#(is that good? If something I write triggers you then tell me what to tag)

[enhanced-operatives-division]

Junicrane/Starstruck Ramble

I will not be brief, all under the cut

To clear some things right off the bat:

No corpse, no proof with Juniper. Obligatory this is set in a canon where he's alive and adjacent to the agency in some way.

Reggie & Juniper are just gay to me, but I don't mind any interpretation of their sexuality

The games are set in 1967/68 to me (based on a couple bits in game) which is before it was legal to be gay in America at least (1971), which is relevant to how I interpret canon as being somewhat grounded in reality, despite unrealistic elements.

This is just an insane amount of headcanons/elements of and AU all culminated into one post. I will talk about some headcanons like they're just facts because they are established in my head, and it saves me over explaining literally everything, however I will explain some parts a little bit for clarity.

Alright. Actual beginning of the ramble:

Juniper is a character to me who had gotten so lost in his job as an actor and a social presence that in the end his whole life revolved around that 'role'. Because of this, by the time he's put into the situation where he's around the Agency, he basically knows nothing about himself, though he doesn't realise at first. Furthermore, what little identity he had has changed in so many ways. He's no longer a beloved famous actor in the prominence of public light, he's legally dead and he tarnished his career just before he was supposed to die, with the bonus of that making him lose the majority of his estate. From that, he also has horrific facial scarring from the electrical burns from literally having his face fried. I believe a friend of mine made a post about this a while ago (I also think they were the first to think it up also), but, to me, Juniper has a permanent trimmer in his right arm (aka his dominant hand) from the electrical current and it is messing with his nervous system.

All in all, he's not doing great, but he's too proud to admit that he's not doing great, because if anything, what's left of his ego is all he has as a defense since he's deep in unfamiliar water.

Before ending up around the agency (I have multiple interpretations of this, so I'm just going to bring it up generally), he'd never actually seen Reggie, and his only impression of him is a single voicemail, which was his only reference he had to later impersonate him. Juniper probably has very little feelings other than the ones he projects onto him because of Phoenix and that, at the very least, he's physically attracted to Reggie to some degree (that's like the beginning of how everything else would tumble into place in this sort of interpretation at least).

And on Crane's side? His feelings towards Juniper are probably very intense and muddled. On the one hand, he adores musical theatre, and that's his now ex-favourite actor. The thought of just casually being around him blows the bit of fanboy in him away at first because THAT'S the GUY, plus the inklings of a celebrity crush which still poke at him. And then there's the rational side of him, which knows Juniper has committed absolute atrocities on the side of Zoraxis, and hates him for that. Then there's how much Juniper comes off as an asshole at first because he refuses to cooperate with anything the Agency tried to put in place. He finds Juniper endlessly frustrating, and yet he's stuck working with him since, afterall, he's the one who knows the Agency's history with Juniper the best. I imagine him acting a lot like how he does IEYTD 1 around Juniper.

At this point, I'm just describing the pitch for a romcom.

I think the start of their relationship with one another largely started with Juniper trying to wind Crane up. It was a way of getting his attention, and I don't think Juniper knows why he's so dead set on that at first, because I don't think he realises he has a crush on 'this grump' at first. (I think that's actually the fun part about these two, because it's almost like a role reversal of the celebrity crush dynamic. This ex-big name actor has a TERRIBLE crush on an average joe and it is KILLING HIM.) But of course the Agency keeps them together because Juniper is at least conversing with Crane, so it's a start.

Through one way or another, they actually get talking casually, at least mildly at first. It takes Juniper a long time to fully deconstruct the wall he's built, and the thing is, Crane isn't the one trying to deconstruct it, at least at first, because yeah, Juniper realises if he wants Reggie to actually like him in any way, he can't keep winding him up. So they talk. Small talk at first, something rhythmic and almost easy to keep to a script. And over time that turns into actual conversations. Genuine ones in which Reggie rips out the occasional one of his jokes which Juniper is endlessly endeared about. The way he smiles just before he makes them, like he wants to chuckle at what he's about to say before he says it. That's probably when Juniper realised that he does have some vague crush on him, and that it wasn't going away.

This is what kickstarts John I can't-buy-you-things-to-impress-you-so-acts-of-service-it-is Juniper to do little things for him. It mostly starts off as him trying to make Reggie his tea how he likes it. However, the nerve damage in his arm makes that hard, as the weight of the kettle and trying to pour is hard all of a sudden. And he refuses to accept that, so he tries for a very long while. Long enough that Crane would go to investigate what was going on. And when he does see Juniper leaning over a cup with the kettle as he uneasily tries to pour it, and when Crane asks Juniper responds so matter-of-fact that his intention is nothing but genuine. And it catches Reggie off guard because Juniper hadn't done anything like that up to that point, and his very apparent vulnerability is so clearly on show.

It shifts something between them.

From that point on, conversations are longer, more familiar. Both of their attitudes soften, and Reggie makes more jokes. Juniper learns how to better use his left hand while strengthening his right back to a point where it could be used again. Slowly, they're both spending time with one another not because they have to, but just because they can. Little bits at first, not too far outside what they already were doing, but those little bits turned into long bits to a point where the other person's company was genuinely desirable.

As time passes, Juniper probably realises that he doesn't genuinely know much about himself or what hobbies he's into, because he never really had the time when he got big, and his home life in his youth wasn't bad, but it wasn't picturesque. I think Reggie would pick up on it, and absolutely try to introduce him to some things he's into. Some things stick, other things don't (corn husking very much stays Reggie's passion, and John will go with him sometimes because it's him, but it's not something he strongly cares for). Crane introduces him to a lot of music, and it's something that becomes a staple between them, with tracks they listen to more than others (tragically, I know relatively little about 60s music so I couldn't really say what). Occasionally they dance, never anything intense, think slow dancing, but the closeness is nice.

Through all of it, Juniper is battling the worst crush of his life, and he can't stand it, because I think he struggles to read people since he doesn't have anything like a script or a director to refer back to, so he has no idea if Reggie likes him back or if he's just desperate for that to be true. I think because of that any sort of confession between them would be incredibly raw, not only because of the time they live in making it hard for them to be truthful about how they love, but because it's a complete show of Juniper who's worked to be this better person. I don't exactly know how that would go, mainly because I don't have one set version of their dynamic, this post is just a generalisation of main consistent points.

Reggie does like him back, because he's gotten used to Juniper being just this guy, not a figure in the public eye, not a Zoraxis lackey, and not any sort of Agency operative (despite being under their care to some degree). He's someone he genuinely cares for, because they've given one another the time of day to learn one another, and I think because Reggie was a field agent, he was a lot better at reading Juniper than Juniper was at reading him. Eventually Juniper's company becomes something he could see around him for the rest of his life, and I think he accepts that he likes Juniper a lot more gracefully.

I think any affection directed at Juniper would at first be met with him feeling a little muddled. Reggie was a very physically affectionate person when he could be, and sure the initial flirting with one another came with the occasional little touches, but everything now was so deeply intentional. I also don't think Juniper would almost ever get over the novelty of being able to kiss him, or many other gestures, because it made the fact that they were together so very real, and it was great. I do think it comes easier to Reggie, and it's a big way of showing how much he cares, so it's important for Juniper to try and show it back because he knows how much it means to the other.

I like the idea of them eventually living with one another, too. I think Juniper would have always had a quiet little daydream of sorts where he does just live a domestic quiet life, and he can with Reggie (well, as close as they can get between the Agency and Zoraxis always being at odds), and he loves that, and he loves him, and it's immense.

I think they cook for one another a lot, it helps Juniper work on his dexterity in a controlled environment, which means a lot because it's a huge point of insecurity (that and his scars). He does improve, and Crane is proud of that and shows it and it's great. I also think they'd probably cook together too, because they can deal with being in the kitchen together and they work well with one another. It's probably a good way for them to unwind because over time they can do it in relative silence.

As I said before, I also think music is a staple in their household, and that Reggie listens to things on vinyl almost all of the time because he likes the background noise. Sometimes Juniper will catch him chuntering along to the music which he finds endlessly endearing. I wouldn't put it past his dramatic ass to also join in to fluster Reggie, but I also don't think Reggie would mind that terribly because Juniper has listened to the music enough to know the lyrics, and that's huge to him.

I don't think they are without rough patches, no relationship is, but I think the good part about them is that they're willing to talk about it (... eventually). They're used to long conversations, and while they're often less fun conversations, they're needed and they know that, and it works out.

Alright. I think I'm done for now. I haven't mentioned everything, but this definitely got the worst of it out of my system. If you ever want to hear any specific thoughts my ask box is open but other than that, behold my general dynamic for these two which has been festering in my head for years. I think they're great

#ty right-agent for explicitly telling me that this would be welcomed you a real one #i had a massive babble to my friend abt what if they all feed me to the hounds for speaking #and he said “girl that fandom is like 12 people big they need you to speak” and yeah that also helped #i have a hard time talking if I'm not asked/prompted to that's why i adding tags is great for me. that and i like the format #anyways. #THESE TWO.............dear lord can you tell I have been unwell abt them forever.. #this is propeganda (/j) for them. btw. please you have to understand the potential here. it's so good. #it's slowburn <- my (probably) demiromantic ass cannot handle romance without a build up and this set up is perfect (it will never happen) #also i find it easier to write ANYTHING between these two from Juniper's perspective because i find it easier to get into his head #idk reggie is like the gay version of the: what is he thinking of? i could take a bear in a fight. audio ive heard. #whereas with juniper i have him trapped under a microscope #im going to tag this now so i can use the remaining tags to RANT #ieytd #john juniper #reginald crane #junicrane #starstruck #i expect you to die #<- being BRAVE!!! #when I get really excited i start getting like this internal shaking feeling and uh. yeah this rant started that #the worst part abt that is it also triggers my tourettes so like. double whammy. excited about blorbos? jail :( #but. yeah I uh. yeah. sorry this IS so long..I did warn but . AUGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHAHHHHHHHHHAUUUUUUAHHHHHHHHHHHHH #also i did this rant in 2 parts. last night and this morning so yeah uh. yeah. #god im so messed up about these two #make me a boat by the family crest came on while wroting this and while it's mainly a roxanix song to me......AUUUUUG..... #i struggle to find music for these sillies because they have such a specific vibe to me amd I've not quite managed to find something which - #- genuinely feels correct for them and it drives me up the WALL #GOD NIGHT SHIFT JUST CAME OF SHUFFL.....all my ieytd songs are coming out to drive me up the wall....... #FINISHED I've been adding tags as I've gone alonga #thank you for reading hope you enoyed and if you didn't im sorry

[dragonsdomain]

Out of Office chapter 4

AO3

Chapter 3

"You got the flower?!" Joy's voice cried through the phone, making Luke wince and pull it away from his ear.

"Yeah, I did," Luke answered with a frown Joy couldn't see.

"Wow, you go! You're a credit to the EPS, Officer!"

"Joy..." Luke grumbled.

"Alright, alright. Sorry. Where are you? I could call Oliver and we can come find you."

"Right now?"

"Yes, right now. I mean, unless you're busy? It's a Saturday, so I thought..."

Luke sighed. "No, it's fine. Let's meet at your house again."

"Awesome! See you soon."

Luke hung up the phone. He touched the wilting flower in his pocket. This all felt so wrong. He'd never done things behind Eugene's back before. Obviously they didn't tell each other everything, but this was a whole new level of not okay. This didn't feel right. Somehow Luke couldn't imagine Eugene wouldn't eventually find out what he, Joy, and Oliver were doing, and the thought of his reaction made him feel sick. There was no guarantee he'd understand their reasons for doing this. Luke barely understood his reasons for doing this.

He was already walking towards Joy's house. Was that it? Was he just weak-willed, so he let himself be swept along with whatever Joy and Oliver wanted to do? What if... he stopped?

Luke paused in his tracks. He could tell them right now that he didn't feel good about this. He could give the flower back to Eugene. They'd understand his hesitance; it'd all be fine. Eugene might feel a little betrayed about him taking the flower, but he'd apologize, and they'd make up, and it would be over.

And then Eugene would keep doing whatever it was that he'd been doing. He'd still be depressed and distant and Mom unable to tell Luke why. Luke clutched the flower's stem. It might be a childish thought, but Luke sometimes wondered if Eugene secretly wanted someone to talk to about what he was doing. If it was as hard for him to keep things from Luke as it was for Luke to be kept out of it. It still didn't feel like this was Luke's decision to make; it should be Eugene's. But... it had been years, and Eugene hadn't.

Luke sighed, sagging. Maybe the fact that Eugene hadn't told him about things was a sign that he didn't want him to know. That thought kind of hurt. Luke considered Eugene his best friend, but maybe Eugene didn't feel the same way. And... should Luke be upset about that? Shouldn't he let Eugene make his own decisions? Maybe none of this was Luke's choice to make.

Luke's phone buzzed with a text. "Oliver and I are here. You close?" Joy.

Luke shook his head. Had he really just been wondering if Eugene even wanted to be friends with him? Maybe he was just overthinking all of this. Maybe he was overreacting. He might as well just find out a little bit more with Joy and Oliver. Maybe they'd find out they had nothing to worry about all along.

...

Eugene's plan had been to go on patrol, but usually the goal on one was to make sure there weren't any evil ghosts in the area. According to Sean, Charlie had already found one for him, right near his apartment, so he might be able to just skip the first part of the patrol and go straight to... confronting a powerful evil spirit. Which had frightened Charlie enough that she was cowering in the flower shop.

Eugene put a hand to his chest as he walked down the street. It wasn't hurting anymore, and he felt fine. Mostly.

He still really didn't want to fight anyone. Now that he knew the truth, that every monster was just a spirit racked with guilt, Eugene couldn't help but feel that sealing any away was a sin. He wondered sometimes what would have happened to himself if, that day all those years ago, he'd chosen to take it upon himself to avenge Susan's death and kill her husband. He remembered considering it. Things could have gone very differently. Eventually he'd shaken off the idea since he didn't think he was strong enough alone.

Maybe he was projecting a little too much... but maybe he was right. Maybe this ghost could be reasoned with. Almost every one of his ghostly friends had struggled with some degree of dark guilt. It would be unfair to their memories not to try.

Eugene sat alone on the subway on its way towards Station 00. He always thought it was interesting how the ride looked. The farther down the track they went, the more people got off, the fewer got on, until gradually the train trickled into emptiness, leaving Eugene all alone. It was routine, just as usual. He wondered how many of these people even knew about what had happened at Station 00. Was the confrontation that had been so life-wrecking for him just the ghost of a thought for them?

The feelings of the ride were also familiar to Eugene. With people crowded around him, he always felt isolated, but the emptier the train became, the more that isolation dissipated. He'd assumed before that it was in anticipation of seeing his friends at the Underworld Office, but he felt the same this time. Maybe he just felt better being alone when there weren't others around at all. 

The train slowly pulled to a stop at Station 00. Eugene got off. Broken glass crunched under his shoes as the train rumbled away. It didn't look like much progress had been made with repairs. Maybe this station was low on the city's list of priorities.

Eugene made his way into the empty room that used to be the Underworld Office. He walked up to the lost and found closet. He'd be going to face this ghost alone again, but should he bring something to help? Hayden's hat might not be much help in combat, but it might come in handy for finding the ghost. Joan's gun... that didn't feel right to use. He grabbed Hayden's hat and the lock of River's hair, putting both with Boss's fan in his pocket.

Eugene brushed aside some debris with his foot then sat down against the wall of the room, pulling out Sean's flower to look at it. It felt like he was holding his breath. Going to face a powerful ghost felt wrong without anyone else. But what choice did he have?

Eugene bit down on the guardian flower, leaned against the wall, and closed his eyes.

...

Luke sat down in Joy’s basement. He pulled out the flower, and held it out towards Joy and Oliver.

“Wow… you really got it.” Oliver looked up at Luke in surprise.

Luke didn’t look at him. “Now what?”

Joy glanced down at the flower again. “I guess one of us should probably check on Eugene. See if he acts any different or mentions the flower.”

Luke sagged down. “This is stupid,” he grumbled. “We don’t even know what we’re doing.”

“No, no!” Oliver said. “One of us needs to put the flower in our mouth like he does.”

Luke raised an eyebrow at him. “What if something weird happens?”

Oliver clapped his hands. “I already ghost-proofed the basement.”

Luke gaped at him. “You what?”

Joy made a horrible grunting noise that sounded awfully like a stifled laugh. She coughed to cover it up, straightening her face. “He was bored. While we were waiting for you. So he started googling ghost wards and sticking every one he could find around this room.”

“I got holly, haint blue cloth, a weird crucifix from my great-grandmother,” Oliver listed the items off on his fingers. “Salt.”

Joy sniffed in what may have been another attempt to cover laughter. “Yeah, um. I maintain that there’s probably a bigger risk of, say, a surprise allergic reaction. But I guess it’s good to know we definitely won’t be getting possessed tonight.”

“Then who’s going to be putting the flower into their mouth?” Luke asked, staring down at it in his lap.

Joy and Oliver looked at each other. Joy raised an eyebrow. Oliver’s eyes widened, and he shook his head.

Joy looked back over at Luke. “I mean, I could do it, if neither of you want to.”

Luke looked up at her, then back down at the flower. “No. I’ll do it. If we’re right about this, I want to know what Eugene has been going through.”

Joy frowned. “I hope you won’t be too disappointed if it doesn’t do anything.”

“I’d rather it not, actually,” Luke said. That would mean their worries were for nothing. Or at least, nothing quite so strange as Luke was worried. He wasn’t afraid of being proven wrong. “I guess we’ll see.”

“Good luck,” Oliver said solemnly.

Joy was starting to look uncomfortable. “Okay, get it over with. This suspense is killing me.”

Luke put the flower in his mouth. He looked at Joy and Oliver.

Oliver stared. “Anything?”

“Mm’m,” Luke shook his head.

Joy sagged in relief.

“‘M’a try one m’r thing,” Luke mumbled past the flower. Then he lay down on his back in his beanbag chair, and closed his eyes.

...

Eugene sat up, his body slumping away from his spirit, then checked his pockets to ensure he was ready to go toe to toe with a dangerous spirit. He still had Boss' fan, as well as River's lock of hair and Hayden's hat. It felt strange to just take the artifacts without asking, but this was the reason they'd been left with him.

Eugene floated up through the ceiling, then flew quickly towards his apartment. His flight was slow compared to River's or Boss', but it was quick enough. Faster than the subway, anyhow. He reached his building within a few minutes and landed atop the roof, scanning the surrounding streets.

It was oddly peaceful. There were a couple of living people walking down the streets, one peaceful spirit he recognized who hung around his apartment complex. Nothing seemed wrong. Had the evil spirit Charlie ran into left?

Eugene hovered down to talk to the peaceful spirit, a woman with a melancholy face. "Ma'am? Have you seen any dangerous spirits around here?"

She looked at him hesitantly, tilting her head. "Hmmmm... I saw... a thin individual, pitch black... with scissors...?"

"Oh, that's just Charlie. She's harmless," Eugene said, frowning.

"Harmless...?" the woman muttered. Her eyes became visible under her long hair. "So dark for someone harmless... She... has done something terrible..."

Eugene coughed, avoiding her searching gaze. "She's good now. I'm looking for a different dark spirit. Have you seen another one?"

"Mmm... no..." the woman pondered. "But your dark friend... she was... running... Afraid..?"

"Which way?" Eugene asked.

The woman pointed. "From there."

"Thank you, Ma'am," Eugene said, giving her a nod.

"Be careful..." she said.

Eugene gulped, then nodded, walking away. He headed off down the street. What did she mean? Sure, Charlie had done something. There was something she felt awful for. But how bad could it have been if she'd never become a monster for it? Should Eugene ask her about it?

Wait... that man from Charlie's high school had come to Station 00, wanting to talk to her. He knew what had happened. So it couldn't have been so bad, if he still wanted to talk to her. Right?

Eugene came to an intersection, and wasn't sure which way to turn. He's seen no sign of Charlie's monster.

"Hello?" he called out tentatively.

Silence. Strange. How could Charlie have been the only one to notice a spirit so dangerous it left her spooked?

"Mrow."

Eugene jumped, whirling around. A cat. He let out an embarrassed chuckle. "Ah. Hey there," he said.

The cat gave another sharp meow, flicking its tail impatiently.

Eugene hurriedly pulled Eugene's hat out and put it on. "Sorry," he said, "I forgot."

The cat sniffed disdainfully. "If you want my help, act like it," it said, now understandable to Eugene.

"Sorry," Eugene said again, then winced at the redundancy.

"You're looking for an evil spirit who was chasing your friend, hm?" the cat said.

"Yes," responded Eugene. "So yo--"

"This way," the cat interrupted, turning and dashing off to the right.

"Ah! Wait!" Eugene jumped off of the ground and flew quickly after the cat.

The two of them zipped along the sidewalk, then the cat led Eugene down an alleyway. Buildings stretched tall on either side, and the place was dark and dirty, like it was rarely visited. The kind of place Eugene would never go as a human, for fear of being mugged.

“Keep walking along this path, human. I’m leaving,” the cat said.

Eugene nodded to it. “I’ll reward you later today.”

“As you should,” the cat scoffed, then turned and dashed away.

Eugene gulped, looking back at the alleyway. He felt the fan and lock of hair in his pocket. He was starting to wonder if he really should have brought along Joan’s gun.

Eugene shook his head. He wasn’t going to fight this ghost, not unless he had to. He’d find out what was wrong, and then help. He didn’t want to cause any more damage than he’d already helped cause.

There was a dark feeling hovering in the alleyway. Malice from the ghost. Eugene tried to focus. He took an unnecessary deep breath to calm himself.

“Hello?” he called out. His gut clenched with fear. It’s fine, it’s fine. The spirit was just in pain.

“ChaArlie…?”

Eugene froze. He turned around. And his eyes traveled up… and up. He met a set of wide, piercing eyes. It felt like they were looking into his soul, picking apart his every flaw.

Eugene’s mouth was dry. “Who are you?”

The creature stared down at him, where he stood far below its long, long limbs, and hands that could crush him. “Who ArE YOU?”

One of the hands reached down and grabbed Eugene by his collar, causing him to cry out, then yanking him up towards the face. Those massive eyes felt like they were burning him, roasting him for every sin.

“Ah‒” Eugene choked. “Stop… please…”

“Where is Charlie… Where is my daughter?” The eyes burned into him hatefully.

“Ah! Y‒ your what?” Eugene’s eyes widened as the long fingers curled around him. “Your daughter?!”

“You know where she is,” the monster’s eyes narrowed. Its voice was becoming clearer. “And you’re trying to avoid telling me. You awful boy.”

The fingers squeezed Eugene, and he whimpered. “Th-that hurts‒”

“Tell me where my foolish daughter is, and I’ll let you go, boy.” The creature pulled Eugene close up to its face.

Eugene desperately tried to breathe. He was fine, he was fine. It wasn’t like he had ribs to crush. He… he needed to get the ghost to calm down. “Why do you want her…?” Eugene gasped out.

“Because she’s in trouble, boy.” His hand squeezed tighter. “Now tell me.”

Eugene cried out. He felt himself starting to panic, unable to breathe. Great, calm down, calm down. Panicking wouldn’t help anyone. “I’m sure she’s… sorry…”

Something seemed to snap in the monster, and it crushed Eugene in its hand. Eugene gasped silently at the pain. Some part of his soul had ruptured.

“SORRY?” Charlie’s father slammed Eugene againt a brick wall. “You think she’s sorry, for KILLING ME?!”

Eugene couldn’t respond. Killing… him…

Charlie had killed him?

Charlie had killed her father.

Charlie had killed her own father.

Something was dripping. The ghost tossed Eugene onto the ground, and Eugene drew in a painful breath.

The monster leaned down over Eugene. “Where. Is. She.”

It was him. He was dripping. His spirit had split again along the wounds from yesterday and was leaking. Eugene hurt. A lot. Maybe he should have used River’s hair earlier? Yeah, he should’ve… he was too weak now.

“...Flower shop,” Eugene panted.

The ground shook as Charlie’s dead father stood up. Eugene felt him walking away.

Eugene closed his eyes.

What had just happened…?

Charlie had killed her own father…?

And Eugene had just directed him right to her…

Chapter 5

#Underworld Office #my fanfics #Charlie in Underworld #Out of Office #Eugene UWO #Cat UWO #Luke UWO #Joy UWO #Oliver UWO #Charlie's Father UWO #Uh how do I trigger warning this... #tw fantasy violence #(is that good? If something I write triggers you then tell me what to tag)

[lucyandthepen]

sweet cream, cold brew | lmh ( m )

something about mark lee keeps you up at night, and you’re pretty sure that it isn’t the lingering smell of espresso on his shirt.

alternatively: mark is shy until he isn’t.

read the second part here!

pairing: nerd!barista!mark x reader verse: college au rating: r ( minors, do not interact! ) warnings&tags: unprotected sex, oral (f!receiving), fingering, slightly possessive/jealous dialogue, mark has a thing for tummy bulges because why not, implicitly that also means he has a big dick, a slight???? exhibitionism kink (not actually something that happens, only talked about), johnny exists in this simply to trigger something vaguely feral in mark, reader is a little bit assertive and schemes to get mark's attention, jaehyun is a nosy lil eavesdropper, i think that should be it?? word count: 26.4k

a/n: hello so this was a mess and honestly not a fic i would say showcases my best plot-wise but… what can I say apart from booty wurk mark has me in a chokehold and I needed to release some thoughts and feelings !!! please do not expect too much from the development of the story; i fear it’s quite long and choppy because my ideas were all over the place and i was wringing my hands and brain constantly and i was eager to get to the spicy parts !! this is also not beta’d/proofread, it’s currently almost 1am, and i’ve been writing this on and off for a full week with very few breaks so it honestly felt like a fever dream for me LMAO please forgive any oversights and mistakes; i’ll try to go back on them another day and fix them little by little! finally and …most importantly belated happy birthday, my beloved morkly!

p.s. this will probably be flagged as ‘mature’ by tumblr, which means there’s a high likelihood it won’t appear in tags or searches. please consider reblogging to boost the fic, if you feel so inclined!

You’ve heard tell of how caffeine has inherently addictive properties. 

The more of it you have in your lifetime, the more likely you are to experience symptoms of withdrawal whenever you try to have orange juice for breakfast in its stead. It sounds bad, actually, considering most addictive substances are, but you suppose that its benefits somehow outweigh its milder drawbacks. You’re not much of a coffee connoisseur the way some people — see: your best friends, Yeji and Jisu — are, trying one cafe after the other in pursuit of being able to nominate the winning beans of 2023 (an annual heated debate they participate in for no better reason than their own slow and useless entertainment during their six-hour long breaks), but you do know you’ve only ever experienced good things from having a cup every so often: better energy, a more focused approach to mental activities, and the ability to drive through fifty percent of a road trip without needing pop punk music blasting out of your speakers to keep yourself alert. 

The three of you are generally particular about the coffee you drink, only in different ways. While your friends have a tendency to demand only the best from any establishment — lest the staff hear fiery commentary about the flatness of the brew or the evident coarseness of the grind — you, on the other hand, are a singular individual of rather simple tastes. All you need to survive long days is a glass of vanilla sweet cream cold brew. No modifications to the sugar level or fancy new milk types are necessary; you’ll drink it as it’s served in a grande cup (or a venti, when things prove particularly grueling). 

Of course, you’re strict about other things in the experience of consumption —  like where it’s served and, more importantly, who serves it to you. 

While Yeji and Jisu have rated the Liberal Arts building’s on-campus Starbucks branch as a five with the strict label of POEO — ‘passable on emergencies only’ — branding the menu as “nothing revolutionary” and criticizing most baristas for subpar brewery, you happen to be extremely drawn to the place. Initially, you may have argued that this has to do with the fact that it’s walking distance from most of your classes, confined to the same general compound on campus, so you can always grab a quick recharger whenever needed, no matter how short the timeframe to do so is. Sometime later on, you may have found yourself asserting that the layout of the cafe, albeit small, is very convenient, considering that every table is situated next to an electrical outlet, so you’re never out of battery (important to other students for their laptops and powerpoint presentations, important to you because you have an unhealthy obsession with passing time on TikTok, scrolling past video after video of ASMR girls clicking their twenty-inch long acrylics with their crazy candyland designs), and this makes you feel at ease. 

