other, then we’re going to the conference room for the Zoom call with the screenwriters to talk about the script—”
“And the director? Where is he in all of this?” Thranduil frowned. “I had hoped he would be here as well. I would like to discuss certain things about the script with him.”
Bilbo turned his phone facedown as it buzzed again. “The director had to call off. He’s meeting with the production company.”
Thranduil’s frown deepened fractionally. “Very well.”
He was sure he would regret asking, but Bilbo still ventured anyway, “What’s wrong with the script?”
“Well first of all, there is a clear lack of vision for the characters. Are my costar and I to be playing one-dimensional stereotypes? There is no buildup or suspense for what is supposed to be a horror plot line, and the horror relies solely on cheap jumpscares rather than any actual fear or dread.”
Now, listen, Bilbo wanted to be more annoyed at these critiques. He was sure any decent screenwriter or director would be. But personally, he just thought to himself that this was why Thranduil was such a professional and well-respected actor—he was knowledgeable not just on how to act but also on all other aspects of a production.
However, he did still think Thranduil was being a bit unfair. “I thought the script was good. Maybe it’s just a bit jarring to you since you haven’t played a protagonist like this one before.” From how Thranduil frowned but didn’t respond, he knew Thranduil knew he had a point. “Which is another reason why it’ll be good to meet with your costar and the screenwriters, since then you can get a better sense of what they want from the part you’re playing. And your costar has done more roles like yours, so he can give you some insight too.”
At the mention of his mysterious costar, Thranduil thankfully dropped the subject of the script. “Where is this costar, anyway?”
“On his way here, most likely.” Maybe that was why his phone kept vibrating, because the costar was calling him. But no, that was his personal phone that was buzzing…
“What is his name… Bard Bowman?”
“Yeah, that’s him.”
“What has he been in recently?”
“His last film was—hang on, you didn’t look into him at all?”
Thranduil sniffed. “Of course not. I’m a professional.”
From how long they’d known each other, Bilbo knew that meant Thranduil thought that would feel too weird and he didn’t want to seem strange for stalking his costar’s filmography. He went on. “Well, his last film was a part in some fantasy film—”
“You mean you don’t remember?” Thranduil quipped.
Bilbo just gave him a snarky smirk. “Of course not. I’m a professional.” He continued. “And then for the last year and a half he’s been on a break. Wanted to spend more time with his kids, his agent said.”
To his dismay, Thranduil’s frown appeared again. “His agent is from Dale Talent, isn’t he? Didn’t they come out of the complete cesspool of corruption that was Laketown Talent?”
Bilbo couldn’t help wincing at the name, and his phone buzzed again as if in agreement. That whole scandal had not been pretty. “They did. But Dale’s model is ethical, they pay their taxes on time, and none of their staff have evasion, public disturbance, or harassment charges. Plus their tea was pretty good.” He glanced at the clock. Five more minutes until eleven. “Right, he’ll probably be here soon. Be nice, alright?”
Thranduil gave him an indignant look. “I am always nice, Bilbo.”
“Not backhanded, passive-aggressive nice. Really nice. And that goes for when you’re meeting with the screenwriters, too.”
Honestly, sometimes he wondered if that scowl was just permanently attached to Thranduil’s face. “That will depend on what they have to say about their barely-passable-quality script.”
Bilbo could feel a headache coming on. Today was not the day to put up with all of this. “Thranduil, as your agent—” He decided to appeal to the actor’s more reasonable side. “—as your friend—I am really begging you to behave.”
Thankfully, it worked; Thranduil’s scowl softened marginally even as he scoffed and crossed his legs. “Please, Bilbo. I am an absolute joy to work with.”
Bilbo leveled him with a withering look. He amended himself. “Yes, I will be polite.”
Bilbo’s phone vibrated again as he sighed and nodded gratefully. “Good.” His phone buzzed again (what was going on?) but he ignored it and checked his agenda. “Now, he’ll be here any minute. So make sure to introduce yourself and find something you both can talk about. You’ll both be needing good chemistry anyway—”
“Why would we need good chemistry?”