A month ago, you finally came clean to yourself and, soon after, to your friends, and they came to understand, albeit begrudgingly and with no small amount of amusement, what made this Starbucks unbeatable in your eyes; it had one thing no other coffee shop could lay claim to.

What you know of Mark Lee is accrued from two major sources: long, surreptitious glances in the Modern World History class you share, and irritatingly brief interactions when you place your order from the other side of the counter behind which he stands, long fingers always poised to punch in your order at the speed of light. Sometimes, those encounters get cut even shorter when irate upperclassmen start prattling their orders out before you can even say anything past your own, except even this has its own consolation prize — an apologetic smile at you that seems only for you, although you’re not sure how much of this assumption is true. You’ll just believe it as you feel it. 

And what you’ve learned about Mark Lee has funneled down into two key points for you: first, he is single, a fact you were clued into when a group of his friends came to the coffee shop and sat around the table next to you. You hadn’t been eavesdropping; they’d just been pretty loud, but you’d also perked your ears the moment the one everyone seemed to call “Hyuck” — you aren’t sure if it’s his full name or a nickname, and you don’t particularly care — had leaned in for a conspiratorial whisper about having a vague master plan to set Mark up with an old high school friend’s younger sister that he was just waiting to spring on said Mark, busy slaving away on their six impossible orders near the espresso machine. 

You don’t really know what became of that plan, nor if anyone had telepathically been on your side to outright call it crazy (someone should have had a better reason than you, anyway) since the next moment, Hyuck’s voice becomes significantly louder when it orders the one named Jisung to collect the completed coffee and snacks waiting for them on the counter. However, you feel safe in the assumption that even if it had happened, no repercussions had followed, seeing as Mark still presently comes and goes from his shifts alone and in no clear hurry to meet any cute girls that are sisters of high school friends of his friends. Or, maybe you’re just ignoring what could be truth, but that’s whatever. 

Second, you’ve learned that Mark Lee should not actually be your type — at least, in theory. 

Saying you’re out of his league would be a bit juvenile, but if you had only so many words to describe the situation, you’d say so under duress. It isn’t so much that he’s beneath you in any way, but your interests and general social circles run different routes. Yours tend to be more classically patterned after constantly changing trends, and the people you interact with all seem to have similar goals; you like to call it ‘vibe networking,’ which, from experience, involves connecting with both groups and individuals that are equally aware that they will benefit in some way from any resulting acquaintanceship — whether it be by climbing the social ladder a couple of rungs or being able to call in a quick, off-the-charts favor for something very important and/or very exclusive down the road. You and your friends spend a significant amount of time in a year watching your style and image, something quite a lot of kids in the first couple of years of college tend to do, which means that while you don’t particularly like to spend your time following your grade trajectory, you do have quite a lot of pseudo-friends that all seem to offer something entertaining or helpful to you. 

Mark, on the contrast, prefers to keep his circle very close to his heart, it seems — that which acts as a receptacle for all his interests. You can tell that he likes to be up to date less with trending movies and more with comic books, a separate beast of a world that’s rather unknown to you. More than once, you’ve overheard him chat with his friends about Spider-man Issue Number Whatever-It-Is or engage in somewhat lively (sometimes rowdy, thanks to the Hyuck fellow) discussions about some webtoon you’ve come to understand is called Solo Leveling, which seems to have to do with monsters and hunters — two things you know next to nothing about. You’ve also never seen Mark holding anything remotely close to a magazine; his hands are always filled with either a freshly opened comic or a beat-up textbook. Maybe once or twice, you’ve seen him on his phone, but when you peeked over (surreptitiously, of course) on those occasions, you were met only with brightly colored panels and a singular word: BAM. 

In conclusion — you and Mark Lee live very different lives, likely never truly meant to intersect. 

And yet, you want him — not even in a way that speaks only to your curiosity, but in a manner that feels slightly delusional. More than once, you’ve found yourself having to shut your jaw close after realizing you’ve been watching him steam milk with your mouth slightly agape. Maybe it’s his side profile, which gives you a great view of the way his jaw tenses every time he puts whipped cream on someone’s frappuccino. Maybe it’s his eyes, which always seem to twinkle like he’s harboring some special secret every time someone in line asks for his recommendation on how to spice their order up. Maybe it’s his hands, steady and agile, with just the right showing of veins through the skin to tell you they’ve probably got significant strength to them too. Or maybe it’s just his mind — that thing he always manages to show off in class, working faster than lightning even when the rest of you are in your natural eight-in-the-morning stupor.

Whatever the reason for your interest, Mark Lee makes sure the Liberal Arts building’s Starbucks has you as a regular customer. 

You’re fully aware that this is the twenty-first century, which is why you could, as Yeji and Jisu have so kindly made known, simply ask him out. Under normal circumstances, you would have.

Unfortunately, in this particular area of your life, separate from all others, you’re something of a traditionalist. 

Actually, you just want to know what Mark asking you out would look like. Curiosity has fully gotten the better of you — how can it not, with how he breaks eye contact with you the moment it happens by accident in class, or with how pleasantly and shyly he smiles when you say ‘hey’ to him once you’re about to order? You’d like to see, first-hand, as a recipient of the experience itself, what he would look like taking control of a particular situation like that — something someone like him, so mild-mannered and laid-back, never really seemed to do upfront. 

You’d like to think you’ve given him clear signs. There’s a reason you always come in during his shift times, and it’s the same reason for why you have the same damn drink from the menu over and over again despite not even caring too much about coffee in the first place (something he admittedly doesn’t know and probably wouldn’t puzzle out, given how often you’re in that Starbucks, anyway). It’s that you want him to remember you.

Selfishly, it’s that you want him to think just a little bit more about you every single day. 

But if he does, Mark has never made it very clearly known; apart from taking your order in his genial customer service demeanor or letting a look of brief recognition pass his face over when you cross paths in the hallways, he’s never really shown heightened inquisitiveness about you. For all your differences, only you seem to actually care.

Frankly, that frustrates you, because if you have to think about him unhealthily, it would only be right for him to do that for your sake too. Still, you’ll shrug that hit on your pride off for as long as you can get his attention one way or another.

All you really need is for your plan to pan out as well as you think — and hope — it will. 

The thing is, you’re not even that bad at math. You’ve never really excelled at it, of course, but you wouldn’t go so far as to say you’re in dire need of help from anyone — the kind of help that feels like babysitting, at least.

However, Mark Lee doesn’t know that, and you’re not compelled to make that fact known to him when you notice that he’s leaning on the counter with his elbows, shoulders rolled forward and head bent down. He’s twirling his ballpoint in hand, wrist hovering over a worksheet, and you’re briefly distracted by the rapidly moving shadow underneath it.

His head snaps up when you gently knock on the counter, and the rest of his body follows suit, straightening as he shoves the paper away, one edge crumpling in on itself as it meets resistance in the form of the pastry display glass.

“Hey — hi, _________.” He knows your name, says it easily, and while you’d like to believe it’s because of his unprecedented interest in you, you know that it’s just because you’re always here and always having him write your name on the side of your cup. “Can I get you the usual?”

There’s no particular reason you order what you do; maybe it’s just rooted in the fact that when you first asked Mark for a recommendation, he said that the Vanilla Sweet Cream Cold Brew was pretty good, and you were inclined to believe him (while pointedly ignoring the fact that it was, at the time, a new item all of the baristas were required to push to indecisive, slightly moony-eyed customers such as yourself). Whatever the case, you found the drink generally palatable, and you were also able to score the first of many smiles that fed into your two-semester-long infatuation with him, so it was basically a win-win scenario for all. He even got to do his job by getting some rube (see: you) into trying a new product.

“Hey, Mark.” You’ve long since given up pretending that you don’t know his name and have to check the tag on his cute green apron (why is it cute? You don’t know. It’s the same, standard, Starbucks green, but Mark makes it look homely and natural, somehow). You’ve been here way too many times over the last academic year for a nonchalant, were you talking to me? approach to work, anyway. “That, plus a lemon loaf, if you don’t mind. What’ve you got there?”

His eyes follow the trail of yours over to his wrinkled worksheet. “Oh — no, sorry. It’s nothing.”

“Is it secret?” Your bottom lip juts out, and you see his Adam’s apple bob dangerously, a small telltale sign of minute nervousness before he lets out a short laugh. “Didn’t know we kept stuff from each other.”

You don’t know what makes you say that so naturally. The both of you don’t do much beyond exchanging pleasantries.

“We — uh, well, it’s just a worksheet. For Park Hyosung’s class. College algebra?”

“I’m in Kim Junghwa’s. Can I have a look? I want to know if you’re suffering just as much as I am.”

He pauses, considering your request for a moment, likely wondering if there’s any harm in it before he smooths the paper out and turns it towards you. His handwriting’s a little messy, but his solutions are extremely neat. You see, like, one erasure, max. You also don’t see anything that interests you — except the name written at the top. Still, you can see at a general glance that more than half of his answers are correct; the logic of his organization is way too elegant and his writing’s too sure to be anything else. You whistle low, and his eyebrows shoot up.

“Something wrong?”

“Pretty much the opposite. How is it that you’re doing this without breaking a sweat?”

“Oh, well — it’s not…” He doesn’t even know how to brag. Yet another item in the perpetually growing list of things you find cute about Mark Lee. “I mean, anyone… can?”

“I must not be anyone then.” You meet his quizzical look with a wry smile. “Either you guys are leaps and bounds ahead, or I’m really not going to make it through this semester.”

Another silence passes, just for a fraction of a second — short enough to be passable to others, but long enough for you to wonder if your humor code isn’t up to par with the rest of the world’s — before Mark’s chuckling lowly. His large palm comes down, covering a majority of his answers in the process.

“You’re kidding. I’m sure you’re doing just fine.”

“Mark, look at this face.” You gesture to your evidently dumbfounded, blank expression. “Does this look like the face of someone that’s doing just fine?”

You’re pleased to hear another laugh from him; you don’t know if he really finds you funny or if he’s just the type to be easily amused. You don’t want to know, anyway; assuming is better than actually finding out.

“That bad, huh?” He slides the worksheet away again, like he’s afraid his correct answers are going to offend you into leaving the cafe. Instead, his hands start working on your order, grabbing a cup and scrawling the shorthand of the drink on one of the little boxes. “Ever think about getting a tutor, maybe? If you really feel like you’re drowning, that is.”

“A tutor? I guess that depends. Are you free on weeknights?”

The marker makes a soft screeching sound as he drags it down with too much force, ruining the penmanship of your name. Mark takes a moment to stare at the mistake on the plastic before he looks at you, pointing the rim of the cup towards himself. “Sorry — am I free—?”

“You said I should get a tutor, right?”

“I thought — no, sorry, I was thinking more like one of those department-assigned tutors you can ask the faculty for, or something.”

“Oh. Are you not one of them?” You sigh, albeit a little over dramatically. Thankfully, he doesn’t really cotton onto your acting, too caught up in befuddlement at the turn of the conversation. “That’s a bummer. I was kinda hoping that if I was going to ask for help, I’d get an actual genius. You know — someone like you?”

You can tell by Mark’s expression that he’s torn between denying your compliment again and responding to your actual question; he looks both relieved and miffed when the student behind you clears her throat.

“Sorry, but— you know that there’s a line, right?”

You both apologize, Mark’s much more sincere than your own, and you step aside. His gaze follows you for a moment before it snaps back to the next customer, his voice abandoning that bemused uncertainty it had taken up with you. You don’t really mind; as far as you’re concerned, any dent in his barista persona when he talks to you is a step in the right direction.

You hang around the pick-up area, receipt in hand, watching Mark clear the line before moving to the actual stations near the kitchen area. There’s a concentration on his face that you find all the more attractive; he has a habit of chewing on his bottom lip when he’s trying to focus on getting the drizzle just right inside the cup’s cylinder.

He tends to try his best at everything, you figure. Not an unattractive quality — not by a long shot.

Mark finishes your drink first; the milk’s still only seeping, cloudy, into the coffee when he brings it over. He doesn’t even have to call your queue number, opting to meet your eye — albeit slightly nervously — instead. You reach out to hold the cup, a calculated move that allows you to brush hands against his without him being able to pull back on instinct. He doesn’t, nor does he really seem to want to, but his jaw tightens as a flush creeps along the curve of his ears.

“You really won’t help me?”

Your question’s abrupt, almost a little demanding, even if your voice is sweet. You’re not above asking this much, anyway, even if you technically want him to make the first move. The redness sinks down to his earlobes.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t really say anything,” you tease. The cup’s on the counter now, so he can easily relinquish it to you at this point, but he still hesitates, only one hand slipping out from under the heat of your palm. He uses it to rub the back of his neck, chuckling softly, and you take this as a green light. “What time does your shift end?”

“Five-thirty. You sure you wouldn’t want someone better?”

You pull your cup slowly to yourself, and his hand, still lightly trapped by your own, follows for a few inches before he’s withdrawing, the counter between the two of you forcing the distance. A smile follows the shaking of your head, and you take a small sip of the drink before you respond simply.

“There’s no one better than you.”

Mark is a prompt kind of person; you learn this when, at five-thirty, he comes over to your table, tugging his apron off over his head. Of course, you might attribute that to his overall personality, but the fact that you spend the remaining two hours of his shift casting him glances from the left side of the coffee shop might have also been a contributing factor. The looks you give him aren’t even furtive; they’re deliberately long, so you never miss whenever he looks over to you from time to time.

He doesn’t hold eye contact for very long (he does it well enough when he’s talking to customers, but it’s not like you’re ordering another cold brew from across the room at that point), but you can read snippets of his thoughts through the fleeting gaze exchanges. He’s curious as to why you’re asking for help, now, of all times, when the semester’s more than halfway over. He’s surprised that you asked him, of all people, because he just can’t conceive of a world that isn’t within a television show where this kind of abrupt, overt request makes sense. He’s flattered that you even asked him out of the blue. He’s equal parts anxious and eager to know what’s meant to happen after his shift, once he starts fulfilling your request.

Most of all, he’s unsure if he’s reading you right — if what it feels like you’re doing is something he’s attaching too deep a meaning to. If he’s right in reading your signs.

You don’t really mind it; you like knowing that Mark somehow wears his heart on his sleeve, even if he tries to remain neutral for the sake of appearances. You also bask quietly in the fact that he’s looking at you twice as much as he ever has in the time you’ve loosely known each other. Still, his bubbling confusion and inquisitiveness seem to be interfering with the rest of his work, especially when you notice that he’s been wiping down the surface of a table two down from where you are for more than seven minutes.

In the hopes of easing whatever tension might be in his heart, you offer him a small smile, but that’s only met with his eyes immediately glazing over and inching a couple of centimeters above your forehead, where the story of Starbucks’ origins is drawn out in a faux-manga style. He pretends to find it interesting, as if he hasn’t seen it a million times from coming into this establishment day after day — you know it well enough, and you don’t even have to, considering you don’t work here — and you can’t do anything but hold back your laughter.

A small part of you says you should just give him the affirmative answer to his biggest question, but every other cell in your body says that it’s no fun if he doesn’t ascertain it for himself.

He has his school bag and textbook in tow when he approaches, taking the seat across from you. There’s a steely resolution on his face, like he’s been emotionally preparing himself for such a daunting task, but it eases up the moment you laugh lightly.

“You don’t have to act like I’m going to eat you.”

“I’m still not sure why you’re suddenly asking me to help you,” he admits. He’s also very honest, you note. Again, not an unattractive trait. “I’m not complaining. I just didn’t think you even had an opinion of me.”

“Why’s that?” You’re genuinely surprised. Mark drums his fingers on the front of his textbook, thoughtful — less for the sake of thinking what to say and more for the sake of considering how to say it. It’s clear he wants to avoid calling attention to the fact that before now, you two have had no reason to run the same track, let alone sit together and talk at a coffee shop, as if you’ve always been the best of friends.

“Genuinely just thought I was the guy who gave you your afternoon coffee every day,” he finally settles. Your eyes widen, and another laugh escapes you — a little louder this time, enough to call the attention of a couple of jumpy freshmen nearby.

“Well — let me put it this way.” You lean over slightly, cupping your chin in your palm. “Was I just the girl you made coffee for every day until now?”

There are clear cogs turning in his head; his eyes unfocus slightly as he thinks of the possibilities. His silence suddenly makes you somewhat nervous; your tone had been confident, and you’d only said that to prove a point, to push him in the right direction, but you realize that you hadn’t previously factored in the possibility that he might simply say yes — or, worse, say no just to avoid hurting your feelings.

You watch his lower lip curl in; he uses his tongue to smooth out the skin that’s slightly dried from work fatigue. You would much rather it peeked out, so you could imagine it against your own. His response is mumbled in a lower register, but you catch some key syllables — didn’t… not … stranger — pretty … you?

“Sorry?” You ask patiently, but the fact that he turns red and laughs again — something you realize is not only a trademark of his personality but also downright delicious of him to be doing — is all the answer you need to let the apprehension seep from your shoulders. “I didn’t catch that.”

Mark clears his throat. “No, I… didn’t think of you that way. I mean… you’re my classmate.”

“Sure,” your tone’s breezy, but the somewhat sloppy confirmation of interest in you makes your heart soar. He just needs more of a push. “And we’re basically friends, right?”

“Yeah.” His voice is unsure at first, like he can’t seem to wrap his head around the concept. You can tell that Mark’s notion of friendship is likely based on shared interests, of which you admittedly have none. Technically, if you were his friend, you’d spend less time just telling him the exact same order every single day and more time sitting around a table trying to learn how to play Magic: The Gathering with him. Still, he takes one long look at your grin and suddenly gains confidence in his next words, as if it somehow convinces him that the briefness of your old conversations had been a mutually agreed-upon thing and not the product of social distance between the two of you. “Yeah. We’re friends.”

“Right. Friends help friends, don’t they? I’d definitely feel more comfortable having a friend teach me than some stuffy upperclassman I don’t know.”

You see Mark’s lips move slightly, in such small movements you could have imagined it as breathing if you didn’t care too much (which you do). He mouths, to himself — friends help friends. For some reason, that boosts his conviction even further, and he nods.

“Makes sense. Well — for as long as you don’t mind me, then.”

“Mind? I asked you, so I should be saying that.”

“I’d never mind — I mean, of course I don’t mind.” He’s quick to correct himself, and you have to stop your own hand from reaching out to try to satisfy your curiosity, the desire to know just how hot his cheeks get when he blushes. “More than happy to help, actually.”

“And I’m more than happy to be here.” You beam at him, and he mirrors your smile. You don’t know what it is about the look on his face — the brightness in his eyes, or the slight lift of his eyebrows, maybe — but it gives you the impression that he might be feeling at least a fraction of what you are: the feeling of your heart lifting off a few inches from your rib cage. “Since we’re on the same page, I hope — should we get to it?”

From the moment that Mark opens his textbook to a chapter on inverted parabolas, he assumes a personality you feel you haven’t seen from him before. You realize that you really do know him in only two limited capacities — his classroom persona that seems to really only view himself and the material, focused on the board and the professor’s words (even up until the useless anecdotes) to absorb as much information as possible, and his more genial customer service form, always happy to assist in the trained, easygoing way you’ve come to meet so often.

Right now, he’s a blend of both, yet somehow neither all at once. He’s quick to catch the parabolas you draw, either wrongly or downright poorly. Despite initial hesitation, he always manages to say something; there’s already a pattern to how he does it, from his slightly awkward, “Ah, sorry, actually —” to the way his finger traces over what you’ve written, outlining the right curve. You find his interruptions so endearing that you start drawing them wrong purposefully — not enough for him to realize your schemes in their entirety, but enough to cast you a few amused glances, like he can’t imagine why you’d map out such an absurd graph. You get the feeling he wants to actually laugh at how ridiculous you’re acting, but he can’t tell if you’re seriously struggling or not, so he settles for a smile he thinks he does well in keeping to himself, but that you catch anyway. He’s patient, even when you have to rip out pages from the back of his notebook because of your ‘mistakes,’ like he’s still catering to your request for an extra pump of syrup for your coffee on sleepy days.

But there’s also that side to him that comes out when he suddenly remembers the distance between you that, before today, had felt unlikely to be closed. It peaks at odd moments, like when you’re borrowing his pen because yours is currently holding your slowly unraveling bun up, and your fingers brush against his. It surfaces abruptly when you lean in to watch what he’s drawing until he realizes how close you are, arm lightly grazing his, and his pen freezes, ink blotting on the paper for a second. It’s in those times that you can almost hear his brain churning out questions — like he’s wondering if you’re just oblivious or if you’re doing something on purpose that he can’t quite believe. Like he wants to ask you what’s on your mind, but he just doesn���t know how.

If he asked, you would reply without missing a beat. The answer, after all, is simple (him). But Mark never raises the question, only does something without fully acknowledging what he’s doing — the adjustment of his glasses on the bridge of his nose, the ruffling of his hair as though to shake off his thoughts, the clearing of his throat to normalize his tone before he explains something you’ve just asked about. There’s always that light tinge of pink to his face that makes him look even more endearing, and it fades and returns every so often for the better part of two hours.

By the time he rubs oncoming fatigue out of his eyes, the sun has already set; there are far fewer people around you at this time, and for as much as you like spending time with him and breathing in the scent of his shirt — always a tinge of Downy, barely cutting through the much more overpowering scent of espresso and sugar — your back has begun hurting from your front-heavy posture and determination to have your face as close as rationally possible to Mark’s. Still, you don’t miss out on the fact that the act of him cracking his neck to relieve tension makes your lips curl inward, trying to stifle an inappropriate noise in reaction to the view.

“I feel like I talked your ear off,” he pipes up, sounding a bit sheepish. “Sometimes it’s hard to know when to stop once you’ve gotten started. I’m just hoping I didn’t bore you to death.”

“Meanwhile, I’m here hoping you aren’t sick of my questions already.” You smile, closing your notebook and hanging the clip of your pen on the spiral. Your arms stretch up first, followed by your back, a light twist to relax your posture into normalcy again. Mark’s breathing falls quiet, like he’d been preparing to say something in response but had let it die in the back of his throat instead. You let your eyes drop, expecting to see him looking at you, as he mostly has been — on and off — since his shift ended, but his eyes are far lower than yours, the telltale redness now growing in evident splotches across his cheeks.

The hem of your shirt has ridden up; while there’s nothing outrageous about it, there’s a short expanse of skin that it reveals, for a brief moment. His eyes are slightly glossy, brow furrowed like he’s trying to find a solution to something he can’t fully understand. You’re not even sure about what he could really be looking at, or if there’s something he’s just thinking of that caught his attention while his eyes focused on a rather unfortunate spot. To test your theory, you suck in your stomach slightly alongside an inhale.

It should be objectively funny to watch Mark blink unevenly, left eye going first before his right tries to catch up, but you manage to stifle your laughter — poorly, though, because you end up coughing a little and breaking him out of his strange trance. You avert your eyes quickly enough for him to look vaguely relieved that you hadn’t caught him looking. So he thinks, at least.

“Anyway.” You feel bad that you have to tear his mind away from whatever faraway land it must be trying to burrow a hole in; the dazed expression on his face dims into hastily hidden embarrassment. You don’t want him to feel awkward, so you just busy yourself with packing up, making an unnecessary show of stuffing your notebook back into your bag as if it isn’t half-empty at this point. “I really appreciate you taking the time to help me.”

“Any time.” His first attempt is a little raspy, maybe from overuse of his voice today, so he clears his throat and tries again. A slow smile builds on your lips. “Any time, really. I’m glad that this is actually helping you; you pick things up surprisingly fast.”

“Wait, really?”

“Yeah. Give it a couple of weeks, and you’ll probably be ready to tackle it on your own again, I’m sure.”

He smiles reassuringly, but all you can think about is how that’s not good. You should pretend to be a little dumber next time, or this will end much too prematurely.

The next five minutes pass in silence; you don’t expect to be knee-deep in conversation anyway since, as much as you try to convince him, you aren’t actually anywhere close to being those kinds of friends yet. There’s an unspoken rule to the give and take of things, where he pauses for you to get an item off the table and push it into your bag before he does the same with his own belongings. Neither of you really intersect paths, save for the moment you both grab your phones and stand at the same time.

His jaw falls open like he’s preparing to say something, then shuts as if he’s better decided against it. You decide to take the initiative to say what you’re assuming he wants to. “Same time, same table?”

“Oh — uh, yeah, for sure.”

You want to ask him to walk out with you. You want to lace your fingers with his, tug him out, and kiss him under the green and white glow of the sign outside. You want to know if kissing his collarbone means you’ll taste a hint of coffee. You think about doing it all somehow, especially since he’s fighting back a slight smile at the promise of tomorrow.

But it just isn’t the right time.

Instead, you place a hand on his shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. The slow movement of his throat — yet another hard swallow — isn’t lost on you, and his eyes land on where the two of you connect. With a grateful smile, you bid him a soft goodbye, taking your leave first.

You don’t look back — at least, not until you’re fully in the cover of the darkness outside. On the gravel path, just out of reach of the lamplight, you chance one last glance back into the store. Mark is still rooted to the same spot, his backpack slung over one shoulder, staring at the table like he’s dissociating from what just happened — like he can’t believe the last couple of hours.

Your smile grows when you see his own, and his hand comes around to the back of his neck, rubbing it lightly like it gives him small comfort to let him know that it was real.

Baby steps, you remind yourself. You’ve already got one foot in the door, after all.

As the days trickle by, you fall into a more comfortable standing with Mark; there’s a routine to your meetings that seems to eliminate the initial and abrupt awkwardness of that first day. You come into that Starbucks at four, greet Mark, who doesn’t ever have to ask for your order, and spend the next hour and a half slowly sipping on it until the ice has thinned and watered down your drink substantially. In that time, you allow yourself to do whatever you want (as if you’ve ever done otherwise anyway), and what you usually want the most is a good view of him. You therefore use most of the minutes you have on hand to regard him from different angles — from the side when he’s frothing milk, upfront when he turns to leave cups on the pick-up counter, from the back when he’s clearing tables — interspersed with moments of checking your TikTok feed, clearing group chat messages, and sometimes re-curling your bangs with a portable iron from the school’s co-op center, a relatively new purchase you tote around these days. You do essentially anything in between to avoid acting too suspicious while he works.

Sometimes, you catch Mark’s eye too; the more your meetings increase in number over the course of a few weeks, the more deliberately he looks over at you, and the longer it lasts. You feel like you’ve made significant progress when your gazes lock and he smiles slightly, albeit a bit unsurely, instead of turning away like he used to. The other day, he’d even passed by while apologizing for how long you always waited for him — not that you ever minded, something you made a point to clarify with him before he walked away, carrying a couple of chairs from the back room with him to replace rickety ones.

That he’s able to transport them easily, as if he’s lugging a bag of apples from the grocery, does not escape your watchful eye.

What you like the most is that you start to learn more about him in a way that isn’t fueled only by your expectations and, therefore, limited by your imagination. You find out that he’s from a close-knit family with a rather cushy background, and this barista job is just for interest funding and experience, in that exact order. Most of his earnings are funneled into the things he collects, which apparently isn’t limited to comic books and special edition blu-rays with director’s cut but also a rather stupendous amount of PopMart blind box figurines. Apparently, he particularly likes the Skullpanda series even if he hasn’t completed it yet; your last session together had adjourned thirty minutes earlier than usual so that he could catch a pre-rush hour inner circle train to Hongdae, where the flagship store was set to open on that day. He’d promised to show you his pulls (as long as they weren’t embarrassing dupes). You learn that he likes to listen to loud music when he studies to stimulate his mind, and he has a playlist that’s just a jumble of songs from Punk Goes Pop volumes that makes him feel empowered for some absurd reason, like he’s going against the grain. You don’t really get it, but you do like that spiced-up rendition of Ariana Grande’s Problem that he let you listen to once.

Of course, there are things that you find out not through conversation but through continued, closer observation. You notice that he likes to put on chapstick even if his lips aren’t particularly dry, but he does worry on them often, most especially when he’s thinking hard about something. He has a habit of saying honestly… at the start of every other sentence, as if he’s concerned you won’t take his word on anything, even though he’s just talking about how unnaturally hot it was at noon despite it still being spring. He has long eyelashes that you’re equal parts attracted to and jealous of, and he bites the inside of his cheek whenever he wants to pep himself up after grueling shifts. He plays beats you’re not even sure he knows he’s creating against his knee with his fingers, so enthusiastic and consistent in this habit that you want to offer your thigh instead. His shoulders always go first before he laughs, and he does this thing where he raises his hand to cover his mouth at the start of it, which is a shame, because you’d do anything to keep seeing him smile like that — or, better yet, to be the reason for it.

Then there are those things you notice he tries to hide. He always turns his face halfway to the side when he blushes, something he seems to do without fail every time you smile at him. He has to temper the intensity of his grin when you take the time to compliment him on how cool his shirt is, or how nice his hair looks today, or how smart he is, like he doesn’t want you to know how good it makes him feel even if you want him to feel good about it, around you, because of you. Sometimes he denies it for the sake of responding, and his voice always lilts on the first syllable in his refusal to accept what you say, even though he knows you won’t take it for an answer.

And after a couple more careful experiments, you notice that Mark, out of the many things he’s interested in, seems to have a particular thing for your stomach.

You don’t know if it has anything to do with him not really seeing much of it in real life in his own time or if he just has his own kind of fixation on it, but you start to cotton on by the fourth time you meet. An hour of being hunched over a table that’s not at the greatest height in relation to your neck and torso has you stiff, and you’d leaned back in your chair, arms pulling to the air, hoping your spine might feel like realigning if you exerted enough tension pressure that way. Your shirt hadn’t ridden up this time, considering it had been tucked into your jeans, and it was because of this that you’d caught a flicker of something new in his face that you hadn’t seen before.

You could have sworn it looked like disappointment.

Of course, he hides it quickly, as he does with most of his emotional candor, but it’s enough to make you suspicious — enough to make you wonder if Mark is also just keeping something to himself. Or maybe you’re just projecting your own presently secretive nature onto him. Regardless, you think it’s odd that whenever you stand up or stretch, his eyes almost immediately fall to your midriff, like he wants to challenge your clothing into a staring contest before he thinks better of it.

You don’t mind, anyway. He can look as much as he likes. Maybe when the weather’s warmer, you’ll even cater to that interest and wear a crop top. Hopefully, that’ll be the push he needs to act on human instinct and ask you out or, like… bend you over. Maybe.

You’re often plagued with these kinds of thoughts in between the ones you try to keep as family-friendly as possible — now, more so than ever.

Sometimes, it’s easier, especially when you’re caught up in talks with him; despite the fact that he doesn’t seem like much of a conversationalist when it comes to generic matters, when either he or you are enthusiastic about a particular topic, he has a tendency to get carried away. There’s nothing impure about how his eyes light up when you remember to ask him about the movie he saw with his friends over the weekend or the way he hums old Nickelodeon cartoon theme songs under his breath whenever he’s looking for a page in the textbook. It’s more of a situation where you’ll observe something and immediately run with it despite it being an objectively normal action.

Like right now, as you’re watching him turn his pen between his fingers. Now, while he’s shaking his knee in mild impatience, as if he’s trying to will the answer to the worksheets you’ve both been trying to get through for the better part of the day faster. You’d made copies of the problems your professors had assigned and exchanged them under the premise of being able to practice more intensely.

However, whereas Mark is actually focused on solving, you’re just watching him out of the corner of your eye, wondering if he’s ever been told that his fingers are fuck-worthy on a singular, unique level or if it’d feel good for you to ride the thigh he’s currently moving, jeans and all. You consider the feeling of his warm palms on your bare waist as you do it, and you end up wondering if that’s what crosses his mind whenever he sneaks glances at you, too.

You’d know the answer to all those things if he’d fucking ask you out. Maybe you could do it after all. Maybe you should, instead of relying on slowly increasing the probability over such a long period of time. Maybe if you asked nicely, Mark might pull the shades down on the storefront windows and rail you against the glass.

You’re so lost in thought that it genuinely startles you when he plops his textbook over the worksheet, rattling your eraser dangerously close to the edge of the table. You’re still clutching your heart while he rubs his eyes a little too violently.

“Can’t,” he groans, and his neck gives into the weight of his head, allowing it to loll backward. “I feel like the numbers are just melting into each other. I swear, I thought I could read words out of them.”

“Maybe we were a little too ambitious with the double worksheet agenda,” you admit, even though you’ve barely gotten past half of yours and certainly haven’t touched a single item on his. “Should we call it a day for now?”

“Yeah,” he agrees, although he still takes the time to encircle his final answers before clapping his palms to his cheeks (an act that has your mind dangerously close to wandering off inappropriately again) to wake himself up. “Woah. I didn’t even notice how dark it is already. I’d say time flies when you’re having fun, but I’m not too sure about the ‘fun’ part of it…”

You trace his gaze towards the glass; the moon’s already out, surrounded by a smattering of low-light stars. You hadn’t realized how late it had gotten, probably because your mind had been on R-18 mode for most of the afternoon. Also, the days are getting generally shorter, but that fact doesn’t make you feel as embarrassed, at least.

“You got a ride?”

The question once again shocks you out of your small trance, and you turn back to him with wide eyes. “Well — no. Wait, I didn’t know you had a car. Why’d you take the subway, then?”

“Oh — no, sorry, I… don’t.” He looks suddenly sheepish, eyes dropping to the shiny surface of the table for a moment before they snap back up, as if he’s actually actively reminding himself to look at you. “I was wondering if you wanted me to — actually, more than that, are you going home already? Not that you need to stay; it’s not that important, but…”

You try to gloss over the fact that he had just been about to initiate another huge step in the right direction (i.e. offering to walk you home) by beaming at him, maybe a little too widely, if only to mask your disappointment at the sudden shift in conversation. “I have nothing waiting at home for me but a sandwich dinner and Singles Inferno, so hit me with whatever it is.”

“Oh, cool.” His lips turn up, and the corners shake, this show of happiness once again tamped down by his own inexplicable desire to maintain a safe distance. How are you supposed to tell him you’re desperate to bridge that gap without using those exact words? “I came from the flagship store yesterday — the one in Hongdae that I told you about?” He allows the smile to widen slightly when you nod in genuine understanding. “Got the last six boxes of the collection I’ve been trying to finish.”

You whistle appreciatively. “Can I ask you for a loan on my next phone bill? You know, once I’ve upgraded to something pricier.”

“Nah — just itching to complete the set,” he laughs. You wonder if he’s been doing that more often because he knows its crippling effect on you, though you doubt he’s that sly. Again, maybe you’re just projecting too much of your own motivations onto him. “This was probably about two months of saving up combined.”

“No new Iron Man issues to look out for, then?” Your voice is warm even though it takes on a teasing tone; Mark’s hand rubs the back of his neck, and his expression is a little sheepish, but you’re happy that the times he used to go completely quiet, opting only to blush at your attempts to act more familiar with him are pretty much gone now.

“Maybe next month.” You also like that he doesn’t really treat his hobbies as secrets, neither out of shame nor snobbishness. He explains these things to you the same way he does the topics you study — with an air of contentedness, like he’s happy someone listens to him without interrupting. On your end, you have no qualms with listening to his voice for hours, wondering when he’ll stop using it to greet you when you come through the door and when he’ll start saying your name in a way that makes you feel like you’re the only one he sees whenever you’re near. It’s a win-win situation (sort of). “I was actually debating between this collection and a really rare copy of Spi— well, never mind that. I just thought — since you were asking me a bit about blind boxes last time. You know, if you wanted to. With… me.”

As much as he’s become comfortable talking to you about things that don’t involve coffee orders and school, you can’t say that you aren’t doing your fair share of the work in connecting the dots; the demand for your efforts is exponentially higher in moments like this, when you think he’s trying to ask you something but can’t seem to find less-than-eager words to avoid what he thinks might spook you.

Luckily, he augments his fragments with action; reaching into his backpack — which you notice seems to be bulkier than usual — he starts extracting small brown boxes, all with the same design; it seems, for lack of better words, aesthetically gothic, and you reach out to pick one up, turning it over and examining the print on each side with vague interest. Mark starts laying them out on top of each other until there’s a small, somewhat unstable pyramid in front of him, then shifts his attention fully to you, just as you’re putting the box in your hand atop all the rest.

“I’d love to.” You beam as he does, and there’s a wondrous relief in his eyes that tells you he’s glad you manage to catch onto his words — or lack, thereof — surprisingly well. “For as long as you don’t blame me for any bad draws.”

“The contents have already been decided by my own hand — sort of,” he chuckles. “Point is, I would never do that to you. But I won’t lie; I kind of want to rely on your luck a little more.”

“What makes you think I’d have any of that running through my system?”

“Not sure — beginner’s luck, maybe? You just kind of look like one of those kinds of people to me — like… you’re just made of good things.”

You don’t know how to take this compliment; on the one hand, it’s easily one of the sweetest things Mark has ever said to you that doesn’t involve anything with actual sugar content. On the other, you know you’re not as lucky as he makes it sound, considering you’re still striking out on getting past the borderline of friendship with him. All you can do is smile, nodding and making to move closer to him by sliding into the next seat.

It’s hard to ignore the sight of him stiffening; something like surprise mingled with both fear and interest flashes strong across his face, but you don’t do anything to acknowledge the slight change in atmosphere, choosing to settle down comfortably and clap your hands. “So. What are the rules? What can I do, and what can’t I?”

“Uh.” His throat constricts at the right moment, the syllable getting caught and causing him to clear his throat. You know that this is the nearest you’ve ever been to him, the sleeve of your shirt tickling his arm. Upon closer, albeit brief inspection, you note that he’s also rather veiny. That doesn’t do your impurity any favors. “Not… really rules, or anything like that. Just — these are the ones I’ve been looking for. Not that you can really control it, but in case you were curious about that.”

You squint intently at the scaled-down images he points out. There’s one that looks like a penguin caught in an oil spill; another that seems to be in a polar bear costume, dozing; and — “What’s… halo? Halo…bios?”

“It just means marine life,” he answers quickly, like the thought means close to nothing to him to know something that obscure. Whoever said that smart is the new sexy wasn’t joking. “Like… all things that live in the ocean, that kind of thing.”

“And you know this because?”

He pauses, looking thoughtful. “I’m not sure. I guess I must have just learned it when I was curious about what it meant some time ago. Isn’t that how we all learn things?”

You shake your head incredulously, and he smiles a little apologetically. “You never cease to amaze me.” Your nail drums against the silhouette of one with a question mark on it. “What’s this supposed to be? Can you draw your own figurine, or something?”

“No.” He’s clearly amused, but his expression’s still patronizing enough for you to not feel too bad about saying something idiotic. “It’s a secret design — a money drainer, basically. You could buy a full set of this and still not get it. Some people will open hundreds without any luck, so it’s really rare.”

“You don’t want it?”

“I try not to get too caught up in the secret thing,” he admits. “Otherwise…”

“No rare print comic books for the rest of your life, basically?”

He taps his nose, and you both share another laugh. It’s nice, you think, to have come this far — to be someone Mark can share his interests and thoughts with. You may have been stretching the word to its limit when you first punched your way into his social life and called yourself his friend, but it feels more real now, more natural to think about and say. Even if he still sometimes seems to be hyperaware of the gap between the both of you, there’s no denying, at least, that it’s been significantly reduced, and this much is a testament to that.

“Well, leave it up to me. I’ll let all of this beginner’s luck rub off on you,” you announce with overflowing albeit unfounded confidence.

You both decide to open a box each at the same time; Mark suddenly panics and asks you not to unseal the foil bag right away without looking at the card inside first, earning him one slightly alarmed look followed by a burst of laughter at his pained expression when you pretend to rip open the packaging. Comparing pulls, you identify them using the set chart — your luck doesn’t seem to be operating at full capacity yet because you can only offer him the card of one that looks like a floppy pigeon, which he responds to with a slightly apologetic grimace before saying he’s already pulled that thrice in the past. He, on the other hand, is turning the card of the polar bear over in his palm, trying not to make you feel bad for your duplicate pull by slipping it under his textbook when your eyes land on it.

The second round isn’t much better; both of you manage to pull something he’s already added to his collection, and as you’re ripping the seal to your third box, he pauses and watches you. You think it’s because he’s concerned about the obvious shit luck you’ve had thus far and wants to snatch it from you before your negative energy transfigures whatever’s inside into something he doesn’t want, and you’re just about to offer the half-opened package to him before he pushes the one on his end to you.

“No way, Mark.” Your eyes are wide, a palm up to reject it. “If that turns out to be another dupe by my hand, I’m literally going to walk into oncoming traffic.”

He has to control his amusement at your words so that it doesn’t completely shake his voice into incoherence. “I picked all of these while I was there, so if anything, you’re only riding off my bad luck. Besides, this is your first time doing this. I want you to have fun.”

“But,” your voice is pained. “Your money.”

“It’s not a big deal. With how few I need to complete them, I was definitely bound to run into more repeats than new ones.” He taps the front of the textbook — or, at least, the part of it not buried under the figurines and sealing tapes yet. “Probability mathematics.”

“I thought we already ended the study part of the day,” you grumble but concede, putting aside the one you half-opened to tear the top of his. You’re careful when you shake out the foil packaging, making sure to place it upright on the table before extracting the card. Both of your faces fall — yours more than his — when you see it’s a repeat of the polar bear.

“Almost. It would’ve been a pretty lucky pull earlier, so it’s technically not bad,” he tries to reassure you, but you childishly feel like you’ve been the sole source of his disappointment thus far. “Try the last one.”

It’s irrational, but you’re suddenly anxious about it. For some reason, you’re worried that this will topple the carefully constructed ladder you’ve propped up against Mark’s tower of social defense. Even if he’s being genial about your rotten pulls, you don’t know how much of it is just resignation to dismay on his part.

You say a small prayer, then fully rip off the seal; you don’t even take out the packaged figuring anymore. You just shimmy the card out of the box, turning it over when you notice it’s upside down.

For a moment, your shoulders deflate. It’s closest to this pastel purple figurine in the middle of the line-up, its stupid puckered lips almost taunting you. He hadn’t even mentioned it as something he’s looking for, so you almost feel like this has come to a horrible full circle. But then he grabs the box, checks the list, and looks back at your card again. He looks shell-shocked, and you’re not sure if it’s the strong air conditioning directed towards the two of you or if it’s just his hands, but the image he’s holding is shivering slightly.

You look more closely at it, and something just doesn’t feel right. Color palette aside, there are notable differences — different colored lips, a more intricate ear design, and closed eyes. It’s…

“Dream eater,” Mark’s voice is hushed, almost reverent, and very, very close to your ear. “It’s the secret one. You’re… incredible.”

“What are you talking about,” your words are just as raspy; you’re not sure if you’re actually choked up with emotion or something — over a figurine, you have to remind yourself. “You picked all of this. I just ripped open the box.”

The hush that falls over the both of you feels very concrete, weighty on your shoulders. His fingers creep towards the foil packet — the only one he actually opens because there’s no way he’s not keeping it. The shiny purple head gleams under the fluorescent, the glitter around the star and moon designs catching the light as he turns it left to right, like he’s worried it’s a fake. You can tell why people want these things so much; there’s a thrill in you that lingers, makes you feel warm and alert. It’s anticipation, despair, excitement, and triumph all in one sitting.

You’re stroking the smooth curve of the design by the ears lightly when Mark speaks up again and says the most outrageous thing.

“I want you to have it.”

“What?” You actually have to pop your ear canal in front of him with your pinky to make sure he knows how ludicrous he sounds. “This is… you said it was crazy rare.”

“Yeah. And you pulled it, with your magic. That’s like… unimaginable luck. Even more than beginner’s luck.”

“Like I said, I literally just opened the box.”

“No — you have like… the golden touch.”

“Please,” you hiss, a genuine testiness to your voice. “Do not. I was just here for the ride — the experience, and all.”

“Seriously, take it.”

“Absolutely not—”

It’s a chaotic moment of him trying to hand you the figurine and you outright rejecting it, with both your palms working hard to push it back to him. Instead of nudging the plastic back, though, you end up placing the full force of your hands against his fingers.

There’s no actual spark when you touch, but your reactions make it feel like there might as well have been; you even lock eyes in startled unison, like you can’t believe that just happened, before you pull away quickly, Mark drawing the figuring back to his torso while looking away towards the counter, where a lowerclassman is wiping down the stains. You want to scream at your warped reflection in the window. You barely initiate contact with him, but you imagine that if you ever did, you would prefer to not be saying something as abjectly negative as absolutely not while doing so.

Your mind flails in an attempt to mitigate the issue and water down the embarrassment, and clearly he’s struggling to figure it out too, because he pipes up before you can piece your thoughts together.

“No, really.” His tone is a lot milder and, consequently, a lot more persuasive this way. “You should take it. I want you to.”

“It’s not mine. This is your thing — your hobby.”

“That’s why I’m giving it to you. I swear — I want you to keep it.”

“Why?”

He lapses into silence again, but his face is much redder than earlier. His mouth opens in an attempt to say something, but he just manages to uh his way back into a state of quiet, which gives you a chance to speak instead.

“We can… share it,” you suggest. “Shared custody…. ish.”

His eyebrow cocks involuntarily, and his jaw falls again, but all he does in actual response is nod — slowly at first, then with more sureness to the act.

“Yeah. We can share it. I’d… like that.”

You’re glad that the bulk of the awkwardness has fizzled out fairly easily, and when you think about it, this feels like a pretty good course of action; you like that it’s this little link between the two of you now — something you share that no one else can touch.

Mark, you notice, is smiling as well — more to himself than towards you, it seems. His thumb grazes across the face of the figurine, slow across the lips, and you’re once again falling into a pit of nonsense by wondering when he’d do that to you.

“Thanks for staying with me, _________,” he finally says, and your heart jolts and melts all at once. “And for… doing this. For chatting with me. And giving me your luck, and all that. Great way to end the day… with you.”

You say no problem, but you instantly regret it when you realize you could have just said it didn’t have to end just yet.

“__________? Hello? Come back down to Earth?”

“Shut up,” you sigh at the guy seated across you — Seo Youngho, an upperclassman, your Gender Studies classmate, and current project partner, waves in front of your face. You shoo his hand away, which only joins his other one as he throws them in defeat above his head. “Stop moving. Be quiet. Don’t talk.”

“That’s the same thing as shut up and be quiet. What’s up with you?” He demands. “Fifteen minutes ago, you were full of ideas. Now I feel like I’m talking to a wax figure.”

You’d been engrossed in your report for the last hour and a half, and the subject matter is admittedly something you enjoy — the role of gender in Twenty-First Century Korean marketing and advertisement, a title Youngho had taken more than ten minutes to type into the Google Docs header because he was pissed off at how the numbers looked like in the fonts he chose. He’s an enthusiastic classmate and someone you’ve come to be friendly with, not only because he’s genuinely approachable but also because he has fits of nosiness and talkativeness at the strangest moments, so a chunk of your relationship is mostly based on social terrorism on his part. You like him well enough most of the time — save for the last fifteen minutes of this hour.

Because Mark had just come in for his shift fifteen minutes ago, and suddenly Youngho is much too noisy for your taste, and his head is honestly way too big to the point that it gets in the way of your opportunities to see Mark behind the counter. You even resent him for choosing a booth instead of your usual table all of a sudden, because your view of the central barista’s area is much more limited from this angle, especially since the huge espresso machine is in the of your field of vision.

You’re also (currently and abruptly) mad at Youngho because you remember that he’s the reason you’ve had to skip out on a couple of sessions with Mark. Like, it technically isn’t his fault that you have a lot of research to do for the literature review section of the paper, nor is it his fault that this is your final requirement that comprises a whopping forty percent of your grade, but like… you’ll blame him anyway. So you’re much more irritable, and you’ve definitely been missing Mark’s presence. In fact, you kind of just want to shove Youngho’s balloon head away and call Mark over to sit with you, but you’re not that much of an animal to actually do that.

Probably.

There had been inquisitiveness across Mark’s face when he’d come in; his eyes had trailed to the table at which you usually sat, surprised to find two guys hunched over a single phone there instead of the usual you, waiting for him with your eyes bright and your smile wide. You’d like to think it’s because he’s gotten as used to seeing you as you’re used to waiting to see him — like he just expects you to be there.

You hadn’t really known how to call his attention to where you were, especially since Youngho was prattling very matter-of-factly about the academic journal he’d unearthed yesterday and how he thought it would be useful in reshaping the methodology of your paper (whatever). There was a moment in which you briefly considered ordering another cup of coffee just to get in line to talk to him, but your hands were already shaking from the venti you’d had to keep yourself from passing out in front of your partner.

So you’re more than relieved when, half an hour into his shift, Mark finally steps out from behind the huge machine, a mug of water for himself in hand, and turns away from the front of the store to drink it — only for your eyes to lock as he twists his torso in your general direction.

The mug stops just inches from his lips, but you could swear he smiles at you briefly when he recognizes you, so you return the favor. Youngho’s face contorts into abject befuddlement, turning around to see what you’re grinning at.

“Oh, you poor sap,” he snorts, finally letting the puzzle pieces fall into place.

“What?” You’re still distracted even if Mark has taken a gulp of water and is now attending to a gaggle of girls still in the throes of discussing what to order.

“What what? You gonna spend the rest of the day eyefucking Mark Lee from over here? At least let me get a different table.”

“Shut up,” you repeat sullenly, coming back down to his level and finally — albeit reluctantly — meeting his eye (just because Mark isn’t looking your way). “What were you saying about the sample size?”

“That it’s much too large to be feasible, a point we closed twenty fucking minutes ago,” he says pointedly. “Is it a thing for baristas or a thing for smart guys?”

“It’s a thing for Mark Lee,” you sigh, following Youngho’s suit and shutting your laptop close. You’re at least glad he’s not annoyed that you’re delaying work for a crush, or maybe he’s also just equally lazy at this point. “You ever look at someone and think you would give it all up for a chance to hit that?”

“No, because this isn’t a porn movie, and I’m clearly not the main character in whatever’s going on in there.” He jabs at your forehead; you swat his hand away again.

“Well, I would.”

He rolls his eyes. “So do it, dumbass.” He says this so simply, like he can’t imagine why you’d be holding yourself back, which is a valid thing to feel, except it’s not really any of his business.

“Can’t.”

“Because?”

“Because it doesn’t fit into my elegant master plan. Also because I want him to ask me out. I just want that victory.”

“Oh yeah, there it is.” Youngho leans over, wiggling his fingers at your ears like he’s greeting a next-door neighbor. “Hey, delusion. Good to see you. Do you even understand how crazy it is that you’re taking a Gender Studies class while waiting for your dick-in-shining-armor like a damsel in distress?”

“Asshole,” you grumble, violently opening your laptop monitor again. “Get back on Google Drive.”

Thankfully, Youngho complies, and the next two hours pass in relative silence and productivity, with you hammering out a vague references list that he promises to format in your stead so you can ‘spend more time dreaming about Mark Lee between your legs.’ You want to strangle him, but there are far too many people in the cafe for you to get away with it. Also, aforementioned Mark Lee would only be a witness to your criminal record, and while you think there’s something romantic in killing for love, or whatever, you’re not sure it’d make the best impression on him.

“Next week’s my birthday,” Youngho announces as he stands to tug on his jacket.

“Congratulations,” you say wryly, peeking over his bulletin board torso to see Mark tugging off his apron and picking up his school bag. Your heart hammers in your chest as he looks over at you briefly, and something like embarrassment passes over his face before he busies himself with neatly folding the fabric. “Go away.”

“Usually people look uncomfortable for not knowing and then start thinking about what gifts to get the celebrant, but I always felt you were kind of a revolutionary.” He snaps his fingers right in front of your eyes, and you look up at him, a little offended. “I’m having a get-together — and by get-together, I mean it’s gonna be a rager. You should come.”

“When?”

“Next Thursday.”

“Can’t,” you chew on your lip, wondering if Mark is leaving. His movements seem particularly slow, but you wonder if he’s just taking his sweet time because he has nothing better to do. Of course, he would have something better to do if Youngho stopped fucking obscuring you from him and vice versa. “Busy. School… whatever.” Not completely untrue. Most of what you do with Mark has to do with school.

“This moony-eyed thing is just not for you, I fear.”

“Are you going to be here all day?”

“Are you? Why don’t you just fucking ask him out, you lunatic?” You can’t imagine why he sounds so exasperated. It’s not like this is his problem — or his business, for that matter. “Maybe if you did, you could fuck him and move on with your life and be an actual contributor to society’s development.”

“Has anyone ever told you how nosy you are?”

“Constantly.” He brings his palms down on the table, the thud shaking you out of another oncoming stupor. “Think about it. Maybe it’ll make you stop making that stupid face.”

“You’ve got a stupid face,” you mumble, sulking as he pinches your cheek as a goodbye before heading out of the shop.

At least you finally get to see Mark in full, glorious view — and you get to watch him come closer, although his stride is somewhat cautious.

“Hey.” Even his voice sounds unsure — almost like the way he used to sound earlier in your friendship. “I didn’t want to interrupt you and… your friend?”

“Oh. Well, you wouldn’t have been interrupting,” you inform him, completely genuine. “He was spouting a lot of nonsense.”

“You guys seemed pretty close.”

“I guess it’s a proximity thing,” you sigh, and Mark raises his eyebrows slightly in question. “We’re partners.”

“Oh.” The way he draws out the syllable is slow. “That definitely makes sense.”

The silence stretches out between the two of you again, with Mark checking his shoelaces. You almost grab your head; it hadn’t occurred to you until now how damaging missing meetings with him would be to your friendship. You feel like you’re slowly being dragged back to square one, and you want to give him an explanation.

“He’s actually… I haven’t been able to see you because I’ve been working on something with him.” you offer, trying to answer a question he didn’t even ask. “Sorry about that. I swear I’ll be back on track tomorrow.”

“No, no — I completely understand.” He pauses thoughtfully. “Thank you… for telling me, though. I— uh, appreciate that.”

“I’d love to see you tomorrow, though.” You try injecting more pep into your voice. “I’ve really been behind on my algebra. I’ve definitely been drowning without you.”

“Oh, yeah.” A small smile graces his lips, but you can’t tell if the reluctance behind it is from fatigue or something that looks oddly like sadness. “I’m down for tomorrow. Same time, same table, right?”

“Yeah, for sure.”

“Cool. See you, _________.”

You watch him turn on his heel, walking to the front door, and something like fear mingled with desperation clutches your heart. Fuck the traditional route, you think. You don’t know what it is about how he’s acting now, but it’s making you feel like he’s slipping through your fingers. All that hard work — there’s no way you’re letting him go.

“Mark, wait.”

You’re at his side, fingers curled into the sleeve of his jacket before you can figure out exactly what you want to say. You feel as surprised as he looks at your sudden liveliness in action, and his gaze trails from your clenched fist to your face slowly, like he’s trying to memorize this whole position.

Your exhale’s shaky, but even still, you try not to sound overtly self-conscious when you ask, “Do you like Chinese food?”

Something in the furrowing of his brows tells you he can’t seem to see where this conversation is headed, and that slightly bothers him. “I like it well enough. Why?”

“There’s this really good dim sum buffet near my mom’s office. We tried it before — the Xiaolongbao is awesome.”

“Hey, that sounds pretty cool. I love Xiaolongbao. I’ll definitely have to check it out then.”

You want to tear your hair out. “How about — you know, checking it out with me? Tonight? You know… together. With me.” You already fucking said that.

You’ve never seen Mark blink this rapidly; he looks like he’s trying to crunch large numbers in his head. A small part of you actually worries that he’s malfunctioning, but just when you think he’s going to glitch out completely, he clears his throat. It bothers you how uncomfortable he looks. “Tonight? Oh man… it’s my cousin’s birthday tonight. I can’t… reschedule. Well, obviously. Maybe some other… time?”