Oops. He shouldn’t have said that. Bilbo maintained his cool as his phone buzzed again. “There’s going to be some romance—”
Thranduil’s eyes flashed. “The script did not call for a romance, Bilbo,” he said tensely, the sort of tense calm one would find in a very, very small eye of a hurricane.
Bilbo, however, was not intimidated. “Some things were reworked. You two are going to have a romance plot line. Did you not get the revised script?”
“No!” Thranduil leapt to his feet and paced angrily. “Unbelievable!” he ranted. “What is that hack director thinking, doing such a last minute change? Are we film students in graduate school? Is that what this is?” Bilbo’s phone vibrated again. “And where is that constant buzzing coming from?!”
“It’s my phone,” Bilbo grumbled, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Look, I’m not the one who made the changes—”
“Obviously not, because you know better!” Thranduil whirled around on him in a mess of fury and blond hair. “A last minute change like this is unacceptable! Call that director! We need to discuss—”
Bilbo was seconds away from faceplanting on his desk, when there was a knock on his office door. “‘Scuse me?” someone called from outside.
Bilbo checked his wall clock. Eleven o’clock. He shot Thranduil a glare clearly meaning “Behave,” before saying aloud, “Yes? Come in.”
The door opened, and Bilbo’s headache throbbed a bit more when Bard Bowman politely entered the room. Just great. “Good morning,” Bard said politely. “Are you Mr. Baggins?”
Bilbo tried to arrange his face into a look that didn’t suggest he was one more inconvenience away from throwing something and nodded. “I am, yes.”
Bard’s face split into a grin. “Great!” He came over with an extended hand. “I’m Bard. Glad to finally meet you.”
In spite of the day, Bilbo returned the smile as he shook Bard’s hand. At least Bard’s friendly reputation was true. “And you. You’re right on time.” He turned to Thranduil, hoping at the very least that Thranduil still didn’t look like he’d nearly thrown a diva tantrum a second ago. “Thranduil, your co-star, Bard Bowman.”
To his surprise, Thranduil looked far from angry—he was staring at Bard with an almost… awestruck look on his face. The look reminded Bilbo of the look his nephew Frodo would get when he was staring at the anime characters he thought were especially hot.
Bard, on the other hand, didn’t seem to realize that was Thranduil’s look. He just smiled even wider and happily went to offer a handshake to Thranduil. “I can’t tell you how great it is to be working with you,” he said eagerly. “Your work is just amazing. Really, it’s an honor.”
And then Thranduil did the most unexpected thing: he smiled. And not just any smile, but the charming one he saved for interviews and red carpet reporters. “Please,” he replied, taking Bard’s hand, “the pleasure is mine.”
Really, if Bilbo didn’t have such a headache, he probably would have been flabbergasted by Thranduil’s rapid change of attitude. But as it was, the most he could give was a raised eyebrow. “So, Thranduil, do you still want to talk to—”
“No.”
“Alright then.” One less thing to do, at least. Although he probably would be having a word with the director about letting people know about last minute changes. But he could worry about that later, when he had gotten some coffee and ibuprofen tablets. “Well, how about we get started with—”
His phone vibrated yet again, and this time, it didn’t stop. Bilbo sighed in frustration. “Hold on.” He picked up his phone and looked to see who was calling. It wasn’t a number he remembered saving in his phone… But when he looked at the area code, he suddenly remembered when Drogo told him he’d put Bilbo down as one of Frodo’s emergency contacts at his middle school just in case.
He held up a finger to Bard and Thranduil and left his office to answer the phone. “Hello?”
“Hi, Uncle Bilbo.”
What the— “Frodo?” Why was his eleven-year-old nephew calling from his school's phone?
“Can you pick me up from school? Mum and Dad are both at work.”
Was that what all the texting had been about? “Why do you need to be picked up? What happened?”
“I, uh… got into a fight with Lotho…”
“YOU WHAT—” Bilbo glanced at his office door and lowered his voice. “You what?!”
“It wasn’t my fault! He was bullying Tom Cotton and—”
Bilbo’s headache throbbed and he rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Actually, Frodo, don’t. Explain it when I get there.” He checked his watch and calculated how long it would take to pick up Frodo and come back. Yes, he could manage it. “I’ll be there in ten minutes. Do not do anything until I get there.”
“Thanks, Uncle Bilbo!”
“You’re welcome. Be there soon.”
Bilbo hung up and rubbed his forehead, then went back into his office. Bard and Thranduil had sat down on Bilbo’s couch, talking about something, with Thranduil sitting far closer than Bilbo had expected. “Excuse me,” he said.
The two actors looked up at him. “Everything all right?” Bard asked.
God, he wished. “Sorry about this, but my nephew called and I need to pick him up from school. His parents are both at work.”
Thranduil smirked, and Bilbo had no doubt he was wondering what Frodo, who was usually such a well-behaved child, had done to be sent home from school. He could not let Frodo tell him; Thranduil would probably buy him ice cream. Bard on the other hand nodded in understanding. “I understand. I can reschedule, if you like. My kids are in school too, so I’m pretty open most days.”
“Actually, it won’t take long, about twenty minutes, maybe, so why don’t you both get something to eat?”
Thranduil smoothly interjected. “I think that’s a fantastic idea,” he said, giving that charming smile to Bard again (and did Bard shift and smile a little back, or was that Bilbo’s headache muddling things?). “Have you been to the cafe downstairs? They serve excellent coffee.”
Bard smiled at him. “No, can’t say I have.”
“Well, that just will not do. We can eat and,” he smiled coyly, “get acquainted while Bilbo fetches his nephew.”
“Well, that sounds perfect.”
Bilbo wondered if he was supposed to feel like a third wheel right now. “Right, well,” he awkwardly went over to his desk to grab his keys. “Good. You two, get to know each other, and I’ll be back soon.”
As he left the two to… whatever was starting to happen between them… he looked at his phone again to see what all the vibrating earlier had been about. It turned to have been several more very angry text messages from dear cousin Lobelia, ranting and raving at him about how Drogo and Primula were raising a violent, wild child and he needed to stage an intervention so that Frodo wouldn’t attack her dear, sweet Lotho ever again. Ah, so that was what all that was. Frodo must have won that fight against Lotho.
Bilbo sighed and rubbed his forehead. He wasn’t sure what just happened or what he had just done for Thranduil and Bard back there in his office, but either way, he still had a feeling Thranduil would get Frodo ice cream for something today.
#barduil#barduil month 2024#the hobbit#thranduil#bard the bowman#bilbo baggins#the hobbit fanfiction#actor au#idk how good my writing is but i thought this idea was really funny so#poor bilbo needs a vacation lol#also a cameo by frodo because i love him#if you guys were wondering what happened lotho tried to fight frodo and frodo beat the crap out of him lol#and inadvertently allowed for some romance to start developing lol#fanfiction#writing#my writing#lord of the rings#tolkien
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Sending My Love From the Other Side
Things we should discuss:
Pete’s sexy metal Viking princess unitard, he’s waiting to be rescued by a barbarian, I can only presume he is a bride-prize for the hero who can save him
The Folie-ness of it all, the ship at sea but not doomed, not this time; instead it is a vessel of hope
The mythology-of-the-band frame narrative
How the title references back to Sending Postcards from a Plane Crash
Stardust stardust stardust and Pete’s fear of space objects
What do Field of Dreams and The Princess Bride have in common?
For those expressing concern about Joe’s absence both on Sunday and in this video—he writes in his recent book, None of This Rocks, about emergency back problems during the latter end of this pandemic, compromising his ability to walk for a brief post-surgical time, exacerbated by overworking. He writes about learning boundaries, learning to rest, and asking his band for accommodations for his health. It seems likeliest that he’s recovering from a back-related issue, rather than conscientiously abstaining from participating in this record as he describes doing with MANIA.