Your ‘oh, yeah’ is small, and so is the ghost of Mark’s smile. You can’t help but feel like he’s pitying you a little, although he doesn’t seem like the type, but the thought of it alone makes you want to puke. He makes no motion to move, and you think he’s extending this awkward moment out on purpose until you realize you’re still hanging onto him and he has no way of telling you to let go nicely.

Fingers unfurling from his sleeve, you take a careful step back, but when he walks away, it feels like you’ve gone much, much further away.

The worst part is that you can’t even figure out why.

Luckily, the next few times you see Mark, you manage to rebuild a rather shaky bridge back to where you had been. You even manage to strong-arm him into sharing an apple fritter one afternoon, and you know it’s a bit sad to think about it a particular, untrue way, but you can’t help but pattern what you’re doing into some kind of pseudo-date. Pathetic isn’t a word you normally associate yourself with, but you’ve been borderline desperate for progress where there seems to be none, so you take small victories where you can get them.

Unfortunately, you haven’t been able to revisit your stupid dim sum plan; sometimes, he says he has somewhere important to be, but most of the time, it’s actually your fault. No — it’s Youngho’s fault, because he keeps bothering you to finish the project. You’re aware that he can’t do it himself, but since he’s informed of your current plight, he could at least stand to be more sympathetic.

And you hate the way Mark looks every time you splutter out that you have to take a rain check for that reason; it’s not even disappointment, or something, which would be much more understandable. It’s this mysterious kind of faraway look, where his eyes glaze over a bit and he seems suddenly very lost in thought — or completely dissociated. He never strays away from his normal response of “next time, then,” but that ‘next time’ fades into the weekend and into the start of next week, and you have to spend every other evening with an annoying Seo fucking Youngho on a Google Meets call instead of eating soup dumplings loveshot style with Mark Lee.

Thursday night rolls around, and the former performs the most irritating stunt yet: blowing up your phone with so many KakaoTalk messages that it almost buzzes off the table during your session with Mark. Luckily, he seems to have learned a thing or two from his comic books, catching it before it hits the floor.

“You sure you don’t want to answer it?” He asks, gingerly handing the phone to you like he’s afraid it’s going to explode from all the pinging.

“Without the shadow of a doubt,” you sigh, flipping the screen downwards. Buzz.

“It kind of seems important. Or, like… urgent.”

“He’ll live. Unfortunately.”

Mark falls silent, fiddling with the page he’s on. He’s neatly highlighted the formulas on the page with blue ink, and his finger keeps scratching at the slightly wet paper. Buzz.

“Didn’t you say you two were partners?”

“Yes. Also unfortunately.” Youngho is actually a great person, but you kind of hate how Mark’s paying more attention to his texts than to you right now. “What did you get for number ten?” Buzz.

“A hundred and twe— are you really just going to let it keep ringing like that? What if he’s… I don’t know. In trouble? Like, he needs you?”

You smack your phone on its back, hoping that the punishment reaches Youngho because he absolutely is in trouble — only with you. “He’s just making a racket because it’s his birthday and he probably wants a bunch of people to trash his parents’ house, or something.”

“Sounds like fun.” The dubious tone in Mark’s voice indicates that his idea of fun definitely isn’t that. Buzz.

“Not really, but I assume he’ll only pipe down if he manages to get his way.”

“He must really want you there.”

There it is again — that weird, distant expression that makes you feel like he’s trying to free himself from the tethers of the earth. You close your textbook in defeat; it wasn’t even like you got the answer to number ten correct anyway. Buzz.

“He just wants everyone there, I bet. But I probably should show up so he shuts up.”

“Oh — yeah, okay. We’ll call it a day, then?” He’s avoiding your eye as he starts packing his things, which is actually impressive because you have practically nothing but your book to keep in comparison to his pencils and protractor, so you just stare, willing him to look at you.

You want to know what’s going on in his head. You want to know what’s going on in his heart — what he thinks of you, why he seems warm one second then almost like a stranger the next. You want to know if he knows you like him and if him not doing anything even if he knows is a sign that he doesn’t like you back. You want to know if he’d let you kiss him, if he’d kiss you first, if you can meet not because of sweet cream cold brews or algebra but because you just want to be together.

You just don’t know how to ask. For as much as you like him, for as much as you want him, you haven’t figured out the most basic part of this — if you mean anything more than a two hour talk to him at all.

“Mark.” This feels awfully like the dim sum conversation, only somehow ten times more disastrous. “Come with me.”

“Sorry?” The appalled look on his face makes you squirm in your seat.

“I don’t really want to go, but maybe if we go together… we can just hang out a bit and leave once it’s boring… I think it’d be fun,” you explain lamely, deciding at the last second to drop the with you that had originally come with your sentiment.

“I don’t think your… partner will like someone uninvited showing up.”

“I’m inviting you.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not how it works.”

“You’d be, like, my saving grace or something — my excuse to scram. We’ll say we came right from a study session; we only popped in halfway through for the sake of greeting him a happy birthday. Then we can just go. We can say — uh, we’ve got more work to do.” You’re practically begging him at this point, and you don’t even get why. You just don’t want him to leave looking the way he does — confused and a little detached. You want the Mark that had smiled at you while giving you your coffee — the one that had kindly pointed out an arithmetic mistake in the most gentle way possible. You want to open blind boxes with him, whine about your rotten luck, and part ways with his warmth still against your coat sleeve.

You don’t know what comes over you then, but you pluck up the courage and initiative to slip your hand in his. He stiffens a little, but you don’t care; your fingers squeeze his in urging.

Something in his expression breaks — cracks first, then falls away, before he’s nodding, still looking vaguely thoughtful.

“If you think it’ll help you, then… okay.”

The bus ride to Youngho’s neighborhood is uneventful because it’s quiet. You stand close to Mark at all times, but you barely touch, save for the times your knuckles accidentally brush his when you lurch forward slightly as the vehicle comes to a dangerously abrupt stop. He doesn’t ask anything about the party or the company that’ll populate it, which is just as well, because you don’t have a clue.

You know it’s the right house because the door’s wide open and there’s music coming from inside; you can’t make out much more than the deep bass pumping through the concrete, but you’re pretty sure it’s making your heart jump in your chest even more than it already is. There are quite a few people you vaguely recognize on the lawn, and even more that you absolutely don’t; a good number of them glance at you and Mark as you step through the threshold then look away, probably deciding you’re of no real consequence or harm to their moods.

Youngho’s easily spottable because of his massive height; he towers over the rest of his guests, and the red plastic cup in his hand calls even more attention because he’s lifted it over everyone else’s heads. You throw Mark an apologetic glance that he responds to with a short nod before you dive into the crowd alone, trying to weave your way to where you’d last seen Youngho.

“Bro, finally!” Youngho greets you, pretty much shouting over the music. “Where’s the gift? Did you leave it on the table?”

“Happy birthday, Youngho. Do you know how close you were to being blocked?”

“I see you brought mister espresso with you,” he ignores your comment completely, nodding to Mark. When you turn back to see him, you notice he’s squishing his arms closer to his sides, trying to minimize the space he takes up. “So what? Y’all get to hook up already?”

“No. I brought him here because we were in the middle of something and someone,” you stop, offering him a pointed look that’s also ignored. “Wouldn’t stop texting.”

“Cockblock,” the guy next to Youngho, who you now realize has been eavesdropping, singsongs. “Oh, sorry. You looked angry when you stomped through the crowd, so I wanted the juicy details. Name’s Jaehyun.”

You take the hand he offers you briefly, introducing yourself. When you say your name, realization dawns on his face, and he jabs his forefinger at you.

“Oh, dude. You’re that girl — the Starbucks Showstopper.”

“The what?”

“That’s what his friends call you.” He scratches his ear, seemingly racking his brain for more information. “I’m with Mark and a couple of his friends — Lee Donghyuck and Na Jaemin — in College Algebra.”

You completely gloss over the fact that you’ve finally found out the real government identity of the mysterious figure named ‘Hyuck.’ “They… talk about me?”

“From time to time. Not really. Once or twice. Donghyuck only calls you that because Mark apparently keeps blowing them off to hang out with you.”

“How do you know this?”

“I have ears. It’s not hard when they talk like no one’s around.”

You shush Youngho’s exclamation of and you’re saying I’m nosy?, your heart hammering hard in your ears, practically drowning out the music. “What… what else did they talk about?”

“Not sure. Something about not seeing you that often these days. Jaemin teasing Mark about getting dropped now that you don’t need his help anymore. Donghyuck piling on and saying you’ve got a boyfriend.”

“What?”

“Don’t shoot the messenger.” Jaehyun still inches away from you when your voice rises in pitch and decibel. Some people around you start, then move away as well, as if scared you’re going to incinerate them. “They were just teasing him that you probably ditched him after you started dating someone. Your partner in some project, or what.”

“Oh gross.” The realization hits you like a speeding truck. Youngho’s expression is affronted.

“First of all, you bitch. Second of all, as if I would date someone who didn’t even buy me a gift. Or want to come. Or yelled at me after coming. Wow — now that I think about it, you’re terrible, _________.”

“Oh, shit; that someone was you?” The only person that isn’t tense in this conversation is Jaehyun, who laughs point blank at Youngho’s sour face. “I think they were offering to put you into one of their Death Note notebooks. Sucks for you, hotshot.”

“What a smudge on my good name,” Youngho sighs mournfully. “On my special day, too.”

“I desperately need you two to be quiet for one second. I have to — where’s Mark?”

Even when you stand on your tiptoes, you’re not nearly as tall as the two of them; it’s Youngho, with his freakish height, who manages to spot Mark by the bowl of nachos, looking as though he’s trying to decide if they’re safe for consumption. You hardly excuse yourself; actually, all you say is a distracted “later” that dismisses Jaehyun’s cooing that something’s going down and you should clue him into all the mess later as a thank you. Your appreciation of his sudden and somewhat short-lived presence in your life is still up in the air.

Mark’s busy making a sour face at the sip of punch he’d just taken; he only straightens up when you’re right in front of him, putting his cup down next to the nachos. “Hey. Did you get to find… um…”

“That’s not important.” Your hand bunches the fabric of his jacket in a death grip, something he barely has time to register, let alone question, before you’re tugging him through the throng of people. You want somewhere quiet, somewhere private, and you initially consider the lawn, except you know it’s strewn with cups and has stragglers debating whether to go home or not. You can’t risk any of them being expert eavesdroppers like Jaehyun, so you make a beeline for the stairs instead.

“We’re not leaving yet?” He has to shout over the music, but there’s no resistance in his stride; he follows you up and waits patiently, although a little perplexed, as you check the doors on the second floor. Two are locked, one is a bathroom, and the other is a messy, musk aftershave-scented place you can only presume is Youngho’s room. Talking in front of a sink and a toilet doesn’t feel like it’ll be very productive, so you just drag Mark into the bedroom, kicking aside the crumpled shirt on the floor — which you could’ve sworn you’d seen Youngho wear for class yesterday. “_________, what’s going on?”

“Mark Lee,” you burst out, ignoring the fact that his eyes widen slightly at your tone. “What’s your fucking deal?”

You don’t think you’ve ever sworn in front of him before; that much is evident when he continues to gawk silently, unable to find words to respond to your question. Or maybe it’s just the volume and force with which you demand an answer. The problem is that you don’t even know what kind of reply you want. A small part of you nags that this is uncalled for, especially at this level, with you practically caging him into an unknown room. In fact, even now, you’re still embarrassed at your behavior, wondering if you’ve gone too far and stepped over a line between you.

But the source of all your frustrations is, in fact, that line — one so strangely drawn, clear at some points and almost invisible at others. Sometimes, he seems simply content with the barest minimum of friendship: talking to you, helping you, politely laughing at your (terrible) jokes. But there are also times he blushes too hard for it to not mean anything, times that he makes you feel like you could mean a little something more to him too.

Yet, from there, he wavers, stepping back so as not to get entangled in something you don’t understand — like when he grows distant every time you mention Youngho to him. You don’t understand why he would unless he echoed, even just a little, the longing in you. But you also don’t get why he stays and builds more walls around himself, like he’s determined to ignore all the other signs — like he doesn’t want to know if it’s really true and will just accept the assumption that it is. You hate not knowing where you stand with him, and while you could easily ask, you know you don’t want to.

And for a long time, you’ve convinced yourself that it’s because you want to see Mark step out of his comfort zone and initiate something, but the ugly truth is staring at you: it’s simply just that you can’t stand the idea of seeing him come to the conclusion that you can’t be anything more to him than someone he makes a sweet cream cold brew for every so often.

There’s a moment of tense silence between you two, where you’re just staring at each other — him, perplexed, and you, agitated — and the only sound that passes is the faint but unmistakable voice of Youngho going who has the cake cutting knife? from somewhere down below. You try not to get caught up in the fact that Mark still looks cute when he’s dumbfounded.

“Sorry?”

“What,” you repeat pointedly. “Is your deal? Why have you been acting so weirdly around me these days? I thought — I thought we were… getting closer. I thought… we…”

You’ve confirmed it now; you’re the epitome of cowardliness. You can’t even say I thought we liked each other — because you know that you do, but you still can’t honestly, assuredly tell if he does. Maybe you just read too deeply into the smallest things — smiles before he asks for your order, glances at you when he thinks you’re not looking, sharing the dream eater figurine — to fuel your own emotions without really checking the depth of his.

“I thought we were cool,” you reroute your words, and they come out flat and lame. “But just when I think you’re warming up to me, you suddenly pull away. Like… you’re afraid of me. Or you don’t like me. I don’t know.”

“It’s not — I don’t — I’m not afraid of you,” he stumbles over his words, and even in the darkness of this space, you see his face turn bright red, very quickly. His feet shuffle, not because he’s lost his balance but because he seems to want to get rid of a sudden restlessness. “I do like you. We are — we were getting — we’re close. We — we’re friends. You said that, and we are.”

“Is it only because I say we are that you agree?”

“What? No, I—” His hand passes over his face, slowing at the curve of his chin. “I really like being friends with you. I like being around you.”

“Then why do you act so weird these days? Like — you’ll be fine one moment, then you’ll back off, like you suddenly remembered you don’t want to be around me.”

“It’s not like that. I’m — I don’t get…” He takes a deep inhale, recalibrating himself for a moment before his voice comes out again, less strained this time. “I just don’t want you to feel uncomfortable around me.”

“How could I?” There’s something more than confusion coloring your voice; there’s hurt, too, and he looks as surprised as you feel at hearing it. “I wanted to be your friend. I was the one that asked you to hang out. I was the one who wanted you to talk to me, to help me, to go to a goddamn dim sum place with me. Why would I feel uncomfortable? Or are you just using this as some roundabout way to say you feel uncomfortable?”

Mark falls silent, and you don’t know why this speaks volumes all of a sudden. His eyes are trained to the tips of his sneakers, which are rising in soft bumps every few seconds; he’s curling his toes inside them. You feel like you’ve gotten the worst answer possible, and something grows cold in your chest.

“You feel uncomfortable around me.” You rehash, but it’s no longer a question. “You don’t know how to get rid of me.”

“No, it’s not that.”

“You think I’m only using you.”

“No.”

“Then what?” Your voice breaks, no longer out of anger, but a desperate sadness. The moment your eyes feel hot and prickly, you decide you want to end the conversation. It’s embarrassing, you think, for someone like Mark Lee — whom you like, who only ever sees you as a friend — to see you get choked up at a fucking birthday party at someone else’s house.

A beat later, you’re mumbling a half-hearted forget it, and you detest overdramatics, but you hate the idea of being in a room with someone who’ll never return your feelings even more right now; you push past him, already on the thought of calling a cab home instead of taking the bus so that no half-drunk businessmen coming from their company dinners see you crying.

But something warm wraps around your wrist, then closes over your hand, and you’re unable to move, Mark’s palm pressed against the back of yours. When you look back, you notice he’s still not looking at you, but his ears are practically on fire with how red they are, and you feel his fingers tighten slightly, tremble slightly against yours.

“It’s not that. I didn’t ever want you to think — I heard about you two. That you were dating someone. Seo Youngho.”

“What does that matter?” Your words come out a little more bitterly than you expect, and you have to remind yourself to reel it in. “That doesn’t explain your discomfort.”

“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he repeats, still evidently careful in choosing his words. “Because you wanted to be friends.”

“I don’t understand,” you state bluntly. In the back of your mind, you note that Mark’s grip keeps tightening and loosening, unsure of whether to keep holding on or let go. But there’s something else, too — the soft graze of skin against yours, his thumb gliding over your knuckles.

“That was all you said you wanted to be, right?” He waits for a response, but when you don’t give him one, he lets out a shaky breath and continues. “You kept saying — we were friends. You wanted us to be close like that. I just wanted to respect it, even if…”

“Respect what?”

“That you didn’t want… anything else.”

The music downstairs is a bit tamer now; you hear the door opening and closing every so often, signaling guests leaving here and there, but there are still enough footsteps downstairs for you to know that there’s a crowd Youngho hasn’t gotten rid of and therefore has to attend to. That much is good; you’d get slapped with a homicide charge if he came up here all of a sudden.

“You were jealous.”

Mark’s fingers pinch the bridge of his nose for a moment. “I tried to stop. I don’t have a lot of practice with — well, I didn’t know how to approach the situation. I thought I was still acting normally; I didn’t think… I didn’t want you to feel weird and stop hanging out with me just because… I couldn’t fix it.”

“Your friends are assholes,” you mumble, and he finally meets your eye, equal parts startled and amused. “We aren’t. Weren’t. We never were dating.”

“Even without that, I thought… it was a bit embarrassing. Liking someone like you — someone as pretty as you, as nice as you — I thought it would make you feel weird. Then you’d start avoiding me too. Or, worse, you’d keep doing it just because… you… felt bad for me.”

You don’t know what you find more ridiculous — that you hadn’t seen figured it out or that you could have avoided all of this if you’d just been a little more honest with him too. Mark’s hand starts loosening around yours, a little too much, and you turn your palm and grip his hand before he can escape. He stiffens again, just like earlier, but you now understand better why he does.

“I just wanted to keep hanging out with you as much as I could. I thought… It’d be fine, just spending time with you, and I’d be able to like you for a while, on my own, then…” He looks a little pained. “Then just let you go. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry you couldn’t let go?” You sigh softly, your palm guiding his until they connect, face to face, and you can finally lace your fingers into his. There’s no resistance, but his hand trembles slightly in yours still. “If there’s anything you should be apologizing for, it’s that you ever thought of doing it.”

Something clears in the air, lightens in his expression, and he chuckles, albeit a little shyly still. “It’s because I never thought someone like you would like someone like me.”

“I like you.” And it feels right to say it now, not at all out of the blue, never in fear of an answer he’s already given. “I like you when you smile at me every time you ask for my order. I like that you never get impatient when I’m getting my answers wrong. I like seeing you excited when you talk about a new series you’re looking forward to — something new you really want to collect. When you blush, when you laugh loudly, when you spin your pen in your hand — I like you in all those times.”

“Even when I’m jealous?”

“Especially when you are.” Your free hand comes up to cup his jaw, and you’re reminded of the fact that you’ve wanted to feel the strength of the angle under your palm for ages now. It’s not at all a disappointment, and your heart flutters irregularly in knowing you could’ve done this a long time ago, but it doesn’t matter because you’re doing it now, and fuck if Mark Lee doesn’t look good this close to you. “So be jealous — because now, you know you can be.”

Kissing him is better than you imagined, and you’ve imagined a little too much to be embarrassed at this point; there’s a heat to his lips that matches the one across his face, an upturn to them that makes you smile too. The setting’s not at all an expected one, but you’ll take it, not because it’s dark or because it’s private but because Mark’s in here with you, and you would have kissed him in a brightly lit football field full of people for as long as he’d let you.

You’d like to think he’s flushed for a reason other than shyness when you pull away, even if his laugh is quiet and breathy. In fact, when you murmur not enough, he’s the one that closes the gap this time, offering freely what you ask for with such little eloquence. The natural trepidation in his mouth relaxes, gives way to a curiosity that keeps you locked for so long that you forget you need to breathe, much more intent on finding out if Mark’s tongue tastes as good as you’ve imagined for so long.

It doesn’t; it tastes even better.

It’s still not enough, not by a long shot, but you have to resurface before you pass out like this, and even he looks a little dazed when you pull away — not in a bad way, with a grin on his face that you can only classify as endearingly goofy: slightly lopsided and a little shy, but with an unmistakable air of satisfaction.

“Months,” he mumbles, his lips still dangerously close to yours. Your eyebrows rise in questioning, and he laughs in that infectious way that makes you want to join in without even knowing what the punchline is. “I’ve been thinking of kissing you for months.”

And you do share the laughter this time, not out of amusement but of a happiness that spills without restraint. “But you’re suddenly holding back now?”

“Just letting myself bask in the moment, I guess. Letting it sink in so I remember everything.”

The two of you stand there quietly, still trying to fully parse the progression of events, and a small part of your mind registers that Mark’s thumb is still drawing circles on your skin. It’s also not enough — this touch, this closeness. You know now that he’s been thinking of you for months, and it reminds you that you spent that time dreaming of him too. And you remember you’ve always wanted to be even more familiar with him, and suddenly the desire is overwhelming; he’s right here, and you don’t ever want him out of your grasp again.

“Where are you going?” He’s only curious for the sake of it; there’s no alarm in the question because you keep your fingers tightly woven in his, tugging him along as you walk past him to the door. He’s still staring in wonder after the lock clicks shut. “What’s… happening now?”

“You waited months to kiss me, right?” He nods in response at your question. “I’ve been waiting just as long to have you too.”

His mouth falls open, but he doesn’t manage to say anything; his jaw tightens just as quickly when he feels your free hand trail down his chest, feather-light and asking for a green light. Your index finger stops just above his navel and draws back slowly, but not before you feel the shiver that runs down his torso.

“We don’t have to if you don’t want to,” you murmur, giving his hand a little squeeze. “But I just want you to know — I want to. I want you.”

A thoughtfulness settles on his face, and his eyes graze over yours, trying to read your seriousness. You don’t know how honest you look, but your words hold enough truth in them. A silence stretches over the next minute, but to you, it feels like an eternity, and you lose the test of patience somewhat, smiling softly at him.

“You don’t want to?”

“I—” His tongue peeks out, running over his bottom lip. “I do. It’s not that I don’t want to, but…”

“You seem worried.”

A hesitant nod. “I’ve never — well, no, I have, but not — with someone like you.”

“What’s someone like me?” You laugh airily.

“Someone pretty like you — I don’t know. Someone who seems to know exactly what they want. Someone who seems like… they could do better than me.”

“Mark.” You can’t keep the incredulity out of your voice. “I do know exactly what I want. I want you. The rest — I don’t care about. As long as it’s you, I want it.”

He cracks a smile, half of relief, half of disbelief. You don’t miss his hand coming up to press, warm, against your waist. “For real?”

Your fingers curl into the front of his shirt — an anchor to bring you closer, until the tips of your noses are brushing. “For real.”

The third time you kiss is slow, almost careful; there’s lingering worry in the line of his mouth that your lips try to ease until his slightly part under the movements of yours. You feel the tension leave his form in waves — first in his shoulders, then in his arms, until you’re able to press yourself closer and feel the slight give of his frame against your smaller one. He’s radiating an immense amount of body heat that’s pricking your skin and keeping you alert, and you’re hyperaware of the smallest things — the weak tremble in his mouth, the slight roughness of his teeth under your tongue, the ridges of his palate above it.

He tastes nothing like what he smells, you learn. Instead of the air of earthy coffee stuck to clean linen, you inhale a combination of spearmint and mild saltiness that’s made slightly sharper by the lingering splash of alcohol from his accidental sip of punch earlier. You decide then and there that this disparity is important to you; it makes you feel like you’re the only one who can have this experience — that everyone else can know his scent, but now, only you can know what Mark Lee tastes like.

You have to keep your wits about you to avoid this addictive stimulation of your senses; you let go of his hand only to lock your fingers around his neck, and there’s a show of trust in how he lets you lead him backwards, until his knees are hitting the edge of the unmade bed. The kiss breaks as he’s forced to settle on the mattress, and he looks up at you in what can only be described as a quiet kind of awe. He doesn’t complain when you place your hands, heavy, on his shoulders, using his sturdy form to keep you stable as you move to straddle his lap.

“I feel like,” his voice is hoarse as he speaks up. “We should have picked a different location. Someone… could walk in.”

“I locked the door,” you remind him, a light reassurance in your voice. He doesn’t say anything immediately, but it’s clear there are cogs turning in his head, and you think it’s unfair that he’s thinking way too hard about something else that isn’t you, right now, in this position. In a bid to rectify this, your face presses into the side of his neck, breathing in that familiar scent and leaving a light kiss on his skin right after. Your lips mark the moment he swallows hard at the contact. “Besides, would you really be that unhappy if someone did?”

His hands tighten against your waist, prompting you to leave another kiss against his collarbone. “What — what do you mean?”

“You wouldn’t like it if someone — say, Youngho — walked in to see me on your lap like this?”

The silence that follows your words is tense, and you can tell that Mark’s breathing has become shallower. Again, you can feel his throat constricting slightly, and you can’t help but laugh breathily as you nip at his skin, just under his Adam’s apple. He’s surprisingly easy to tease, you realize — quick to turn speechless and prone to hanging onto your words.

To say that you wouldn’t want to use that to your advantage would be a downright lie.

“Tell me,” you urge, your tone deceptively gentle. “You wouldn’t want him to see you kissing me like this? To see me wrapped around you, begging for more, saying your name over and over? You don’t want him to watch you take me — so he knows you’re the only one that can?”

A strangled groan punctuates your words, but it comes from him; his fingers dig hard into your side with barely constructed restraint. “What do you want from me, _________?”

“I want to know if kissing me was the only thing you wanted for months.”

You pull your head away, nudging his chin with the tip of your nose. Another groan escapes him, and his head tilts back slightly, almost like he’s praying. But when his gaze comes down to meet yours at your level again, you see a firm resolution in his eyes that stirs your heart — which takes off the moment he shakes his head, slowly but surely.

“Then,” you whisper. “What do you want from me?”

He doesn’t say so much as shows; he takes from you your breath, steals another kiss that’s now firmer and more openly demanding. Suddenly, his mouth can’t seem to stay still, trapping your lower lip in between his, drawing out your taste until it mixes with his against his teeth. You feel your head growing light again, and you’re pleasantly surprised that it’s suddenly become difficult to keep up with his lips, asking more from you without restraint. A hum of need sounds in the back of his throat, vaguely dissatisfied, and he’s telling you wordlessly that it isn’t enough right before he attaches his lips to the base of your neck, just above your collar. You think he’s just about to return the favor, but a laugh leaves you when you realize he’s taken it a step further, his teeth grazing your skin lightly, soft nips signaling how eager he is to sink his teeth in with only his slowly weakening self-control stopping him from doing it. Mark’s breathing is slightly labored when he pulls his lips away, warm breath fanning over your chest.

“It’s crazy — and stupid,” he croaks out, voice slightly raspy. “But I want it, and I don’t.”

“What do you mean?” Your fingers drag into his hair, combing it upward messily from his nape. He leans in for a quick kiss that’s somewhat misplaced, landing on the corner of your mouth instead of squarely atop it.

“I want them — him to see us. To see me with you, kissing you — fucking you, too. I want everyone to know we’re like this.”

You’ve never heard Mark say anything so forwardly before; a sweet, warm flush builds in your face, pleased at how comfortably he manages to say it — pleased that he’s saying it to you. “Then what’s the problem?”

“I don’t want him to see you.” There’s a bluntness to his words, but hiding behind them is an undertone of pleading — a serious request. “I don’t want him to see how pretty you look. I don’t want him to see you when you’re bare, or how you look when I’m inside you. I don’t want him to see—”

His voice wavers and dies, and you wonder if he’s embarrassed, but when you read his expression, you see an unyielding longing. A smile tugs at your lips, and your hand comes around to cup his chin, thumb extending upwards to drag his lower lip down.

“You don’t want him to see what’s only yours.”

He swallows hard again, but he doesn’t wait long to nod. Understanding passes between the both of you, silently but completely, and Mark presses his face to your throat, feeling the hum resonate as he places another long, firm kiss there.

“You’re mine,” he whispers, in a way that almost feels like he wants to convince himself of something impossible to believe. He doesn’t even wait for your affirmation, prefers to read it in the way you shiver lightly once his lips travel further down. His kisses trail past the collar of your shirt, and his hands are unabashed in how they seek skin, pushing the fabric upward so he can settle the palms of his hands, warm against your waist. Oddly, they don’t travel upwards; they only brush against the dip, down slightly over the upward rise of your hips, then upwards again, almost soothingly. It’s almost like he wants his mouth to meet them, but he stops halfway, sidetracked by the curve of your breasts.

He barely pulls away, only does for a moment, enough to meet your eyes.

“You’re only mine,” he repeats, his voice softer now. You realize he’s still waiting for some confirmation, and when you do, you’re quick to give it to him — quick to erase any doubt.

“I’m yours,” you affirm in the same tone, in the same careful volume. “Only yours, Mark.”

Whatever else he wanted to ask for, he knows you’ve given assent; that much is clear when he buries his face between your tits, inhaling your scent. You briefly wonder if he might feel just as intoxicated around you as you do around him, if your pleasant dizziness in being this close to him, in tasting and smelling him is something he experiences too, but you don’t get much time to dwell on it the moment you feel his lips part, a slight wetness seeping through the fabric. He’s kissing your chest, teeth grazing just above the cup of your bra, nipping without any real objective other than to feel the pad’s slight resistance to his mouth.

You almost miss what he says as he shifts his head, lips brushing over the curve of your breast — another breathless ‘mine’ that isn’t ever punctuated; his lips still stay parted, mouthing at the cloth, like he’s desperate to feel what’s underneath through it. There’s pressure where his tongue presses flush against the shape of your tit, tightness whenever he chooses to nip, attempting to take the flesh and all that’s between you and him between his teeth.

Not enough, you think, even when a whimper of need bubbles out of you; you want to be closer, your thighs pressing against the sides of his. You’re close in almost every way, but you still inch yourself further forward, enough to feel the taut hardness in his jeans. Your hips settle right there, letting fabric ride against fabric as you center yourself.

No sooner do you press yourself flush against him do you gasp; the light sting sends a jolt up your spine when his teeth close around your nipple through your bra, and when you look down at him, you see the corners of his mouth pulled up in evident satisfaction. He’s quick to atone, his tongue dragging your shirt slightly upwards in his attempt to soothe, and for some reason, the push of fabric and the barely-there feeling of motion leaves you tingling.

“Mark.” Your voice comes out in a whine, but in the haze you’re in, you don’t really have a clear idea of what you’re asking for. All you know is that you want more of him, and for as much as he’s already given you in kisses and words, you aren’t even halfway down the list of everything else you wish you could demand from him. You say the only thing that comes to mind — the only thing that really encompasses what you feel. “Mark, I want you. I want more of you.”

His hands on your waist are replaced by the significant tightness of his arms, locked around your torso; you don’t even have the time to take in your awe at the fact that he can easily carry you, turn you over until you’re on your back, until he’s already eased one knee between your legs.

The way he looks down at you is a mixture of hesitation and desire, but the former’s erased when you reach out for him, murmuring another ‘more’ so you can pull him in. With one palm pressed against the mattress, he lets his free hand graze against your side again, bolder in its movements, and his fingers trace a path up to your breast, squeezing the soft flesh through layers. Your back arches upwards in response, eager for more contact, for touch that’s almost there but not quite, and he smiles when you make a noise of frustration from his fingers tweaking the soft nub of your nipple.

“Mark, please—”

“Would you really let him see you like this?” His thumb’s still idly grazing over your breast, following the rise and fall of its curve. You swallow hard, trying to keep your voice level despite the growing want that threatens to break through it. “Would you really let him watch you… get fucked?”

You shake your head, and his brow furrows.

“I’d let him watch you fuck me,” you correct him, and the confusion in his face gives way to pure satisfaction the moment you make this nuance clear. “It has to be only you.”

His grip tightens briefly against your breast again, and he leans down, pressing a surprisingly chaste and brief kiss to your lips.

“Then I’ll unlock the door next time and give him a show.”

You don’t know if it’s what he says or what he does after — his hands bunching your shirt upward until the hem’s just below your neckline — that makes your breath hitch, but you decide it doesn’t matter when you realize you’d much rather be focusing on the journey his lips take, slick against your stomach as he presses languid kisses down to your navel. His fingers hook into the waistband of your jeans, the weight naturally pulling them down, and you see his muscles tighten for a moment as he stops himself from tugging them off completely.

Mark’s mouth is unparalleled in its attentiveness, seemingly intent on making sure he’s covered every inch of your stomach in warm kisses, but you only realize he’s somehow stalling when he starts the cycle again, his nails digging into the taut elastic of your jeans as though to remind himself to curb his desire.

You take the initiative instead, raising your hips slightly to signal your want, acutely aware of the fact that you brush lightly against his thigh when you do so. His eyes lift first, followed by the rest of his face, and he’s watching you quietly. You might have thought he was unsure of what to do all of a sudden again, but his knee pressing closer, an unmistakable pressure against you, is enough to tell you that he’s only curious to know what else you’ll do.

The second time you grind against his thigh, his hands catch your hips, keeping them aloft just long enough for him to tug the band of your jeans downward; he peels them off you with surprising ease, returning to the same position between your legs, hands still firm on your waist. With that done, he only has the thin garter of your panties left to curl his fingers into, bunching it into his fists when you roll your hips up one more time. You manage a shaky noise when you feel the stark difference — the roughness of the denim against you, the stick and drag of flimsy cloth. Mark lets out a low but unmistakable hiss.

“I can’t believe—” his idea is cut short by the movement of your hips again, and his grip tightens, knuckles pressing into your skin. “Can’t believe you’re here. I can’t believe we’re doing this.”

“What am I supposed to do,” you breathe out, the sound momentarily getting stuck in your throat. “So that you know it’s real?”

His fingers relax their hold, palms now pressed against your thighs; they travel between your hips and your knees, a soothing and thoughtful motion. “God — I don’t know. I just want — I just want you so badly. Like… I’m going to go crazy if I don’t have you now.”

You lean up, your weight resting on your elbow, and your other hand reaches out; Mark meets you halfway, bending just a little lower to press his cheek against your palm. There’s something intimate, something so giving about the way he turns his face to your fingers, pressing a fluttering kiss just under your thumb. The tips of your fingers trace the shape of his lips, even when they pucker again under your digits.

“Take me,” you murmur quietly. “Right now — from now on, every part of me is all for you.”

His exhale is shaky, but his fingers have a sureness to them; they slip under your thighs, cradling the backs of your knees, and lifting until they’re folded over your chest. You don’t even have the time to wonder if you should feel exposed all of a sudden; his breath warms the inside of your thigh as he presses his lips there — not a kiss, just a touch as he speaks.

“I want to taste you,” he mumbles, partly distracted with the act of inhaling the mild scent off of your skin. “Every inch of you — I want to know just how sweet you are.”

He lets his hold on your thighs relax, letting them fall apart; he busies his hands with your panties instead, hooking a finger into the strip of cloth just covering you. It’s clear you’re both aware that the fabric sticks light to your skin, poorly masking your wetness, and interest mingled with hunger flashes across his face as he pulls it aside.

“You’re so pretty,” he says, sounding like it’s a comment more for himself than anything else. His gaze flickers to you for a moment before it moves back to your pussy. “The prettiest fucking girl in the world.”

The pressure of his thumb between your folds causes you to forget what you wanted to say, and you know Mark had been nervous, but you realize that it doesn’t mean he’s supremely inexperienced by any means; there’s a quiet, understated confidence in the way he rubs slow, thorough circles, moving upward towards your clit. Your face, your neck, your whole torso feels flushed, but you power through the instinct to tilt your head back so that you can keep watching him — the minute changes in his expression, the slowly building strength in his touch.

“I want to taste you,” he repeats, looking up at you. “I want to know what you taste like when you cum against my mouth.”

You’re not sure if you’re gawking because you can hardly believe Mark Lee — your eternally blushing, mild mannered campus crush — had said all those words strung together into such a lewd sentence, but you’re sure as hell not going to deny him. Your hand travels down your torso, and he watches, curious at first, then awestruck when your index and forefinger settle against either side of your folds, pulling them apart in offering.

His eyes end up transfixed on your pussy again, observing how your fingers ease your folds further apart the more he massages his thumb against your slit. His mouth is slightly agape, intent on drinking in the sight, unaware that you’re trying to memorize this view of him too — Mark Lee, touching you, wanting you, eager to take you fully.

“I’ve always wanted to see what it’d look like with your face between my legs,” you say in a hushed tone, but he catches it anyway, briefly looking up at you again. “I’ve always wanted to know what your tongue would feel like against my pussy.”

Your index finger bumps against the tip of his thumb, and he stops its motions, allowing you to move his digit down until the pad of it hovers just in front of your tiny hole. You can see one cheek tucked between his teeth, bitten to muffle the groan you wish you’d heard louder.

“Won’t you show me?”

You think you hear him rasp out a ‘fuck yes’ before he bends down, pressing his half-open mouth against your pussy. The squeal of delight that leaves you is half-strangled as his thumb curls, hooking into your entrance. It starts a shallow, distracted motion, with his attention funneled much more clearly into keeping his tongue working. Flush against your slit, it drags up, and he releases a guttural noise at your taste, lips pursing slightly on the way back down — like he can’t stand not trapping every drop of wetness with his mouth.

The intensity of his tongue, the idle thrusting of his thumb — you’re not sure what you want to focus on more, and the result is you whimpering incoherently at the starkly contrasting combination of the two. Mark moves his mouth like he’s never tasted anything as good in his life; the sounds between your thighs are wet, sloppy — almost embarrassingly so — but you don’t have the presence of mind to dwell on that because Mark Lee is eating you out and that’s really all that you can think of.

The tip of his tongue suddenly flicks upwards; you keen, long and low, when it starts to circle your clit in that same intense, circular movement his thumb had gotten you used to. Your sensitivity skyrockets, and you’re completely unable to control the upward bucking of your hips, but Mark stays supremely unperturbed, his free arm winding under your thigh to keep the both of you steady. Your noises are growing embarrassingly loud, and you realize just how needy you’ve become when you vaguely notice that there’s a pattern in what you’re saying — his name, over and over again.

“Did you do that too?” He asks softly, his words slightly muffled against you. “Say my name, I mean — when you thought of me.”

“God, yes.” Your voice comes out strained, teetering on the edge of slurring. “So many times — every single fucking time.”

“Promise me something.” He lifts his head, and you see a fieriness in his gaze.

You nod — at this rate, whatever he’d ask you to do, you would without question. “Anything.”

His thumb presses in deeper, up to his knuckle and you reflexively tighten around his digit, but he keeps it anchored there, pushing down against your walls. He drinks in your gasp, the widening of your eyes, the way you chew on your lip with a singular kind of contentment on his face.

“Promise me — from now on, you’ll make sure I’m always there to hear it.”

The only kind of assent you’re able to make is a moan as he dives down again, mouth buried in your warmth, his nose pressed tight against your clit. His tongue moves in strong strokes, broad swipes that push your folds apart further, and his thumb, while not moving, increases in pressure to the point that you feel a heaviness adding to the growing pleasure. Your hands fly down, seeking some kind of sense and reason, and you thread your fingers into his hair, grip tightening as your climax builds in stride.

“Mark, I’m—” close, you want to say, embarrassingly so, but the moment he hears his name, his lips attach to your clit, and there’s suddenly so much more pressure as he sucks, almost like he’s desperate to draw out your orgasm. He chooses this of all time to start moving his thumb again, and this time, his movements are anything but slow and idle; they’re filled with the intent to drive you over the edge. “Fuck me, oh my god—”

“I want to,” he murmurs, pausing for just a moment to drag the tip of his tongue around the nub. “God, I want to. Let me see you cum first; let me taste how sweet you are.”

His thumb stops, buries deep into your pussy, and you’re not sure why this, of all things, is what pushes you beyond control; you’re only half-sure you say his name when your orgasm hits, the rest of your consciousness much too clouded by pleasure. He doesn’t stop, revels in the way you squirm under him as he hums low and keeps his tongue working against your clit. His licks become longer, more thorough as you come down from your high, your cries softening into whimpers as his tongue both attempts to clean you up and makes you messier in the process. His arm is still curled around your thigh, keeping you from inching away from him, even if instinct and stimulation are telling you to.

You’re barely lucid when you sit up, and Mark inches back, somewhat startled; you grab the front of his shirt, and the sight of his mouth, slick and glistening from your wetness, only makes you more curious to know what you taste like on him. You find out how tangy it is, how rich the two of you are together on his lips, and you’re able to fully appreciate the skill of the mouth that kisses you deeply, leaving traces of you against your tongue and teeth.

“Please — fuck me.” It’s the only thing you can say at this rate, only half-coherent and still trembling with desire, but Mark doesn’t seem to care that you’re stuttering over such a simple request. His thumb wipes traces of saliva off the corner of your mouth, kisses it clean for good measure, then straightens up, his hands working at his belt. You almost miss the fact that his hands are shaking slightly as he undoes the buckle and tugs it out from the loops.

You want to help — it’s the least you can do, after all, and your fingers push the button of his jeans out through the hole, his hands working in tandem to tug the zipper down. However, your movements falter when you hear a noise from just outside the room — the sound of the doorknob being jangled, the thud of a body gently hitting the door, as though worried it’s stuck. You glance up at Mark, ready to reassure him, but he either hadn’t heard or doesn’t care because he’s too busy stepping out from the pool of denim at his ankles, and you get completely sidetracked by the bulge straining against his boxers.

You almost ignore Youngho’s voice grumbling ‘Jesus Christ, now of all times? from behind the door, but you leverage it instead.

“Should we let him in?” You ask, tone innocent despite the evident deviousness in your words. It pays off, though; Mark’s cock twitches unmistakably under thin fabric, and he actually looks like he’s considering it. “You’re just about to fuck me, after all. Weren’t we going to — what did you say? Put on a show?”

He worries on his bottom lip, like he’s unsure if you’re serious, but in the end, he shakes his head, reaching out to smooth your hair away from your face and ushering you to lay back down. The lips that meet your forehead are gentle, almost apologetic.

“Not now,” he murmurs against your skin. “Right now, you’re all mine.”

You laugh lightly, nodding, and he chuckles too, but the sound of it slowly dies down when your finger hooks into the garter of his boxers. You can feel his breathing hitch as you tug it down, the elastic catching when it meets the shape of his cock, but you don’t make any move to free it just yet — for some reason, you want to see him do it.

“Show me.”

He complies without hesitation, one hand dragging the elastic down over his thighs, the other curling around the base of his length, and your face flushes as satisfaction works through your system at the bare sight of him.

Mark Lee is big — not monstrously so, but enough for you to make a pleased noise as your hand joins his, fingers barely wrapping around his girth. You give his shaft a gentle squeeze, and his exhale stutters, watching you stroke him, long and thorough in your movements. Your palm swipes over the tip, leaking precum, allowing it to slick up your hand enough to keep your movements smooth. You’re fixated on the tension in his lips, the throb of his cock against your palm, and the way his gaze never leaves your face, like a small, amazed part of him still can’t believe what you’re doing, even if you’re both half-naked already.

“I want to suck you off,” you plead, grip tightening slightly. He grits his teeth, stifling another groan, but he shakes his head clearly enough for you to slow your movements in mild surprise.

“Can’t — not now. I need to be in you so badly.” His breathing’s sharp and heavy, like he’s trying to keep himself in check. “You don’t even know — how long I’ve wanted to feel you.”

Your hold relaxes, and you let him maneuver you, his renewed hold on your hips dragging you closer to the edge of the bed. In this position, he can spread your thighs further, and you angle yourself optimally — enough for him to get a full view of your pussy, wet and still aching from your last orgasm.

“You don’t know how badly I’ve wanted to know how tight you are,” he continues, and there’s a faraway look in his eyes that makes you think he might be entrenched in fantasy. “How much I would have killed to see you — have you like this. I’m not gonna be able to wait anymore.”

His fingers dig into your sides, thumbs stroking your stomach in a weak pattern. The underside of his shaft presses against your folds, still half obscured by your panties, in a way that’s heavy enough to make you mewl, your hips reacting before your mind can, and he hisses softly as he feels his length glide along your slit before you relax your stance again.

“I can’t wait,” he reiterates, a breaking in his voice that sounds almost tortured. You don’t want him to either, want to see him buried to the hilt inside you, and you raise your hips again in need. “I want you so much it’s driving me crazy.”

“Then take me.”

And you’re not sure if it’s a demand or a plea, but he no longer stops himself; his hand fists his cock a few times, coating the slick of precum along his length before he lines the tip up with your entrance. His other hand’s flush against the inside of your thigh, a light pressure ensuring he always has enough space to fit himself between your legs — enough space to bottom out completely.

Mark’s considerate in his pace — maybe he knows he’s big, or maybe he’s just naturally careful, but he allows you the time to adjust to the stretch. Your nails almost puncture holes into the sheets, your grip so tight you wonder if it’s just to brace yourself or to hang onto the last threads of your sanity. He’s only halfway in, but you’re pushing fullness already, and he stops when his cock meets slight resistance, looking up at you in concern.

“You’re not—?”

“It doesn’t hurt,” you reassure him softly, and it’s true; the adjustment brings about slight discomfort, but it’s almost nothing to you — not compared to how much more you want. “Give me everything; I want all of you inside me.”

He pauses still, trying to read your expression for any lies, but when he can’t find any, he nods, his jaw tensing as he presses both palms against your thighs, keeping you open as much as possible to accommodate him. He doesn’t even stop when you whimper, feeling a tightening twitch in your pussy that also causes him to groan, until inch by inch, you’ve taken him, his hips flush against yours.

He doesn’t move — not yet, his eyes trained to where you’re connected like he’s once again unable to believe what he’s doing. You hear him mumble something to himself that you want to hear too; you squirm slightly, and he hisses through his teeth, looking up at you and finding the questioning in your face. He offers you a small smile, albeit somewhat strained.

“You’re tighter than I thought.”

“You’re bigger than I thought,” you hum, and neither of you is really to blame; the tight fit, the slight breathlessness it leaves you with, is perfect, you think — just what the both of you need. “Did you often think about fucking me?”

“Probably just as often as you’re making it sound like you thought about having me fuck you, I think.”

“Don’t get cocky,” you warn, but there’s no real heat in your voice.

“I won’t. But it makes me feel good — knowing you wanted me just as bad.”

“I still do.” Your gaze is lazy, a little hazy, even if you’re anticipating so much. Even just the feeling of Mark, throbbing inside you, is already slowly building the pleasure in your stomach again; you wonder if you could cum like this, given enough time, given enough patience. “I’m still waiting for you to fuck me. God, Mark— please.”

He chuckles good-naturedly, but even that’s drowned out by the long moan that leaves you once he draws his hips back; your body’s mildly shocked into a new adjustment, feeling a sudden emptiness that’s quickly mitigated by him filling you back up again. The pace is slow, almost torturous, although you know he isn’t doing it to get a rise out of you. He wants to ease you into speed, careful to help you adjust fully; his restraint in his movements is all the more evident on his face, in the furrowing of his brow and the determination in his gaze. Even with that, he can’t help what he says, so intent on controlling everything else he does that he lets his words spill out over your noises.

“Pretty,” he grunts out, and when your walls twitch around him, he accidentally thrusts sharper — just enough for you to whimper a little more loudly, and he has to reel his strength back again. “God, you’re beautiful. I should’ve told you sooner how much I wanted you. All those times I had to imagine you wrapped around me like this, wondering how much tighter you’d get once you came on my cock. All those times you drove me crazy while I was alone, when I could have been in you— I could have found out how good you felt. How pretty you’d look under me. And you’re still even prettier, even better than I ever dreamed.”

There’s an erratic melody of moans under his words, spilling from your mouth, and the fact that he riles himself up enough to increase his speed slightly doesn’t escape you. He’s a little less careful now, seemingly entranced by the view he gets, watching his shaft disappear into you only to come out glistening, and a part of you hates the idea of snapping out of his reverie, but the majority of your thoughts now lean towards wondering how much more you can get him to break free of his own self-imposed restrictions.

“I wanted to ask you so many times.” His eyes snap up, coming back into focus as he takes in the sight of you, flushed, hair tousled, gaze darkened. “Almost every day — I sat there, thinking about how all I could do was go home and fuck myself, frustrated you weren’t doing it for me. I should have taken you home with me right then and there — should have let you watch me touch myself thinking of you, should have let you touch me into cumming on your fingers.”

His breathing staggers as he leans in, eager to see you clearer, to hear your words, slowly becoming airier as they come out. For a moment, his gaze falls, torn between watching him move into you and meeting your eyes, but he ultimately chooses the latter once you speak up again, your tone even more hushed than before — like it’s meant to be a secret between just you and him.

“But there were times I wanted you even more than that, to the point that I almost felt like I couldn’t wait.” His eyes widen slightly, a few precious seconds of wondering if he understands what you mean, right before you confirm what he thinks. “I thought about making a move right then — I should have kissed you. I should have asked you.”

“Asked me what?” His voice is gruff with the effort to keep himself in check despite the fact that it’s clear to the both of you that it won’t last.

Your lazy smile’s illusionary; it hides the triumph swelling in your chest at knowing that he asked exactly what you hoped him to.

“I should have asked you to fuck me in front of everyone there.”

“God,” his eyes squeeze shut, his grip tightening. “Please. I can’t—”

“I should have bent over for you there, begged you to stretch me out right after our session,” you continue, bordering on merciless. “Mark, you don’t know — how badly I wanted to be on your lap, your cock in me, with everyone watching. How much I wanted you to fold me over that table, have people watch you pound me, have them listen to how good you make me feel. No one would ever even wonder; everyone would know I’m yours.”

You pause, allowing his eyes to fly open once again, and there’s a pleading in them that’s begging for release. Your eyes soften along with your voice, but you’re this far gone; you should at least see it through.

“And everyone would know you’re mine too.”

“Fuck,” he growls, and his hips stutter before new resolve fills him, his hips driving into you with the force of a strength you didn’t even know he had in him; your thighs tremble at the intensity, at the renewed impact, and feeling him drive his cock deeper into you has you crying out somewhere between a moan and a sob. “Fuck, _________. If I had known you’d thought about me like that — God.”

It’s your turn to shut your eyes for a while, allowing yourself to focus on his movements, breaching your tightness even faster now. You feel his hands skim up your sides again, fingers digging into the fabric of your bra and pulling them down until your bare tits are cupped in his hands. You shiver as his thumbs pass over your nipples, toying them into firm nubs.

“One day,” he hums out, his voice giving way to a slight hoarseness again. “I’ll do it. I’ll fuck you in front of him — in front of Youngho, in front of everyone. I’ll let them wonder how tight you are, how fucking warm you are, and I’ll let them leave knowing no one can know but me.”

It’ll never happen, you both know, but something about agreeing to something so absurd is what has your body almost shaking in longing, and it’s what causes him to press in deeper, folding your legs closer to your torso. Your hands do what little they can to help, keeping your thighs apart so as not to obstruct his view. You can tell it’s somehow not enough, not really all of what he wants when his brow furrows, and he shifts his weight, pushing into you at a new angle.

The stark difference has you gasping before you can control it. Immediately, Mark stops, and you’re already shaking your head before you even hear him say anything, presuming he’s paused out of concern. But before you can say you’re fine, his hushed voice cuts through the silence.

“Do that again.”

“What?”

“Do it again,” he mumbles, sounding distant. “Breathe in. Suck in your stomach.”

You’re not one to complain at such a simple request, albeit a little odd, so you comply, inhaling enough to tighten your torso. You’re surprised when you feel his cock twitch inside you, and you blow out the air alongside your question. “Mark, what are you—”

“I can see it,” he says in utter disbelief. “When you’re like this, I can — I can see my cock inside you. Just a bit.”

Your eyes follow his gaze, fixed just below your navel. From this angle, without any movement, you can’t see a thing, but you assume he’s not one to abandon fucking you so intently without good reason, so you press your palm against your stomach, just above your pelvis. Nothing really feels significantly out of place — up until the point when Mark draws his hips back again, and you feel the backward slide of his cock.

Your throat tightens, and you don’t really understand the feeling that spreads in you — a unique kind of arousal, knowing how deep he is inside you and how you’re taking all of him in despite the fit, because of the fit. Your hand falls away, allowing Mark’s to take its place, and he exerts just a little more pressure against your stomach in an attempt to get the most out of the experience when he thrusts back in. He groans, feeling the bulge push back up, and he quickly picks up the same pace, renewed in intensity so he can experience the rapid rise and fall he creates under his palm.

The faster he goes, the harder he presses, and you’re not sure if he knows it, but the onslaught of friction is what’s making you whine and squirm even more; you’re trapped, in the best way possible, in his hold, your hands back to clinging to the backs of your knees like a lifeline. Pressure from the outside builds on the slowly growing pressure inside, a knot in your pelvis that’s coiling so tightly you feel like you can’t breathe. If Mark notices how close you are, he doesn’t make it known; he’s busy feeling the outline of his cock against your stomach, and when he looks up at you again, his eyes are hazy.

“I would fuck you every single day, every single hour if I could feel this every time,” he whispers in a way that’s almost reverent. “Let me — I want to keep seeing you like this. I want to feel how deep I am inside you, too. Let me fuck you all the time.”

You nod, and your first attempt to say something is just another choked sob. When you do manage to get something out, it’s broken in tearful stutters. “M-Mark, I’m s— I’m so close… I’m — fuck—”

“Do it.” It’s not a harsh command but an urging made on short breath; through your misty vision, you see tension in Mark’s face and shoulders, like he’s bracing himself for something too. You barely register the ping in the back of your mind, too focused on the way he’s pressing his palm harder on your stomach, the way his hips quicken their pace — he’s close too. “Let me feel you — want to feel you cum all over my cock.”

You inhale, not to speak but to let out a loud whimper; your teeth dig into your lower lip as you try to stifle the moans that threaten to follow, but in the end, you whine out his name. Your thighs threaten to close, trembling as you finally reach your climax, an impossible explosion of pleasure, and you have to squeeze your eyes shut so that you don’t get dizzy from the stars that burst around your vision.

“Fuck.” Mark’s voice is strained, his one hand still firm against your stomach, the other sliding against the inside of your thigh. “You get even tighter — you feel even better when you cum.”

“Mark,” you hiccup, unable to do anything but flutter around him as he pistons harder into you. You don’t even know what you’re asking for when you say ‘please,’ but he somehow seems to, and you trust that your body’s saying something you can’t fully detect in this state, with your mind floating in the aftermath of ecstasy.

“I know,” his tone is soothing in contrast to the intensity of his thrusts. “I’ve got you. Just a little more — where do you want—?”

You blink slowly, his words sinking in at too leisurely a pace; his hips stutter dangerously before you’re able to respond. You barely even do that, your hand gently brushing over the one against your stomach, but he catches onto the meaning quickly enough.

You’ve never heard your name said in such a beautiful way; hearing him moaning it lowly is enough to make you whine again, and that noise is drawn out when he shifts and slips out of you fully. Your brain’s fuzzy, but your senses are at least sharp enough to drink in the perfect sight of him cumming — the way he leans his head back, jaw taut and eyes shut, as he pumps his cock and the heat of his release against your skin, pooling against your stomach once he finally cums. You see a shiver run through him, and then he’s still for a while in this position, the both of you basking in the afterglow of your highs.

You’re still weak and sensitive when Mark finally comes back down, a lucidity you don’t have right now coming back into his gaze. All you can do is smile when he leans in, catching your lips in another kiss — one that’s surprisingly soft and slow in comparison to everything else, but still leaves you breathless when he pulls away.