General ranting about lyrics:
DISCLAIMER: It’s not me, okay, it’s the text, it’s Pete being incapable of writing anything that doesn’t sound like it’s about forbidden queer love, I could not make this shit up, I truly could not
“Model house meltdown”
Reminds me of walking through the house in your shoes, I’m supposed to love you; reminds me of I’m just playing house, no idea what I’m doing now. It’s a very dark Tim Burton-y sentiment from an outwardly happy man living a domestic fairy tale.
“We were a hammer to the Statue of David, we were a painting you could never frame, and you were the sunshine of my lifetime.”
THE PAST-TENSENESS HERE
Right from the start, this sets us up for something universally perceived as perfect and beloved being destroyed. This could be a reputation, a cultural relic, a profound piece of history, a narrative, a love. We were a hammer that destroyed it, that perceived thing…
We were a painting too profane to be displayed in a museum, hidden and damned? Or we were larger than life, uncontent to be contained by a frame, always in motion, chimeric and twining, together apart, together apart, a tesselated image you can only see if you zoom out and unfocus your eyes.
You have all read my opinions about twenty years of Patrick = sunshine metaphors, which seem to be getting pretty FUCKING literal here at the end of days.
“Nowhere left for us to go but heaven, summer falling through our fingers again”
Among other things, this seems to be a VERY explicit reference to Heaven’s Gate.
I am feeling the hope of MANIA (you know my manic poly dream reading of that beautiful, purple beacon of hope) replaced by what the pandemic / apocalypse did to us all. So much for stardust, indeed.
Summer symbolizing touring, festival circuits, linking to the recent FOB instagram post that showed video from the Hella Mega Tour with the caption “take us back here.” The liminality and fleeting-ness of those spaces, those selves, that unmoored time of doing nothing, being everything. The way they want to be home when they’re on the road and the way they want to be on the road when they’re at home. Summer slipping through our fingers again, like the sand in the bottom half of the hourglass, gone past, gone past.
“What would you trade the pain for? I’m not sure”
Isn’t that a fucking question, my friends!!! The pain of longing, unsatisfied, love, unrequited or unconsummated, forbidden and forsaken? The pain of not-having, or of having-had? The pain it was to be together? Welcome to my glossary of suffering
And what would you trade it for? Is this a question of, what is it worth and I can’t imagine giving it up? Or is it a past-tense question—a way of saying, I traded that exquisite pain to get what I have now, and I’m not sure what it was for, I’m not sure if it was worth it.
“Every lover’s got a little dagger in their hand”
Tbh someone smarter than me will have more to say about this, I am sure. Tarot and betrayal and the way love has thorns and anything worth having always hurts, everyone you trust with love will hurt you and let you down at least a little bit, imperfections and prices paid. But it’s also a very classic, very catchy and poetically deep sounding chorus of the type FOB loves to use and do not always hold a deep reading.
“I saw you in a bright clear field, hurricane heat in my head.”
More field-of-dreams invocation and playfulness! If there is not a stadium show at that field, I am going to light something on fire, it is the only pilgrimage I care about from this day forward.
“Inscribed like stone and faded by the rain: Give up what you love before it does you in”
LITERALLY what can I even SAY about this and the past tense and the DECISION, the question popped by MANIA that was answered only by global cataclysm and forced separation, the way they began work on this album in early 2021 (per Joe’s book). I can only hear this in conversation with the tracks on that record.
“The kind of pain you feel to get good in the end”
I was all prepared to do some read about morality and queerness and what you give up for the people you love, until @carbonbased000 said, “I love the pain line and I want to give it a kinky read so badly but we both know it’s about tennis”, and you know what. She’s right.
To summarize: there’s a lot to say, there’s a lot to feel, I love this song immensely and I hope you do too. I hope to explode more thoughts soon and uhhh maybe write another fairy tale. TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK, EVERYONE!
#tryst theory#peterick institute#so much for stardust#fob8#fob#peterick#i do not remember my own tags for organizing lyrical analysis so let me get back to you on tht#fob deep lore analysis#sending my love from the other side#fall out boy
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