“Let me clean you up,” he murmurs, and you hum in agreement, your body limp as you watch him move off the bed and pull a handful of tissues from a box on the desk on the opposite wall. Even his hands are gentle when he scoops you up, shifting you until your head can lean against the pillows. They carry a scent you’re not used to, and your nose scrunches, rejecting the change, but that’s quickly overpowered by Mark’s familiar coffee-and-linen one when he presses next to you, careful as he wipes his cum off your stomach and thoroughly cleans between your thighs. From somewhere down below, you still hear hushed voices, and the front door slams shut again. People are still in the middle of leaving, but you know Youngho will likely run out of guests soon, and this makes you feel like the timing’s suddenly become urgent.

“I want to date you properly,” you start, slightly slurred but unmistakably blunt. Mark’s gaze snaps to yours, slightly amused, as he balls the tissues up in his fist. “You never asked me, so I’m asking you.”

He looks perplexed. “I just never thought you wanted me to, so I didn’t try.”

You reach up, locking your fingers into his hair and using your grip to pull him down. Your kiss is a little demanding, with a tinge of excess frustration, and he pulls away laughing lightly.

“Do you still think I don’t want you to?”

Mark hums thoughtfully. “I think you made a lot of things clear tonight. On my end, I was happy enough to be near you.” He smiles down at you, and in the faint light, you can see the flush slowly return to his cheeks. “Having you like this — dating you… there’s no way I’d say no.”

Your shoulders relax, satisfied with his answer, and you beam up at him — an act he easily returns, breathtaking and endearing all at once.

Moments later, you feel his arm wind around your waist; he allows you to lean into his side, his other hand crossing over his lap to stroke your thigh. His face turns, pressing a kiss to your hair, and you feel his lips move, hear the quick rush of a whisper. You tilt your head, eyes slightly wide in questioning. “What was that?”

He shakes his head at first, trying to pass it off as nothing. But when it’s clear your curiosity won’t abate, he chuckles softly, his hand gently cupping your chin so that you can only look at him. His thumb strokes your bottom lip gently, as if trying to coax the same words out of your mouth before he murmurs them to you one more time — and this time, he sounds fully convinced of them.

“You’re all mine.”

#mark x reader #mark x you #mark smut #mark scenarios #mark imagines #mark drabbles #mark scenario #mark imagine #nct dream x you #nct x you #nct 127 x you #nct dream x reader #nct x reader #nct 127 x reader #nct 127 smut #nct smut #nct dream smut #nct dream imagines #nct imagines #nct 127 imagines #nct scenarios #nct dream drabbles #nct dream scenarios #nct 127 drabbles #nct 127 scenarios #nct imagine #nct drabbles #nct scenario

[soapsbaby]

Silly Spicy Call of Duty headcanons

Characters: Simon "Ghost" Riley, Johnny "Soap" MacTavish, König, Kyle "Gaz" Garrick, Alejandro Vargas, Rodolfo "Rudy" Parra, John Price, Valeria Garza, all x reader Rating: 18+ (Minors DNI) Themes: All NSFW but very lighthearted, nothing particularly triggering but ask to tag! Word count: 750ish

These are just silly little headcanons about them, PLEASE if you have any like these send them to me i had such a blast writing them lol!!

Ghost

Sometimes his mask slips a little and he looks goofy as hell, you have to do your best to not laugh into his face because you know he won’t let that slide.

Uses British lingo sometimes. Has called your pussy a “fanny” before. Got mad when that made you giggle.

Once got so frustrated with trying to figure out how to operate one of your vibrators that he broke it. Was very apologetic and immediately ordered you another one afterwards.

Soap

He is clumsy as hell. Every time you have tried to fuck in a position that is anywhere near athletic, something goes wrong. It’s a miracle neither of you have broken your necks trying to get it on in the shower. He will always take the fall though, protecting you with everything he has and curling himself around you even if it means he will end up bruised or bleeding.

Makes a lot of typos when sexting, never notices. Called you “baby gorilla” once (you will never let him live that down).

Gets offended when you call him “Soap” in the bedroom. You know my name, what are you calling me that for? Dummy.

König

He doesn’t usually wear his balaclava under his mask when you have sex since it gets too sweaty but since his mask is pretty loose he will sometimes have to pft-ppf-tpftt when it gets stuck in his mouth. Has almost choked on his mask before.

Gets so flustered that he will just start sputtering nonsense. Has on several occasions been so out of it that he has messed up the nicknames you use for each other. “yes show me that I am your little babygirl, wait- no, you are… I am your boy… you’re… Wait, I’m sorry”. Not a gender or kink thing, which would of course be alright with you, just him being a dummy.

Is a bit of a crier and drooler sometimes which wouldn't be a problem except for the fact that he will sometimes accidentally waterboard himself in his mask and not tell you.

Gaz

Has called you mommy once and was mortified. Neither of you have really spoken about it but sometimes you will drop little hints around him to get him flustered.

Likes when you suck him off while he is playing video games but then gets too into the game and genuinely can’t help but get annoyed when he loses because you distract him.

Cpt Price

Is oblivious to any signs that you want him. Will go into Dad story telling mode and completely ignore the effect he is having on you until you grab him by the shirt and just tell him to fuck you.

Has a sex playlist called "sensual" with just the most cliché sex songs on it possible. Can unironically have sex to "Careless Whisper" and “Let’s get it on”.

Has given you rug burn with his beard before. 0/10 very unpleasant experience (you’d do it again, though).

Alejandro

Will say things that could be interpreted as sexist in the moment and then immediately get apologetic. Who’s my good slut? I mean… If you want to be. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to… Are you okay with that? Okay. Cool.

Will fuck you in uniform because he knows you’re into that and then get distracted by things he finds in his pockets like shopping receipts. 

Doesn’t care whether or not you understand him, he will speak Spanish to you.

Rudy

Gets tormented by you with new pet names every day. mí amor, I don't know what a Zaddy is. I don’t even know if that’s a good thing.

In the beginning of your relationship he was completely oblivious to most kinks. If you ever expressed anything out of the ordinary to you, he’d raise his eyebrows in confusion and say something like “what? why would anyone want that?” but was always open to trying anything. Now he is probably even more of a deviant than you are.

Valeria

Has this roleplay thing going on where you are a traitor to her cause and she discovers it and gets to “punish” you. You find it a little silly but it gets her super riled up so you play along.

Secretly loves to bottom and to be taken care of by you but would never tell you (you know anyway). Thinks she is being very good at hiding it (she is not).

#call of duty imagine #call of duty x reader #oh lord there's gonna be so many tags on this help #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #soap x reader #johnny mactavish x reader #könig x reader #konig x reader #gaz x reader #kyle garrick x reader #alejandro vargas x reader #rodolfo parra x reader #valeria garza x reader #captain price x reader #cod fanfiction #cod x reader #ari writes

[soamericn]

𝜗𝜚 𝐈 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐓𝐋𝐄

🐰ྀི₊˚⊹ ‘ truth, dare, spin bottles you know how to ball, i know aristotle. ‘

𝜗𝜚… next chapter

𝜗𝜚… summary , ( f!verstappen!y/n x lando norris ) y/n is the younger sister of world champion max verstappen and an author known for her young adult romance novels despite never being in a relationship herself. lando norris is a formula one driver and is secretly an old friend and a fan of her books since 2020.

𝜗𝜚… faceclaim , brooke flecca

𝜗𝜚… triggers , none I don't think

𝜗𝜚… authors note , listened to so highschool this is the product of that

🐰ྀི₊˚⊹ masterlist

𝜗𝜚 ‧₊˚ ⊹ yourusername posted

liked by thebookleo, landonorris, lynnpainter and 634,450 others

yourusername ‘ the one ‘ is officially going on sale tomorrow! thank you so much for the support and all the pre orders hope you love it!

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user93 EEEE IM SO EXCITED 🥳🥳

↪️ user92 the blurb has me so worried im gonna cry I know it 🫣

user91 i just know you’re gonna capture our hearts again

user86 i’m still not over waiting room 😭

user85 she’s beautiful and she can write!!!?? 🤭🤭

↪️ user70 what can she not do tbf

maxverstappen proud of you! 👏

↪️ yourusername prouder of you 🫶

↪️ user71 how did i forget she had a brother

landonorris already preordered 😁

↪️ user72 ARIANNA WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?!

↪️ user73 LANDO?? 😭😭

user74 my gf is a best selling author everyone! 🏃‍♀️

↪️ user75 think she’s my gf actually 🤓☝️

𝜗𝜚 ‧₊˚ ⊹ yourusername posted a story

seen by charlesleclerc, aymansbooks, landonorris and 645,765 others

landonorris replied to your story

𝜗𝜚 ‧₊˚ ⊹ yourusername posted

liked by redbullracing, maxverstappen, carmenmundt and 875,438 others

yourusername australia you are good to me! 🤭🇦🇺

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user81 in her active era I see 🫣

↪️ user80 never cheered more 🎉

redbullracing we’re happy to have you 🫶

user79 y/n finally going to gps again has cured my depression

carmenmundt you need to come to races more often 😊💕💕

↪️ yourusername i will just for you 😘

user78 new book and she went to a race?! we’re being fed this week

↪️ user77 mother is taking care of us

user76 her and lando was something i didn’t know i needed

landonorris i know a mclaren fan when i see one

↪️ yourusername we can’t tell max 🤫

lando 🫶 sent you a text!

𝜗𝜚… tags , @whitcferrari @cedarbcws @c-losur3 @lclitaa @forurforeverwinter

#𝜗𝜚˖ ࣪₊˚ soamericns works! #formula 1 #f1 #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #f1 imagine #formula one #formula one fic #formula one x reader #formula one x y/n #lando norris #ln4 x reader #lando norris x reader #max verstappen #smau #mclaren #formula one fanfiction #fanfic #fanfiction #writers on tumblr #fanfic writing #series #x reader

[monzabee]

two sides of the same coin - mv1

masterlist

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

Pairing: max verstappen x reader

Word Count: 3.4k

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

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

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

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

2018 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2019

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

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

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

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

2020

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2021 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Maybe I should.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Female intuition.” 

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

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

2022

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Marry me, liefje.” He says. 

You nod your head, “Yes.” 

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

2023

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

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

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

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

“Hello, Mr. Verstappen.” You giggle. 

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

“We never hated each other.” Max shrugs. 

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

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

#monzabee #requests open #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #f1 smut #formula 1 #fanfic #f1 x reader #f1 x you #f1 x y/n #max verstappen #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen imagine #imagine #fluff #angst #smut #max verstappen smut #max verstappen fluff #daniel ricciardo is the best

[joelmillers-whore]

Hard Light | Chapter 1

summary: when a new english professor begins teaching your class for the duration of your semester, you can’t help but develop an innocent crush on him. he’s as off-limits as he can be, but that doesn’t deter you in the slightest. after a drunk night, you accidentally email him something that wasn’t intended to ever be seen by anyone. but that doesn’t matter. it triggers a misunderstanding that manifests into an affair with your professor who is twenty years your senior. nothing good could come of this, right? 

pairings: professor!joel x college student!reader

word count: 2.2K

series or one-shot

warnings: 18+ explicit, minors DNI, no mention of Y/N, alternate universe, professor/student relationship, eventual smut, self-esteem issues, workaholic, joel x female!reader, infatuation bordering on obsession (stay delulu friends), some sexual thoughts, masturbation (f), joel being a huge tease lol, (will add more tags as i write)

AN: i am so excited by the response that my joel one-shot got a few days ago and i’ve been itching to get something else out to you all. big, giant forehead kisses for those who want one, i love you all. so, anyway, a mini-series about professor joel is coming at you fast. i’ve written the first few chapters, so expect those in the near future. i’m thinking once a week? this fic is going to be something else and i’m so excited to share it with ya’ll. enjoy, and let me know what you think. find my ao3 here for more content and other fandoms.

You were running late for your shift at the coffee shop on campus, rummaging around your dresser, trying to find the low-cut black top you always wore when you had a shift. You weren’t usually one to feed into the peer pressure of those around you, but push came to shove when you found it nearly impossible to keep yourself afloat as a twenty-something student without the added extra tips from your part-time job.

So what if you had to show a little bit of cleavage? Right? There was no harm. Student loans were a bitch and on top of rent and food costs, you had to get a job at the coffee shop and balance a full course load just to make ends meet. 

A thought popped into your head and you rushed to your laptop, throwing it open as you checked the time; 5:45 AM. If you busted out your lightning-fast typing skills, you would have enough time to catch the next bus and make it to campus with five minutes to spare. If only your crappy second-hand computer would work.

The thing honestly sounded like a chopper engine, getting ready for lift-off. You were surprised you’d gotten this far with it. Not that you weren’t appreciative, your older brother had passed it down and it had relieved a huge weight—  and expense off of your shoulders. 

You tabbed into your school portal, typing in your credentials and selecting your English course. You sighed heavily, as you skimmed over the assignment for this week, something to do with a sonnet that you couldn’t care less about. You loved school but ever since becoming an English major, the spark that you once had for literature sort of just evaporated.

You couldn’t tell if it was because of how busy you were with everything else that you just couldn’t find the time to enjoy it, or the thought that really scared you, you had fallen out of love with it. 

It had been two years of go, go, go and you were, for lack of a better word, burnt out. You’d tried dropping courses last semester, thinking that you just needed a little bit of ease when it came to your course load, but when that didn’t solve the problem and only made things worse for you, you spent the last two semesters trying to catch up and get yourself to a place where you could finally breathe.

But it wasn’t easy. You were only now caught up to where you had been, the illusion that you were someone who could afford to take time off and slow down was a distant memory. 

In bold letters, the words Paid Internship jumped off of the screen. You smiled as you leaned in closer to the screen, making sure you read through everything correctly. This was the break above the surface that you needed, the reprieve that you had been chasing. A paid internship was exactly how you’d be able to make more money and maybe have a little breathing room before you worked yourself into an early grave.

You clicked the mail icon at the top and clicked into a new email, deciding that the worst-case scenario was that you wouldn’t get the internship. All you were doing was inquiring about the application process. Best-case scenario; you’d get it and make some extra pocket money. 

You saw the time, cursing under your breath as you slammed the laptop closed, grabbed your phone out of the charger and ran out of the door. You couldn’t be late, not again. You texted your co-worker Jeremy to open the shop without you and explained to him that you were running a few minutes late, as you barely made it to the bus. You climbed on board, scanned your student pass and found a seat near the back. Your chest was burning from the rush of trying to make it on time, but you could breathe easy now.

You checked your messages mindlessly, scrolling through a bunch of unread ones that you didn’t have the heart to answer. 

Before you knew it, the familiar monuments and buildings of UT Austin came into view, and the subtle change of scenery from downtown to a more densely packed area made your heart skip a beat. It was the same each time you were back on campus. Which, these days, was often. Sliding out of the seat, you made your way to the front, thanking the driver as the bus came to a complete stop. 

The coffee shop was only a short walk from the bus stop but even still you quickened your pace. You didn't want to leave Jeremy alone for long, you already felt bad enough about letting him open by himself. You stifled a yawn as you pushed open the door to the small cafe, leaning your body into the door, slightly cringing at the shrill sound of the bell. 

"There you are", a male voice called, making your head snap up. You wiggled your nose, the familiar timbre of your ex-boyfriend's voice ringing in your ears. "It's about time you got your ass down here". 

You snickered, shrugging your heavy bag off of your shoulder, and dropping it behind the counter, turning around and greeting him with an unamused smirk.

Jeremy and you had gone out for a few months last year, it was your first and, as of right now, the only short-term relationship that you'd had in college. 

Dating your co-worker, even in a relatively small place like the coffee shop on campus, almost always spelled trouble, but Jeremy was not the type to hold something like a failed relationship over your head. He understood that school was a priority for you and making a living for yourself came first, even above something like a relationship. It might not be the healthiest way to live, but it was how it always was. 

Jeremy and you had developed a fast friendship, one that went beyond the romantic relationship that you'd had last year. You parted amicably and now, you had someone you could confide in, someone you could trust. 

"Why don't you say that to my face?", you teased, raising a brow at him over the milk frother you were setting up. 

Jeremy threw his rag down and stalked over to you. "You're snippy this morning", he chided. 

You banged into his shoulder playfully, "Doesn't help that I have to see your ugly mug first thing in the morning". 

You snorted out a laugh and Jeremy looked at you, feigning defensiveness, "Ouch", he paused, returning back to his post near the coffee machine, "Remind me how we ever went out?". 

You scrunched your nose and threw your rag at Jeremy, hitting him square in the face with it, "That was rude". 

He shrugged his shoulder, "You started it".  

You both devolved into a fit of giggles and fell into a comfortable silence, setting up and getting the coffee shop ready for the day. You had a half-day shift to look forward to and then you had class until the late afternoon. The days were long and the nights were longer.

You usually found yourself nose-deep in your textbooks, more often than not, or some classic novel that was required for class, not moving from the couch until your eyes were red and you were seeing double. 

Only then did you retire to sleep, crashing hard until you had to wake up and do it all again the next day. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The coffee shop had been bustling with people since six in the morning, and at one in the afternoon, it hadn't let up, only now you had to go to class. Waving Jeremy goodbye, you sidestepped Tara, the fourth-year who was covering the rest of the afternoon and closing shift. 

You'd crossed the far side of campus, passing by the science building and one of the massive libraries that had acted like a second home to you back when you’d been studying for exams when you were a freshman. You could thank your obnoxious roommates for that one. 

Entering the lecture hall, bodies pressed into you as you weaved through the growing crowd, trying to find a spot in the middle where you could see and hear your English professor. But also blend in with the masses. As if the universe had other plans in mind, and everyone suddenly showed up to the Tuesday lecture all at the same time, you found yourself picking a seat near the front, an exasperated groan leaving you. 

You hated sitting at the front, not because you didn't want to get called on to answer something or because you didn't know the answers, but because you did. You wanted to get through your four years as quickly and unscathed as possible and if people knew, mainly professors, that you knew more about the subject matter than you needed to, you'd surely get called on more often, making you stick out in ways you didn't want. 

It was a terrible curse, going through life with the self-esteem that you did. But it was how you were raised. Blend in. Don't be too loud. Be quiet and only observe. Nerves rapped at your insides when you thought about getting called on when class started. Your heart rate ticked up and you found that your hands were beginning to get clammy, your throat constricting with each breath.

You rubbed your hands up and down your thighs, grounding yourself with the sensation of the material. 

With a jump, you sat up straighter in your seat, being jostled from your thoughts by a loud slam. You snapped your head toward the entrance, eying the person who had startled everyone. It was a man carrying a briefcase.

Your lips tilted up at the edges, amusement tickling you when you thought of anyone using a briefcase nowadays. But here this man was, head down as he made his way to the front of the room, toward the desk. 

You couldn't help keeping your eyes trained on him. On how his slacks tightened around his butt, moulding to the shape and curve of it. You bit your bottom lip out of reflex, your eyes dragging down the length of the mystery man who had crashed your lecture. Maybe he was a TA? Your brows furrowed when you thought about how your professor was nowhere in sight. 

The man with the briefcase placed his case on the desk, turning to face the audience of students who blinked back at him, who now settled down enough to hear him speak. Air caught in your throat when his eyes flicked momentarily to you, and lingered on you for half a second longer than you'd expected. He had massive, warm brown eyes, and soft wrinkles that danced at the edges of his eyes when he smiled, making him seem more boyish than he appeared.

He looked older than a TA would but then again, who were you to judge someone's position in life? You thought that his age did nothing to undermine just how attractive he was, if anything it added to it.  

The man, who may or may not have been moonlighting as your English TA cleared his throat, nodding his head, "My name is Joel, well, Professor Miller to most, but 've always been a little bit more informal than my peers". 

He began to circle the wooden desk nervously, his large hand finding the edge of it and stroking it far more sensually than necessary. You flexed your fingers, gripping the arm of your seat to stabilize yourself. "So, you can call me Joel from here on out... since we'll be seeing more of each other from now on". 

Murmurs began to break out around the lecture hall, and confused and hushed whispers followed. 

Professor Miller— Joel, mumbled something incoherent, and you were unable to hear it from where you sat. He cleared his throat again, "Professor McCarthy has taken a leave of absence, so I'll be filling in for him for the remainder of the semester". 

You crossed your legs, feeling heat rise and a furious blush break out across your face, and shuffled in your seat, a loud creak emitted from it and you stilled, praying that the loud sound had only been heard by you and no one else. But when you lifted your gaze, Joel's eyes were already locked on you, blown and brimming with cautious inquiry. A touch of a smirk graced his lips. 

"And I look forward to getting to know each and every one of you, personally". His eyes were still on you, not ready to release you from their hold. 

His tongue darted out to wet his lips and you couldn't help but stare. You had every reason to look away from him, he was your professor and given the clear age difference, he was someone who was off limits. But when he didn't look away from you either, trapping you with his gaze, your face heated up, suddenly aware that he was purposely staring at you. 

You swallowed thickly, heart hammering as Joel's eyes finally drifted away from you and back to the faces of your classmates. He continued on with addressing the class, and you noticed that he avoided your eyes for the rest of the lecture. 

Only one thought rang through your mind as you tried and failed to focus back on the lecture. This was going to be one long semester. 

#teacher x student #teacher attachment #pedro pascal #joel miller #the last of us #joel tlou #joel the last of us #pedropascaledit #college au #joel miller imagine #joel miller fic #joel miller fanfic #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfiction #tlou hbo #tlou2 #the last of us fic #the last of us fanfic #writeblr #fanfiction writer #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedropascal #pedro is daddy #i love pedro pascal #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal fanfic #my fic #joel miller x you

[neoarchipelago]

I'm out here getting pissed again...

This fandom, is SO problematic it's becoming déjà vu.

So after the whole, let's harass minors who read smut until they leave the platform (ya'll didn't learn shit with what happened with Inquisitor did you?) , now it's let's all group up together as a small army of Karen little bitches and go report blogs who post tags of 'dubcon or noncon'.

Ok hear me out you Wish version of the Justice league,

How low, and shitty is you life, how much time in your hands do you have to decide to sit your ass down in a little club and actually take time to go through blogs to report them.

Well I'll tell you what Batman, it's pointless.

People simply forget that, if you don't want to read, just don't. The tags are here, you read them you go 'nope, this will be triggering' and you scroll. (You take your finger and swipe up, yes it works)

This fandom has become just toxic. We've had the 'yoU dIdnT eVen PlAY thE gAme oR reAd thE cOmICs', the whole minors harassment, we had a this is z**phila when we had a octo!Konig, and now we have this.

Y'all make me think of the Karens who want to ban GTA 6 because it's not good for their kids. (While they could... You know... See it's pg18 and not buy it?) Ya'll going to report the games and the comics of Cod? There's some serious noncon on there.

Y'all are just awful. You make people want to leave this platform. I'm not trying to play the character who comes and makes a speech and everyone will rejoice, no, I'm Deadpool, I'm telling y'all are pieces of shit. This isn't about your traumas, what happened in your life, bitch I got those. But I take care of myself and don't go creating polemics or problems on things THAT HAVE BEEN HERE SINCE THE BEGINNING OF WRITING AND WITH EVERY FUCKING PLATEFORM, FANDOM, BOOKS.

You ruin everybody's fun. I wish you ill. I'm no better I agree. Learn to hack and go find some p*d*philes to report to the police. R*p*sts, abusers. Go on, do something actually good for society. Go clean the beaches, help in a shelter, bring food to the homeless... Go if you want to actually feel like you're doing some good.

A lot of us found friends, a place to escape our lives and feel welcome, loved and happy... You're ruining it.

Some of you are just bitter. And it's sad.

#fanfics #fanfiction #fanfic #simon ghost riley #simon riley #ghost cod #cod mw2 #captain price #john soap mactavish #call of duty #call of duty mw3 #ghost call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty modern warfare 2

[lily-174]

Saw you in the Jay Halstead x Reader tag! I was hoping you could do one where Jay is dating a black belt, and he keeps forgetting she can take care of herself bc she's been training for many years. Maybe she gets kidnapped, but escapes on her own? Thank you if you do! No problem if you don't! Have a good day 😊 💛

you picked the wrong girl- Jay halstead x reader

AN: well, I’m back… sorry I’ve been gone for so long guys. But I hope you enjoy this, and If you’ve read fics from me before. I hope you like the change in writing style.. I’d love to hear what you think (I did write the at 1am tho and didn’t proofread)

trigger warnings: Angst, Assault, kidnapping, mention of endo

**

“yeah jay i’ll come over when i finish my shift tomorrow” you held your phone up to your ear, bag on the opposite shoulder as you left your apartment building.

“alright babe. be safe okay?” Jay, your boyfriend of 3 years spoke through the phone. A smile on your face as you thought of seeing him after your shift at firehouse 51.

“you too” you smiled before ending the call, shoving your phone into your back pocket as you began walking to your car. You and jay had met while serving in afghanistan yet had reconnected almost 6 years later after you started working back in chicago and got a job at firehouse 51 through your friend clark and everyone at 51 has quickly become your family.

As you approached your car you scrolled through your phone looking to message your best friend Gabriella Dawson to let her know you’re on your way to work. The two of you usually spend the start of your shift gossiping, it’s something you’ve grown to love. Especially when it comes to girl talks in a firehouse full of men. God just the memories of the boys faces—specifically cruz— when they walk in on a conversation about something they don’t want to know makes you laugh. Like the time you had cruz walk in on you talking to gabby about the horrendous side affects of your condition Endometriosis. Which you only got diagnosed with two years ago, and luckily it wasn’t completely debilitating for you as it was for a lot of women.

When you’d been diagnosed you were terrified of telling anyone, even Jay. But after hundreds of conversations with Gabby and Jay—who were both unapologetically supportive—it no longer bothered you and you’d come to the conclusion you’d rather talk about it and educate people on the subject rather than hide from it.

Shooting Gabby a quick text that read: ‘On way now. Got so much to tell you about the CPD party’

You smiled to yourself watching the three dots pop up signifying gabby was messaging you back. You and Gabby had almost no shame when it came to your conversations, so much so that you were sure you knew more about Gabby and Casey’s sex life than Casey did himself, and vice versa for Gabby and Jay. You knew Gabby had something to tell you too as she’d insinuated as such on the phone last night. And boy, did you have something to tell her too. The sex you’d had with Jay after that CPD party had been extraordinary, easily in your top 5 sexual experience—all of which had been with Jay. He was amazing, and with the strain and pain endometriosis puts on a woman’s sex life Jay had been so understanding and patient. He’d made sex something unimaginable.

‘Can’t wait. I have news too. 🫢’ Gabby replied. You smile as you reach your car pocketing your phone and pulling out your car keys. Just as you go to press the button on your keys to unlock your car what feels like a violent slam of bricks hits your head. Pain slices through your body, shaking your bones, starting from your skull and travelling all the way down to your toes. the pain is sharp, cold. So cold that black dots dance across your vision. You can’t process anything, every thought, every instinct you have fails under the pulsing pain in your skull as everything turns black.

Pain shatters the darkness enveloping you, cold air hitting the wetness coating your hair sending a shiver down your spine. Fear claws at you, digging into your flesh, pulling and tugging at your stomach acid just as the hands are. The hands? Pain and panic interlock as everything clicks. Hands. Gripping your waist dragging you across a stony path. Darkness, not the same as before, not the dark pain that had taken you hostage but the sun leaving you, leaving you vulnerable with your captor.

It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust to the darkness. Yet, when they do adrenaline takes ahold of you. Forcing the old you, the soldier to take over. Power floods your veins as soon as your eyes meet the evil ones of your kidnapper.

Where’s jay? Does anyone even know you’re gone? How long have you been gone?

Questions you won’t let linger stab you. And your limbs fill with strength, adrenaline. You pull your elbow back before forcing it into your captors ribs with every ounce of strength you can, ignoring the pain, ignoring everything. You refuse to be a photo on Intelligence’s evidence board.

Your captor grunts, weakening his grip on your as he stumbles unprepared. He quickly recovers, lunging forward aiming to take you down with his fists. You don’t let him. Your lungs clench, heart pounding as if a stampede lives beneath your ribs as everything you’ve been taught everything you’ve learnt and everything that’s ever made you feel powerful rushes through your veins. Army training, Boxing, karate, kickboxing.

You dodge his attempted assault and quickly throw a balled fist toward his jaw, and it connects with enough force to break a knuckle. You move quickly, precise like you’ve got forever to calculate his next move. But you don’t. It’s the adrenaline, rushes through your veins giving you enough energy for the final push. With another firm punch he stumbles, and in the next moment you land a hard kick to his most precious area. He falls, losing his balance and stumbling with a pained groan.

Run. You barely process your next movements as your legs carry you, each step shakier than the last as you take your chance, sprinting away. Your lungs burn, your skin igniting against the harsh chicago wind. You don’t even know where you are but you keep running, running, hoping to find something familiar. Some landmark, somewhere you know, someone you know.

Your body weakens, you feel as if you’re your legs will fail at any moment as you push on. The wind brushing against your tear stained cheeks leaving a chill in its wake.

95th and Trent. The familiar street sends the final wave of adrenaline through your body. You don’t stop running, you can’t. Not until your safe. You don’t know how long you’ve been running for, how long you’ve been missing. But when you reach the familiar 21st district it almost feels as if your heart stopped. Racing up the front steps you barrel through the door. Panicked, irrational, exhausted.

Trudy Platts panicked eyes meet yours and a wave of comfort makes your eyes well up. She rushes out from behind her desk ordering a officer away, “Get Halstead. And call a damn Ambulance and 51. Tell em we’ve got her.” She bites out before rushing towards you and taking you into her arms.

As soon as the warmth that is trudy Platt touches you, your heart cracks. Almost loud enough your worried it could’ve been heard from miles away. Tears poor from your eyes and you clutch onto her uniform as the adrenaline dissipates.

“Baby” A distraught familiar voice takes you by the hands guiding you home. His arms, his smell. You’re home, you’re safe. Jay takes you in his arms, tightly. Letting all of his worry and anger seep from him in the form of your touch.

“Are you okay? Y/n, I was trying to find you. I was gonna find you baby.” He whispers as your claw at his muscular frame. “You’re safe, I’ve got you” he whispers, his voice only causing the crack in your chest to grow. A crack that only he can fix, now that you’re home.

#chicago pd #chicago pd imagine #jay halstead x reader #jay halstead imagine #chicago fire #jay halstead fluff #i love jay halstead #jay halstead oneshot #jay halstead smut #jay halstead #chicago pd x reader #one chicago fic #one chicago fanfiction #one chicago imagine #one chicago x reader #one chicago #chicago fire x reader #chicago fire imagine #chicago fire fic

[animehideout]

LOVE IS THE MOST TWISTED CURSE OF THEM ALL

Part Five

Gojo Satoru x Fem! Reader

Check part 6 here 🆕

Check part 4 here.

a/n: Hii, I hope you enjoy this part as well, let me know if you want to be added to the tag list 🫶🏻

if you have any ideas of details you want me to include please let me know and don't hesitate to share your critics it helps me a lot to better my writings <3

Music recommendation ♪ : SKZ- Taste ( Yes I am a Stay ♡ )

You shook your hand with Nanami's. Smiling softly at him.

“I see your wife is now playing your game..Gojo?” Said Mei Mei wearing an amused expression,

only earning a glare in return from the man sitting in front of her.

“Come on, don't tell me Nanami triggered your jealousy and protectiveness over your wife” she added.

“Im.Not.Jealous!! And.Shes.Not.A.Real.Wife” he whispered in an angry low tone.

“Hm then why are you so upset about it?” she asked sipping water from her cup.

Gojo leaned in and said, “because I want everyone to treat her poorly, everyone to belittle her and this guys over here shouldn't interfere or try to defend her like the gentleman he is– that's why I'm pissed...my plan is to make her life a living nightmare, and it shouldn't be ruined by anyone, especially Nanamin.. Understood now?”

“Understood” she simply said, looking forward for all the drama that she'll soon witness.

She was relieved that he wasn't jealous, Mei Mei desired Gojo since high school days, and him falling for you; his wife, is something Mei Mei won't allow.

......

“How long have you been teaching here? I haven't seen you around” he asked.

“Um– today is my first day actually” you replied with a hint of awkwardness.

“Oh I see!! good luck then I'm sure you'll do great” he encouraged,

“T-thank you” you stammered ,pleasantly surprised, a warm genuine smile graced your face.

Nanami is indeed respectful and considerate quite the opposite of some other dick that you're stuck with.

“Excuse me for my random question, but what Jujutsu technique do you possess?” he questioned completely oblivious of your situation.

You swallowed with difficulty, rocking your legs under the table in embarrassment. But why would you hide who you really are?

“I–I don't have any Jujutsu energy my situation is kind of complicated so...” you replied,

trying your best to hide your discomfort from his sudden question, especially knowing that your husband is sitting at the table next you and any vulnerability will cost you your dignity and pride.

“Oh I understand! but I'm sure you're skilled with weapon use. It doesn't matter if you have a curse energy or not what matters is the braveness you carry within you” he said and smiled,

he smiled for the very first time in years taking both Gojo and Mei Mei by surprise.

“Nanami smiling? if I knew he had such an attractive smile he would have been one of my preys” thought Mei Mei to herself.

The tables turned, and now it's Gojo's turn to sit and watch your cute interaction with his colleague. Having known Nanami for years, Gojo was already familiar with the way he treats women with ultimate politeness but in Gojo's eyes you weren't deservant of such treatment, he hates you and wanted everyone around to do the same, to turn against you until you feel excluded, until you give up on your job and the small circle you've built in two days. His goal is to make you experience once again the sense of isolation you've grown up with, and Nanami encouraging you was the first step to hinder his goals. That's why Nanami shouldn't get close to you.

...

It was the very first time you witnessed someone acknowledging your skills, someone comforting you and understanding that it's okay to not be a sorcerer. His genuine words touched your heart.

Uncertain how to respond a shy smile formed on your lips, his compliment felt like a gentle breeze that lifted up your spirit, making you forget about all the hate you have dealt with for years.

As the school bell chimed, signaling the break's conclusion, you rose to head to your next teaching assignment for the second years.

“It was nice talking to you, Nanami,”you said gently, keeping eye contact, which he acknowledged without breaking.

“Looking forward to our next meeting...after you” he said, stepping aside to let you walk ahead.

....

“Nanamin!!”

“Yeah Gojo what do you want?” Nanami replied with a sigh, irritated, since Gojo used to annoy him a lot before.

“Nothing much... but maybe next time, acknowledge my presence before chatting with her so casually.”

“Huh? she was sitting alone, and you were with Mei Mei. so what's your point? cuz i couldn't get it yet!”

“Listen, Nanamin, don't waste your time with her. She's–”

“Why would you say that? It's not like I'm trying to steal your wife or something!” Nanami interrupted, raising an eyebrow.

“I'd appreciate it if you don't talk to her again”

“She's a mature woman with free will. You don't get to decide who she talks to.. Excuse me now” Nanami asserted, and the walked away.

– Time Skip Night Time –

“Aah, what a day” you sighed, yawning as you began drying off, still wrapped in your towel.

The warm bath washed away the fatigue from a long day of teaching. Smiling at the memory of Nanami's words, recollecting his warm smile. Suddenly interrupted by a voice.

“I see you're happy?” came a voice that caught you off guard, disrupting your thoughts.

“Satoru? What are you doing here?”

“This is my house, or did you forget?”

A blush colored your cheeks as you realized being clad only in a towel that barely covered the length of your thighs, and his focused intense gaze didn't make things any easier.

“Watcha smiling at? don't tell me you're having those lovey-dovey moments where you have a burst of energy, kicking your feet in the air because you developed a crush on someone? is it Nanami?”

“What if it is? are you jealous? I thought you had plans to spend the night with Mei Mei. What brings you here anyway?”

“Oh, you gave yourself away... eavesdropping to my chat earlier?”

“Nah, wasn't really interested in what you said. You were just loud for some reason” you retorted.

“Getting more bratty by each day?” he remarked, taking a step closer as you instinctively took a step back.

“What do you want?” you asked, panic brewing inside, wild thoughts racing through your mind.

“Nothing.. Why do you seem uncomfortable? Is it because I'm getting this close to you? Is it because my fingers are now tracing your skin?” he teased, his fingers leaving a trail of delicate goosebumps on your exposed arm.

“Satoru!” you warned, air hitched in your throat..

“Is it because no one will be able to hear you scream, in this house of thick walls?”

“Satoru get away and- stop it with your g-games” you stuttered as he tarped you between his chest and the wall. He could hear your heart pounding out of your chest.

“What if I dont? what would you do? stop me?” he challenged.

You tried to walk past him, but he was faster, he pushed you on the king sized bed, and crawled on top of you, making you disappear under his giant figure.

“What? I thought you wanted this from the beginning, I thought you wanted me inside of you huh? You wanted to make this marriage real dont you? so why are you fighting it back now?” he said calmly,

He held your hands above your head to stop you from pushing him and hitting his chest.

“SATORU GET OFF OF ME..I DON'T WANT THAT AND YOU KNOW IT”

tears gathered in your eyes, you didn't want your first time to be like this, hell no, it scared the shit out of you, and wanted nothing more than breaking free from his grasp.

“Are you crying now babygirl? I thought you were braver than this..”

“IM NOT CRYING...GET OFF OF ME NOW” you yelled and used your legs to push him away.

Suddenly, he paused and then started laughing hysterically,

“Y-you should have *laugh* seen the scared look on your face...that was hilarious” he continued on laughing,

and you were sat on the bed, fixing your towel looking at him in utter confusion. “w-what the hell?” you whispered.

He paused inhaling, “See how weak you are, unable to protect yourself..” he started, looking at you with dismissive glance.

”I.am.not.weak.”

“I could have broke you if I wanted to, I'm just not interested in fucking a nobody like you..” he spitted each word was thrown at you like daggers.

You swallowed your pain, choking on the tears that you've never allowed to stream.

“You won't.. and I'm not interested in even looking at some arrogant, power digger, empty shell of man like you” you fought back

“Empty shell of a man” echoed in his ears, the thing that he's always avoided, his emptiness, the void that he thought he covered with his strength, you cracked it. How did you even know?

“Why are you silent now Satoru? did I strike a sensitive nerve?”

“I am the strongest, meaningless words coming from a meaningless person won't affect me” he replied, eyes piercing through you..

“Enough with the strongest!! is it your only resort to defend yourself? to prove yourself? You're not special Gojo Satoru, people out there are also worth it, are also strong and talented , you're not better than them not better than anyone, yo–”

“In all the heavens and the earth, I Alone Am the honoured one..do you understand?” he spoke slowly yet with harsh tone..

a tone that sent shivers down your spine. You looked at him silently, his face inches away from yours, looking into each others eyes, his blue eyes; an ocean, a canva of hidden struggles.

If looks could kill, you'd be already sent to heaven.

“Do.You.Understand?” he repeated.

But all what you could do is stare,

“Say.It” he yelled

“no” you started “...in all heavens and the earth, I alone the one you can't control, Satoru” you added twisting his words, and used them against him.

.....

Satoru let out a short, mirthless laugh, the flicker of offense evident in his blue eyes poking the inside of his cheek with his tongue– but it's Gojo Satoru, he would never give you the satisfaction of actually breaking his ego, so what else he could do except flipping the topics.

“From now on I'll be sleeping here. Couch or the other room, your call, but this is my bed” he declared, breaking the silence after thinking he would really break you, from how intense the atmosphere was.

“If I were you, I'd find another spot. But if you stick here, you better sleep with one eye open” he added warning, taking off his shirt to reveal his toned back.

You swiftly gathered your belongings, exiting the room as he began unbuckling his belt.

.....

Sitting in the next room, knees to your chest, tears flowed silently. making sure the door was locked, you couldn't deny he had given you a scare. It was his plan all along, to frighten you, to make you feel vulnerable, proving he could easily assert dominance.

“I hate this. I hate you, Satoru.”

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[ssentimentals]

reassurance {jeon wonwoo}

pairing: wonwoo x gn!reader

prompt: tonight wonwoo needs to know that you love him, too. (features overthinking and a bit insecure wonwoo, who needs reassurance from the reader)

warnings and general tags: nsfw, smut (minors dni or i will bite your hands off), nothing detailed though and it's much more about feelings here than actual sex because i am incapable of not adding bunch of thoughts and feelings into whatever i write, established relationships, insecurity but it's not angsty (i hope)

there’s nothing wrong with this party. music is good, booze is even better, quantity of people is just enough to fill the space without making it hard to breathe and even lights are not too blinding. honestly, everything is good but wonwoo can’t wait to go home and this time it has nothing to do with him not being a 'party person'. this evening makes him feel bare, like his armor is stripped off and all of his insecurities are out on full display, bleeding. and it’s hard to tell what triggered this because nothing much happened, but he’s been in his head too much lately and it drove him crazy.

he stands a bit out of the circle of his friends, needing his space right now. everyone is either dancing or having a good time, but he simply can’t. all of the thoughts are eating him up, they don’t whisper, they scream in his head that he’s not loved, that he’s alone. wonwoo’s eyes follow your figure and there’s an itch in his skin, weird almost primal need to get you close so your smile can be directed to him. you are radiant and he feels cold without your warm energy around him.

wonwoo sips on his drink quietly, listens to the conversation around him, nods in greeting to passing people, but his attention is on you. he is on the verge of leaving his group and coming to you when you turn around, making eye contact with him. your soft smile instantly has a calming effect and he relaxes his posture, watching you make your way to him. there’s a furrow between your eyebrows and he knows he didn’t fool you - you know that something is wrong with him.

'everything is okay?' you ask quietly but with a smile on your face, not wanting to attract attention of others. 'you don’t look like you’re enjoying yourself.'

he loves you for that; for knowing him so well that even from little quirks you can tell that something is off, for your caring attitude, for your gentleness displayed towards him all the time. he loves you and tonight he especially needs to know that you love him, too. wonwoo opens his mouth to speak when two friends interrupt him, bursting into your private bubble in order to say hi. annoyance spikes up but he thumps it down, seeing how you are genuine happy to see them. your hand reaches out to hold his and wonwoo smiles widely, interlocking your fingers; physical connection with you in any form is what he needs right now.

'you gonna join us, right? c’mon, we can start playing beer pong!'

wonwoo is ready to let you go, he doesn’t want to be some egoistical bastard and keep you from having all the fun, but his heart soars in his chest when you politely decline. he can kiss you in front of everyone when you add that you two are actually heading home. you turn and send a sweet smile his way and his heart does a flip and then one more, just for a good measure. oh, he loves you.

'you better tell me what’s wrong, mister.' you say as you both get in the car. 'did someone say something?'

wonwoo shakes his head, hating himself for making you worried. 'no, it’s not that. i just don’t- i just feel a bit off tonight. i’m sorry for ruining your fun.'

'which fun? please, like i haven’t been to parties before.' you scoff jokingly and then turn serious, turning to him on your seat. 'babe, do you want to talk about it? or do you want me to leave you alone for tonight? give you space?'

'no.' this comes out a bit too rushed and wonwoo glances at you to check whether he startled you or not. 'please don’t..leave.'

his attention is back on the road and he sighs in relief when you reach out and squeeze his shoulder. 'i won’t. i’m here.'

that's what you always do and he doesn't know how he got so lucky; wonwoo likes to think of himself as of a good person but he's not that good in order to deserve someone like you as his partner. he wonders if you ever notice how lacking he is in many aspects, how truly out of his league you are; he fears the moment when you'll finally realize all of it. you both say nothing for the rest of the ride and it usually is peaceful but tonight this silence causes all of his doubts to rise up. what are you thinking about? are you wishing you stayed at that party instead? are you wondering why your boyfriend is such a party pooper? are you wishing you had someone else instead, someone more active, extraverted, more fun? by the time you reach home and lock the door of your apartment, wonwoo is buzzing with nerves and not the good kind ones; he is ready to throw himself on the wall.

'wonwoo,' you call out, carefully making him face you. your eyes search up his face, trying to guess what's going on in his mind. 'baby, what is it?' you point on his forehead, smiling: 'it's not good for you to spend this much time in your head, you almost always overthink.'

wonwoo exhales shakily and when his eyes lock with yours, smile slowly disappears from your face. he knows he must look pathetic right now, but even though he has poker face with everyone, it never worked with you; with you all of his emotions run freely and he can tell that you see everything in his eyes, without him needing to explain. 'oh, baby,' you let out, hugging him tight. 'i love you.'

he hugs you back and it's a miracle, truly, how immediately content he feels. 'you do?' he asks and he sounds too needy even to his own ears.

you pull back, taking a good look at him. 'of course i do, woo. i love you so much.' your hand brushes his fringe out of his eyes and you smile gently, cupping his face. 'what do you need tonight? movie and cuddles? quiet night in with talking? or you want me?'

his grip involuntarily tightens on your waist and that's an answer in itself but he still says out loud: 'you. want you.'

from there it's all a blur. he knows you are there and he stays afloat solely because of your hands all over him and your lips on his. you kiss in the most gentlest way and you were together for a while now, but he still can't get enough. your kisses light up something different in him and tonight he doesn't try to take the lead - he simply lets you set up the tempo, a willing puppet in your hands.

'i love you,' you whisper, pulling him down on the bed. you free both of you from shirts and he sighs at the skin to skin contact. 'i want you to believe me, okay? i'm not lying. i love you.'

wonwoo nods. he tries his best not to cry but it's really damn hard, when you gaze at him with so much love and affection. he reaches out for you, hating this distance, wanting to be as close you as you two only can be. this grounds him, feeling you next to him, having your lips on his - this serves as a reminder that you are here with him. maybe voices in his head are wrong, after all.

you plant kisses from his lips to his jaw, moving down his neck and stopping on his collarbones, making him squirm. he feels a bit dizzy, maybe because of the booze, maybe because of your perfume, or maybe from the way you make him feel. you don't leave marks on his skin, never bite down hard enough for it to bruise and he feels worshipped in the most intimate way. your hands trace every single ridge, every single dip, you map out his torso with your love and when you reach for the belt he's already panting a little, face flushed. not being able to kiss you in this position is very unsatisfying but his brain promptly shuts up when you rid him of his jeans and take off yours too. he wishes he could take pictures with his eyes, wishes he were a painter cause words escape him when he looks at you. the whole 'head spin, breath knocked down' thing is very real when it comes to you and he hopes this effect you have on him never wears off.

'there is nowhere else i'd rather be,' you whisper, settling yourself on top of him. 'and no one else i'd rather be with. okay? you have to believe me, woo.'

'okay.' he grits out, gripping your hips. 'i- i believe you.'

the smile that you reward him with makes him weak. 'good.' you smile cheekily: 'won't you come up here and kiss me?'

he moves quickly, sitting up and wrapping his arms around you, slotting our mouths together. his heart thrums in his chest. beats so loud that he can't hear anything else. he thinks his heart is trying to break his ribcage, wants to get out of there so it can fall into your hands instead. the kiss speaks volumes of your feelings and emotions and wonwoo is drunk, high on love when you let him prepare yourself. your soft sighs, drawn out moans and breathy whispers of his name make his hands tremble a little; is this real? how did he score you? how?

'hey,' you call and his eyes snap towards you instantly. your chest is rising up and down, eyes turned a bit glossy, body flushed with prettiest shade of pink and he bites his lip in order not to moan out loud at the view. 'woo, baby. you're here, right? with me?'

wonwoo nods, pressing a kiss on your hipbone. 'yes.'

'and you love me?' you ask breathily as he continues to stretch you out.

'yes.' more firm this time and he punctuates this with a rather sharp thrust of his fingers inside. 'i love you so much, too much.'

you smile, lacing your fingers through his hair. 'and i love you. more than you think.'

and wonwoo believes. he sees that in your eyes, sees that in every single action or word, sees it every day. it's just sometimes clouds loom over him and insecurities all wake up from the pits of his stomach, but deep inside he knows the truth. you love him. you love him just the way he is. and he can give you the world for this.

'i believe you,' he whispers, lining himself and carefully entering you.

being with you is the best symphony; it's the practiced ease, it's the familiar tension which one can feel only after doing something over and over again. he knows where to touch, where to kiss, where to press to have you fly on the cloud nine and this familiarity with your body is not something he takes for granted; he'll die the day someone else will learn all of this, too.

'i love you, i love you,' you let out, gripping his forearms. 'kiss me, plea-'

wonwoo kisses your fervently, adoringly. it's the 'i can't believe you are mine' and 'please be mine forever' in the kiss and you kiss him back, hoping he can read the 'forever, yes' as your answer. you hold each other tightly as you both fall apart, the most beautiful ending of the song. he plants kisses all over your face, his face lights up as you giggle. he wants to say 'thank you' but it'll sound weird so he settles for hugging you tight.

'only a little or else this sweat will get sticky,' you warn him, sighing in resentment as he stands up. 'whereee?'

'let me clean you up.' he offers and you nod, content in just lying around as he does the job. 'shower, love?'

your heart squeezes on the petname and you nod, letting him push you up. wonwoo holds you upright and kiss your temple as you both walk towards the bathroom. 'you are my everything,' he whispers before climbing into the shower first in order to find best temperature.

'you are my everything too.' you assure him, climbing in as soon as motions that water temperature is just the way you like it. 'you know this, right?'

'yeah,' he nods, bringing you closer.

'good. i will let you know if it changes, by the way. so if i'm not saying anything you can just always assume that it's still the same.' you proclaim, making him laugh loudly.

'i hope it never changes.' he comments offhandedly, soaping the loofa.

you smile, leaning in to peck his lips. 'i hope so too.'

a/n: i tried my best to make reader as gn as i only can but!! if i somehow made a terrible job at it please please let me know :( and as always here is the link to all my other works. i'm not really nsfw writer, it's mostly fluff blog for seventeen <3 - nini

also i'm not tagging anyone here from my usual tag list cause i didn't know whether you guys will be okay with smut. (not like it was detailed but yeah, anyway). let me know what you think of this one!

#wonwoo #wonwoo smut #seventeen smut #jeon wonwoo smut #seventeen imagine #seventeen reaction #seventeen wonwoo #svt wonwoo #wonwoo x reader #jeon wonwoo #i hope this doesnt come out like wonwoo is weak or some other bullshit like that #the baby is strong and we all need reassurance so! no hate for this pls #lmao me: writes smut #also me: has like 4 sentences about sex and everything else is feelings #THIS IS STILL SMUT THOUGH SO MINORS!!! DO NOT!!! READ THIS!

[have-you-seen-my-sanity]

For my dear Bunny

Dark!Yandere William Afton/Steve Raglan x gn!Reader

Category: Twisted Letter - I suggest you read the informations for twisted letters first ->here<-

Dead dove do not eat - you'll get exactly what's in the tags!

Tags: Stalking, description of kidnapping, mention of murder, 18+!!!, mention of male masturbation, NSFW, William Afton is a warning himself.

For my dear Bunny,

I don't even know where to start. Perhaps when you first entered my office? I get you were new to this town and needed a new job. You tried a few of the offers, but ended up inside my office because none of them were to your liking. The first time you entered my office I was secretly happy to see you, you were like fresh air in a stuffy place.

I can still remember how quiet, how shy you were, it was so cute! And when I stood up and you saw the size difference between us? Oh, you looked so adorable!!

When you told me how eager you were for a job but wanted a rather quiet one, I gave you just the right one. I loved seeing your eyes widen in joy and the smile on your face after it met your expectations.

Your first night went well, right? My daughter Vanessa told me how good you were at your job, she showed you around, gave you useful advices and showed you the Animatronics. But what she didn't tell you? In every corner of the place was a secret camera, which I could watch you through the computer in my office. And to be brutally honest with you here? I was planning to kill you. Yes that's right, I bet you saw the news about the missing nightguards here at Freddy's? I was the one responsible for it. My creations - the Animatronics killed them as I ordered them to.

But... after your first night I was beginning to really like you... the second night was also the night you encountered the Animatronics for the first time. At first I could see the fear in your eyes, the thought of getting killed by them. But I ordered them to just scare you a little bit, and you began to like them. And you know what? The Animatronics started to like you too. You are their friend now.

And now to your third night... at that night you were tired, so you thought a little 5 minute power nap would do the trick? Nobody would notice it since you were all alone in this haunted building...

But... I have seen it. You remember the little Freddy plushy on your desk, right? There was a small camera inside of it, I could see everything you did in the office. Your jumps whenever the power went out and you had to put it back on? Sweet.

I loved seeing you clean up the place after you were getting bored, throwing the trash out, cleaning the tables, or just simply swept the floor. You were a sight for sore eyes in that security uniform.

Please don't judge me but... after seeing you like this? I just had to jerk off right there. You moved so swiftly, I just lost control. It became my dirty little secret - watching you work while stroking my cock. You made me cum so hard every time...

Now to your fourth night. Did you like the short visit I gave you? Because I sure did. I can still see the fear in your eyes when you saw me standing there - inside the Springbonnie suit. You were so terrified, running back to the office and hiding under the desk. I loved it. Thought you would recognize my voice when I laughed at you, Bunny...

Today is your fifth night. I already prepared everything,

-making sure to lock all entrances and vents...

-to finally see the look on your face when I take off the yellow rabbit mask and reveal myself to you...

-the cloth with chloroform to get you unconcious...

Why am I letting you know what I want to do with you? So you can get a chance in trying your futile escape. I love seeing you run for your life.

You see... why I am writing this letter for you is... that you have triggered something inside me... something snapped... I don't know how to tell you, but all I know is that I want you. Did I become obsessed with you? Maybe I did. And you're about to find out.

I hope you will read this letter before Night 5 ends. Because if not it will be too late.

-- William Afton.

#steve raglan #william afton #yandere william afton #matthew lillard!william afton #dark william afton #fnaf movie #fnaf

[janeyseymour]

Hii

Can you write a Mel x reader where they go to the PECSA and there is only one bed available? They describe themselves as reaaaally good friends until everything changes.

Can you make it with a happy ending? Ty ❤️

I hope this is what you were asking for!

What happens at PECSA...

WC: ~3k

“PECSA,” Melissa grins. “Here we come!” She turns in her seat to glance at you sitting in the back. Barb and her had been kind enough to let you tag along with them.

“Oh, Y/N,” Barb chuckles as she drives. “You have no idea what you just got yourself into tagging along with the two of us.”

“I know what I got myself out of by not going with Janine and Jacob,” you giggle. “I still don’t know how Gregory puts up with the two of them sometimes.”

“Love does weird things to that man,” Barb makes a face. “God, I can’t wait to not have to listen to those lectures and relax in a hot tub instead. I’ve been around a while, I don’t know why I’m still required to go to these things”

“I’m ready for a couple of math-o-ritas, and then I’ll be schmoozing all of the different companies to get them to donate supplies to Abbott,” Melissa cheers from her seat.

You, on the other hand, aren’t quite sure what to expect. The last time you went to PECSA, you mostly just kept to yourself and kept your head down. You were a new teacher, and you figured you should at least look like you were trying. But that was last year. Now, you have Melissa and Barbara to help you out, and if the three of you get caught not participating... you’re sure one of them will get you out of the sticky situation.

It takes you a bit longer to get to your destination, and both senior teachers are all grins once you’re finally there.

“Oh, PECSA,” Melissa sighs in content as she grabs her bags. “How I’ve missed you.”

“Come on, Melissa,” Barbara laughs. “If we want to be able to raid the minibar before the opening dinner, we have to get in there! Now!”

The redhead all but rolls her eyes as she moves out of the way, allowing the kindergarten teacher to grab her various bags.

“Jeez, Barbara,” you laugh as you look at the amount of things she’s packed for a weekend. You have one duffel bag and a backpack filled with everything you could possibly need, and she has... is that really five bags?

“I’m very serious about my nighttime routine, Y/N,” she says lowly. “I don’t look this good by doing nothing, you know.”

“C’mon, you two,” the redhead teases the two of you. “Let’s go check in and get settled in.”

You let Melissa and Barbara check in first before you step up to the counter. 

“Checking in for Y/N,” you say politely.

The clerk clicks around a few times on his computer before giving you a look. “I don’t have a reservation under that name.”

You look baffled. You had booked your room months in advance- you had booked it with Melissa’s guidance because she knew a guy who could get you a good deal. “That’s impossible, you say softly. I booked my room months ago.”

“Did you get a confirmation email?” The concierge asks.

“I did,” you mumble as you pull out your phone, searching for it. You pull it up as proof.

Your coworkers are watching curiously. It hadn’t taken that long for them to check in.

“You think she’s okay?” Melissa leans in close to Barb.

“I’m not sure,” the kindergarten teacher replies. “She looks a little frazzled.”

“I’ll check on ‘er,” the redhead tells her friend. “Watch my stuff.”

“You okay?” Melissa comes up behind you and sets a hand on your shoulder.

You take a shaky breath. “Fine. They just messed up my reservation, so now they’re looking to see where they can put me, and they’re figuring out how much I get back since I won’t be put in as nice of a-”

“They fucked up your reservation?” the redhead cuts you off. “Oh... Vinnie’s gonna get an earful about this one.”

“It’s okay,” you lay a hand on her arm. “It’s fine. It’s all gonna get squared away, and then we can focus on having a good time at PECSA.”

“No, I’m gonna-” Melissa looks like something has triggered her ‘fight-or-fight’ response.

“It’s okay,” you promise her. “It’s all gonna be fine. Things happen, mistakes happen.”

She doesn’t look very happy, but she does take a breath. If you say it’s fine, she’s trusting you. She goes over and tells Barb what’s happening, and they both come and stand at your sides.

Except then the clerk is coming back over to you, and he doesn't look too excited to share whatever news he has with you.

“Miss Y/N, I am so sorry,” he states quietly. “We’re operating at maximum capacity for this weekend due to the conference, and we will not be able to fit you in. We are in the process of providing a full refund to you as we-”

“What the hell?” Melissa asks from behind you. “How’d you goof up that bad?”

“Mel, it’s okay,” you say quietly. “I’ll just find a different hotel to stay in.”

“No, you’re not,” the second grade teacher bites out. “Because you’ll be staying with me in my room.”

“And we expect a full refund for her,” Barbara cuts in. “And some sort of credit. It’s the least you can do for the poor girl.”

“Guys, it’s fine,” you turn red. They’re fighting for you, and the idea of staying with Melissa? Well... you’ve had a thing for her since you first started at Abbott, but it’s never gone anywhere past coworkers. Staying with Melissa could be dangerous territory if you weren’t careful.

“Like hell we’re gonna let you stay somewhere,” the redhead tells you seriously as she picks up your bags. “The plan is to get hammered, and there ain’t no way I’m lettin’ you take an Uber to and from a different hotel.”

“She’ll be accepting an apology in some form of credit,” Barbara hits the concierge with a stern look again before the three of you walk away.

“Maybe I should just go-”

“Go where, kid?” Melissa rolls her eyes. “Barb drove, so you’re stuck here. Might as well make the best of it, yeah? Now, are you gonna share a room with me, or spend your time on one of these nasty ass couches in the lobby?”

“I don’t really have a choice, do I?” you ask.

“Nope,” the redhead pops her ‘p’. “Let's go, hon. If we hurry we can still get a couple of glasses of wine in before tonight’s event.”

The three of you get into the elevator and head for your rooms. 

“I’ll meet you down at the pool in an hour?” Barb asks. At yours and Melissa’s nods, she lets herself into her room next to Melissa’s... and now yours too.

The redhead unlocks your door and gestures for you to go first. You look around. This place is... wow. It’s really nice. Whatever her cousin Vinnie did to get her this nice of a room had to have been pretty big. You set your things on the floor over by the rather uncomfortable looking couch that is taking up space on the other side of the room.

“Oh come on, Y/N,” Melissa chuckles. “You can put your stuff on the bed.”

“I wouldn’t want to intrude,” you mutter nervously, tucking a hair behind your ear and rubbing your collar bone gently.

“You ain’t intruding. I invited you to stay with me for the weekend,” she says pointedly. She glances at where you’ve decided to set your things. “And you’re not sleeping on that ratty ass couch, so don’t even try it.”

“You don’t think this is... weird for us to share a bed?”

“It ain’t weird if you don’t make it weird,” your colleague shrugs as she reaches for her bag. She pulls out a couple of shooters. “Now, are you ready to get PECSA weekend started or what?”

You, Barb, and Melissa end up by the pool an hour later. You had made your appearance, and now you were fully taking advantage of the fact that everybody else was so preoccupied with PECSA events that you had the entire pool room to yourselves.

“Best weekend of the year,” the kindergarten teacher raises her glass. 

“Seriously,” Melissa responds. “Bottomless margs, a heated pool, and a relaxing weekend with two of my favorite people.” While Barb smiles, you blush. You didn’t know you were that high up on her list. You honestly weren’t even sure you were on her good list to begin with, so hearing that you were in ranks with the kindergarten teacher definitely took you by surprise.

“To PECSA,” you say quietly and take off your coverup before reaching for your book. You miss the way that Melissa’s eyes check you out, just like how you had missed it in the hotel room.

You end up falling asleep not much later, a glass of mimosa sitting next to you, and your novel is open and laying on your chest.

Melissa looks over to you. “Wow.” She can’t remember the last time she’s seen you so still- so at peace. You were always running around at Abbott, and even when you were sitting, a part of your body was almost always bouncing up and down. Now, you just look calm. You look... gorgeous. Even with your hair tied up carelessly and no makeup on, Melissa thought you looked absolutely stunning. 

“Poor girl’s been working herself so hard this year,” Barbara tuts. “She’s been exhausted lately.”

That was not what the redhead was referring to, but she’ll play along. “I know,” she laughs nervously. “We’ve barely been here for an hour, and she’s already fallin’ asleep on us. Hope she can keep up with us later tonight.”

“It’s a good thing we were there when the clerk told her there wasn’t any more room,” Barb says, lips turned up. “Otherwise the poor thing would’ve probably Ubered home and not enjoyed this weekend with us.”

“Yeah,” the second grade teacher says noncommittally. She’s still got her eyes on you. She doesn’t think she’s ever seen you looking more beautiful than you do dozing off in the lounge chair. 

“Are you gonna be okay this weekend sharing the place with her?” She knows about Melissa’s little thing for you. She knows how much the redhead cares about you, and she understands how strong the other woman’s feelings are for you.

“I’ve held it together for this long, I can do it for another weekend,” Melissa rolls her eyes. “I have to. I ain’t jeopardizing our friendship.”

“But this weekend you have to share a room,” the kindergarten teacher argues.

“A bed,” Melissa coughs out awkwardly. “We’re sharing a bed. It's totally normal. Friends share beds all the time. I told her I wasn’t going to let her sleep on that ratty ass couch they have in there. But I’ll be... I’ll be fine.”

“You sure about that?” Barbara teases. 

“I’ll be fine. It’ll be fine. Everything will be just... I’ll be fine.”

“Say it one more time, and I’ll believe you,” the older teacher chuckles. 

“I’ll be fine,” Melissa huffs. She takes her eyes off of you to take a sip of her drink. “I just can't get too hammered now.”

That’s what she said. But that was also four hours ago, and five drinks ago. You three are currently down at one of the parties. Barbara is speaking with a few of the handlers from different supply companies, you have had your fair share of drinks and are starting to stumble, and Melissa refuses to leave your side. She glares down pretty much anybody who even thinks about trying to talk to you.

Someone from Addington decides that they don’t give a damn about Melissa’s harsh looks and has to come over to attempt to flirt with you. You’ve made it quite clear you are having no parts of it, but he just won’t leave you alone. Melissa doesn’t like this one bit. She doesn’t intervene just yet though. She knows you are a strong independent woman who can handle this- unless you give her some sort of signal to ask for help.

“I’m really okay,” you slur out. “I don’ wan’ another. Thanks-s though.”

He just keeps trying to get you to drink another one, trying to make conversation with you even though you aren’t interested. He’s ignoring the fact that the redhead is right there with you too. You give Melissa a look that she interprets to be a plea for help. Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t, but that’s how she takes it.

“Hey, asshole,” the second grade teacher finally taps his shoulder. “She said she ain’t interested, so beat it.”

“And who are you?” he looks her over. “Old, washed up-”

“I’d watch it if I were you,” Melissa glares him down. “Now get outta here, before I help you outta here.”

“Who even are you?” the charter teacher asks. 

Melissa, thinking that you are too inebriated to remember this tomorrow, bites the bullet. She wraps her arms around your waist and helps to steady you. “Her girlfriend. Now, seriously: beat it before I beat you.”

“Damn,” he puts his hands up in surrender as he walks away. “The hot ones always turn out to be gay.”

You’re intoxicated, but not because of the copious amount of tequila you’ve had tonight. No, it’s because of a certain coworker's arms being snaked around your waist and holding onto you tightly. 

“I think maybe it’s time for bed,” Melissa tells you gently as she continues to hold you up. You giggle as you lean into her, fully embracing how close you are and loving it.

“You’re- you’re warm,” you tell her. “I like that about you.”

“Well, yeah,” she laughs as she guides you towards where Barbara is sitting. “Hey, Barb. I think this one’s had enough, so I’m gonna take her up to the room and get her to bed, but I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“Barb!” You try to launch yourself at the veteran teacher.

“Oh! Y/N!” the kindergarten teacher laughs. She lets you hug her, quietly mouthing, ‘Is she okay?’ to Melissa. At the redhead’s nod, she mouths, ‘Are you okay?’ to which Melissa nods again.

“Alright, sweetheart,” the second grade teacher helps pry you off of Barbara. “I think it’s about time we get up to our room and into bed.”

“Mhmm,” you hum. “As long as- as long as you stay with me.”

“I never said nothin’ ‘bout leaving,” she assures you. “Now c’mon.” 

The two of you somehow manage to get back up to the room, and at this point, Melissa is practically dragging you. She keeps one arm looped around your waist while she tries to open the door for you. It unlocks, and she pushes it open before guiding you to the bed.

“Sleep, hon,” Melissa instructs. 

“Don’ wanna sleep in this,” you gesture to the dress you’re wearing. She can’t necessarily blame you- it doesn’t look terribly comfortable.

“Okay, hon,” she sighs. She opens your duffel, blushing immediately. “Is there anything specific you want in here?”

“My t-shirt,” you mumble, already curled up on your side of the bed. She digs through your duffel bag, only to realize you forgot to pack a night shirt. Thank god she packed an extra. She quickly goes to her side of the bed and finds the spare shirt. 

She throws the shirt at you and instructs you to change, but you’re still struggling after several minutes. With a sigh, Melissa knows she’s going to have to help you change. She wishes she was undressing you, not helping you redress.

Once you’re finally changed, she helps you slip into bed and pulls the blankets up and around you. The teacher moves a few stray hairs away from your face before tracing a gentle line down your cheek with the pad of her thumb.

“Mel,” you whine when she pulls her hand away from your face. “Don’t go.”

“I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart,” she promises you. “I’m just gonna change for bed myself, and then I’ll be right back, yeah?” You nod, and she walks into the bathroom with her own pajamas.

She takes a long time in the bathroom. You’re struggling to keep your eyes open, but you don’t want to fall asleep without her arms around you- they are safe. Secure. When she comes out, she’s shocked to see that you’re still awake.

“Hey sleepyhead,” she chuckles. “I thought you’d be asleep by now.”

“Waiting for you,” you try, but fail, to stifle a yawn. “C’mon.”

She climbs into bed, and you waste no time wiggling your way into her arms. You tangle

your legs together and force her to hold you as you rest your head on her shoulder.  

“You good, hon?” Melissa asks you gently, just barely daring to press a kiss to your hair.

“Wish we could do this sober,” you mumble, sleep threatening to take you. “But ‘m too nervous to say anything to you when not drunk.”

The redhead is fairly certain she’s hallucinating. Did you just admit you wished you could cuddle with her? Lay in bed with her and fall asleep in her arms?

“Well, sweetheart,” the second grade teacher sighs heavily. “Let’s just get past tonight, see what you remember tomorrow, and then we can talk.”

You nod. You’re still drunk, but you’re pretty aware of everything that is happening, and you know you’ll remember all of this tomorrow. But it’s that extra little bite that liquid courage gives you that allows you to say, “I love you, Mel,” before you tighten your grip on her and give in to sleep. 

Melissa’s eyes widen slightly, but she doesn’t hesitate in saying, “I love you too, Y/N.” She presses a sweet kiss to the side of your head, and prays to God that when the two of you wake up everything is okay.

Next

#abbott elementary fanfic #abbott elementary fanfiction #abbott elementary #melissa schemmenti x you #melissa schemmenti fanfic #melissa schemmenti x reader #melissa schemmenti

[writing-for-life]

Right, okay, I’ve thought long and hard whether to write this:

A squick (even a strong one) is not the same as a trigger.

Emotional discomfort, even emotional discomfort that leads to low-level physical symptoms like e.g. mild nausea, is not trauma. Unfortunately, TikTok pop psych has done nothing to help people understand the difference, because the trend to perceive (even strong) emotional discomfort as equivalent to a trauma response is worrying and neither helps people with nor without PTSD. I don’t wish it on anyone to actually find out the difference if they haven’t yet (disclaimer, since this is unfortunately necessary these days because everything gets misconstrued: I am not talking about individual experiences, because only you can know about those. I’m talking about wider trends in an often young audience with not enough background info to be able to tell apart sound medical/psychological info and viral BS created by “influencers” for some kind of personal gain).

What people in the current fandom spat want to have tagged as “triggers” are overwhelmingly squicks. And we’re probably all guilty of quickly saying “that triggered me”, myself included (and I’m a licensed psychotherapist, shame on me). It has become somewhat of a shorthand for “extremely annoyed or grossed out”. But when it gets used in the context of tagging, it’s good to remember that no one owes us a tag list the length of our arm just because we don’t like certain things. Even if we strongly dislike them.

And even on the occasion someone else’s yuck or yum is an actual trigger for us, it is impossible to cover for every possible trigger, because in theory, EVERYTHING has the possibility to trigger someone somewhere.

E.g., a certain smell in a supermarket holds the rare possibility of triggering someone, but do you see disclaimers at the supermarket door that say, “May smell of 484 different things, which are in detail [list of 484 things] and might be different tomorrow. Plus, we might have a customer today who smells of that perfume that brings up your triggering childhood memories. Or maybe we won’t, but just on the odd chance we do, we thought we’d rather cover it”.

There might be one person with a very specific trigger that does literally nothing to the vast majority of people. Do we expect everyone on Tumblr to tag for “eyebrows” or “white T-Shirt” because of that? How about that person just puts “eyebrows” or “white T-Shirt” in their content filter instead?

Do we really suggest to put that type of responsibility on creators? More importantly: Who are we protecting that way? All we do is put people into bubble wrap and shift responsibility for our mental wellbeing away from ourselves to others.

We are trying to tell other people what to do for our own comfort. That’s controlling.

If we’re squicked out by something, there is a simple solution: we can stop looking or reading. We can use content (not tag) filters. In the worst case, we can block. We don’t have to put that type of responsibility for our personal sensitivities on creators (or people who reblog, for that matter).

We can tag for certain things as a courtesy, I’m all for it. I love being able to filter out stuff I’m not into, and I sometimes wish people would tag better or not tag a certain way (getting ship tags for a ship you’re not into slapped on your character-metas is annoying 🤣). But I don’t die, neither does it cause me unbearable distress, if I see cows where I don’t expect them. Scroll past or block. And if I’m worried about mature topics like nudity or violence: Tumblr has a community label for mature themes you can (and in my view should) use if in doubt. Funnily enough, many people don’t do that though—maybe because they worry about reach?

Of course we should include content warnings where they are due, no one says we shouldn’t. It’s also fair if a creator doesn’t wish to do that beyond general warnings (no specifics) though because they might give away, say, major plot points that way. In that case, general disclaimers like “contains depictions of violence”, or whatever it might be individually, are a good idea. And if that’s not specific enough for us despite knowing that “violence” in general might also contain our personal trigger, we might need to make the decision not to read it to stay safe, but we shouldn’t have a go at the writer for not tagging very specific things that might be considered spoilers.

Long story short: If we assume people are “triggered” by werewolves with vulvas or non-human characters, it might be worth thinking about whether we’re just talking about squicks that very much fall into the category of “personal responsibility”. And there are plenty solutions to that at our end—we don’t need to put that on creators…

#fandom problems #fandom entitlement #fandom stuff #squicks #vs #triggers #tagging #being grossed out or strongly disliking is uncomfortable #but it’s not the same as being triggered

[bookshelf-dust]

the hurt is good

part i part ii part iii part iv part v part vi

billy hargrove x fem!reader

word count: 4,994

warnings: swearing, smoking, loneliness, anxiety, specific descriptions of billy’s abuse/fighting/trauma, (if this is triggering, please skip out <3), neil

a/n: hi my loves!! here we are. i really tried to put my back into this one. lots happens and i really hope you enjoy it. thank you for all the positive feedback you’ve given me with this series. i’ve enjoyed writing it. the next part, part five, may be the last one. we’ll see how it goes once i get to writing it, but that might be it. a part six is possible, but i’m not sure yet! i love you all. also, i’m tagging @writethrough because she’s given me a plethora of sweet ideas for this and done nothing but motivate me. i appreciate it more than anything. happy reading!! <333

before you read, listen to: eyes without a face by billy idol and/or love of my life by queen

————

“Billy.” He’s warm. He’s so warm. And his arm is heavy where he’s thrown it over your back, hooked his fingers under your side.

“No.”

“Billy, please.” You’re pleading with him. He’s practically on top of you, tucked into your side like this, the both on your stomachs.

“No,” he says into your shoulder.

“Billy, I have to pee.”

He groans. “Whatever.”

He rolls off of you onto his back, and watches as you pull yourself up and out of bed, leaving to use the bathroom.

While you’re gone, Billy thinks about how he’s never slept in someone else’s bed. Every girl he’s ever been with has been in his bed, when he knew no one else was home (for the most part). He never wanted to chance the interaction with someone else’s family.

But you feel safe. Your home feels safe. And you’re not just some chick he’s invited over for a little temporary stress relief.

Billy also thinks about how he’s never had a sleepover. He never had friends to do that with when he was younger—Neil would’ve thought it was inappropriate even if he had.

Billy stretches, sliding further into the bed and off the pillows, arms over his head. He then relaxes his arms, one flopping over the spot you’d been in. His hand bumps into something soft, and he runs his fingers over the sheets, searching for it. He knows what it is before he sees it.

It’s a teddy bear. His heart clenches. He hadn’t even realized you’d been cuddled up with that thing all night, and thinking about you like that makes him feel all soft and gooey.

For a second he feels a pang in his chest, like he shouldn’t be letting you turn him into a pussy. But those aren’t his words. He knows it.

Billy thinks about his mother for a moment. How she’d love you. He was so shy as a kid. She always had a soft spot for the shy ones.

He fidgets with one of your bear’s ears, remembering the one he’d had as a kid. His mom had given it to him. It was this pale blue color, and though small, but it always felt just right to hold. He’s pretty sure it’s in a box somewhere now.

Your footsteps snap him out of his reverie. You return with a little yellow paper between your fingers.

Billy Hargrove splayed out in your bed is something you’re not sure you’ll ever get used to. He looks like a dream. His curls are frizzy from sleep, the cutoff tank top he’s wearing twisted around his torso, one thigh sticking out from under the covers.

“Mom’s not here,” you start. “Left a note saying Wendy called and they’re having brunch. Apparently she didn’t want to wake us.”

You set the paper down on your nightstand and plop on the bed beside him, sitting up on your knees.

“You look so pretty,” you tell him.

Billy starts laughing. You swat at his side, but he grabs your hand and pulls it to his mouth, pressing a warm and slightly chapped kiss to your skin.

“So do you,” he says, squeezing at your hand. You almost argue with him, but the look in his eye tells you he really thinks so, and you decide against deprecating yourself.

You run your fingers over his hair. “You should let me braid it today.”

Billy rolls his eyes. “Only if you tell me who this is.” He grabs for your bear, shaking it around before sitting it up on his stomach.

You gasp dramatically, bringing a hand to your chest. “That’s Teddy.”

“Teddy? How original.”

“Fuck you, Hargrove. Teddy is a gentleman.”

“A gentleman who sleeps in your bed every night,” he argues.

“He’s comforting. I’m lonely.” That hits a nerve, and you watch Billy’s expression change.

“Can I ask you something?” he says.

You take your bear, standing him up on Billy’s stomach. He puts his arms under his head, watching you. “You can ask me anything, Billy.” He tugs on your bears arm absentmindedly, nodding.

“Are still lonely even with me around?”

You stop, put Teddy down. You think about what to say for a moment, and your silence freaks Billy out.

“Because if you are, tell me what to do.” He sits up, and you watch as he adjusts his shirt and shakes out his hair.

Your heart starts to pound and your mind is abuzz with emotion. All of it for him.

“Sometimes I am. When you’re not with me.”His shoulders relax a little, though he hates knowing you feel alone at all.

“But it doesn’t really ache anymore. I don’t really have this longing for someone to care about me. And I know I’ve had my mom, but that’s not enough, you know? Even if I feel selfish saying that.”

“But now I have you. And I’m pretty sure you care about me.”

I more than care about you, Billy thinks.

Billy puts a hand against your cheek, and you lean into his touch. His lips quirk up at the gesture.

“It’s not selfish to want to be cared for,” Billy tells you. “You’ve taught me that, you know.”

“Really?”

He nods. “And I know what you mean about the ache. Sometimes you just want someone in the room with you, and that’d be enough. But, Y/N, I really do care about you. Even if I don’t say it enough. You’re my best friend.”

Both of Billy’s hands are on your face now, and his tone is nothing but sincere.

“You’re my best friend too. I care about you loads, Billy.”

“Really?”

“Yes. More than anything.”

You lean up, and kiss him on the forehead. It’s lingering and soft. Billy feels like he could scream or maybe cry.

You’re letting him in. He wants to stay.

————

“You’re sure you’re not hungry?”

“I’m sure, babydoll.”

Your breath catches at that name.

Billy’s never been much of a breakfast person. He always preferred to wait until lunchtime. But nevertheless, he appreciates your offer to fix him something. He also knows he should probably leave soon. Max wants to go to the arcade today.

You grab hold of the edge of the kitchen counter, backing up a little ways and stretching yourself out, head bent to face the floor.

“Billy?”

“Hm?” He leans against the cabinets next to you. He’s gotten dressed, though you’re still in your pajamas. You hate that he’s going to go soon.

You straighten, looking at him. There’s been something on your mind. “Why don’t you ever change your ring or your necklace? I only ask because you change earrings, but those stay the same.”

Billy smiles at you. “You spend a lot of time looking at what I wear?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m sure.” He winks at you. You ignore it.

“You don’t have to tell me,” you say.

He pinches your side. “It’s fine. The ring is just my favorite. That’s all. And it gives me something to mess with when I’m anxious.”

“So all the time?”

“Shut up.”

You laugh.

“The necklace…it was my mom’s.”

Your breath catches a little, and you lead Billy back to your room where he can sit. He settles on the end of your bed. He hasn’t told you much about her, other than that she left. That his parent’s relationship wasn’t a good one.

But you can tell he loved her. That he misses her.

“She, um, she left my dad and me when I was a kid. She’d had enough of his shit, you know? He was a fucking horrific husband. Not that he’s any better now, by any means.”

“But there was one night a while before shit really hit the fan that he’d screamed at me. My baseball team lost and he said it was all my fault because I was too afraid of getting hurt. She sat me down and told me not to listen to him, that if I didn’t want to play anymore I didn’t have to.”

“And then she was taking her necklace off and putting it around my neck. She said it was so I’d always remember to be myself. To be a kid. Guess that didn’t really work out though.”

“So I wear it because even if I’m mad at her, I still miss her. She was the only one who ever treated me like I was perfect the way I was. Until you.” Billy looks down.

You’re quiet for a minute. He fusses with your bedding.

“Billy, you know I’m not going to leave you right?”

The words are out before you can stop them, but you feel like he needs to know. Billy has made it clear that he feels a lot for you, and it’s important you do the same.

His eyes meet yours.

“I’m not going to leave you,” you say again. “I just want to make sure you know that.”

Billy stands. “Hug?” he asks.

You nod and he’s wrapping his arms around your waist, burying his face in your neck like he could stay there forever.

————

Billy picks Max up from the arcade later that day, fingers anxiously tapping the steering wheel.

Is he really about to talk to a fourteen-year-old about love? Yeah, he is.

“Maxine,” he says. She whips her head towards him, raises a brow.

“William.”

“Can we have a conversation? About serious shit?”

“I don’t know, can we?” She quips.

“Max—”

“Yes, we can, Billy. What’s so wrong that you need to talk to me?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” he says. “And I’m trying to be a better brother, okay? Let me have this.”

“Okay.”

“Do you love Lucas?” He asks.

Max contemplates the question. Lucas has understood her in ways no one else has. He puts up with her and wants her back each time she dumps him. He was welcoming from the moment she stepped into Hawkins.

“Yeah, I think so. I think I do.” She pauses for a moment before continuing. “Are you in love with Y/N? Is that what this is about?”

“Yeah. I am,” he tells her.

“Wow,” she says.

“What?”

“Nothing. Billy Hargrove wanting to be a better brother and he’s fallen in love? Crazy shit.”

“You’re such a pain in the ass, you know that?”

They’re both quiet for a moment, the only sounds being the roar of the engine and the wind.

“I’m sorry, you know,” Max says. “I know I’m not that great of a sister either. I don’t exactly do anything to make your life easier.”

“That’s not your job. I’m the one that’s supposed to look out for you, Max.”

“That’s the thing though, Billy. You’re really not. It’s supposed to be my mom. You’re a kid too. And I could be better. Maybe Neil wouldn’t get so mad at you if I didn’t do things to piss you off so often.”

“Max, that’s not your fault,” he tells her. “My dad is an asshole.”

“I know, I know. I’m just saying. I’ll try to be better.”

“Why don’t we both give that a shot, huh? Try not to treat each other like shit. And for the record, I’m sorry too. I’m a dick to you all the time.”

Max nods and smiles at him.

They’re both trying. And that’s a start.

————

“How do you feel about Billy?”

Your mother is making brownies, with you sat at the counter. She only makes them when she wants to talk or when she’s worried about you.

“He’s my best friend.”

Nicky smiles to herself over the bowl of batter. “That’s all?” she asks.

“I don’t know.”

“I think you do know. I think you’re afraid to say it because of how all of your previous friendships have gone. You’re afraid,” she pauses, stirring aggressively for a moment, “that you’re going to lose your best friend again.”

Nicky looks up. “Aren’t you?”

You stare at her, and then relent, nodding.

“So how do you really feel about Billy, Y/N?”

You think for a second, tracing your index finger over the lines in the countertop.

It’s like Billy is learning you. He knows now what makes you anxious. What makes you uncomfortable. And he’s trying. Trying to be there for you and be available, which you know isn’t easy for him.

But you want to be there for him just as much as he is for you.

That’s the thing. You’re both trying.

You can tell when he’s had a bad night. He’s extra quiet before school starts, his hands never leave his pockets, or a cigarette never leaves his mouth. Sometimes it’s like he just needs you to sit there with him. Like he did with you at lunch that first day. He needs to know there’s someone on his side.

There are these times where he’s able to be himself. He calls you after you’ve leant him a book, and he’s pissed about something or other.

Why the fuck would you let me read this?

He head-bangs in the car with you, taps his hands in time with the song. Something he only ever did in the safety of his room. Maybe even sings a little before he catches himself and hope you didn’t hear. You always do.

And when he lets himself laugh it’s like you could fucking die. He’s so gorgeous it hurts.

You don’t know if you can tell her.

“Mom, I—” You cut yourself off and sink in on yourself.

She’s quiet.

“It’s okay to say it, honeybee. You’re safe to tell me, you know. And if it helps, I really don’t think he’s going to hurt you.”

You stand up, walk over to where she’s pouring the mix into a pan. She slides it into the oven, sets a timer.

Nicky waits. She knows you can do it.

“Mom.”

“Yeah?”

“Mom, I love him.”

She holds out her arms and you hug her. She smells like cinnamon and chocolate and this vanilla shampoo she’s used since forever because she swears nothing else is as good for her hair.

“I’m scared,” you tell her. “I’ve never felt like this before. But he makes me feel so safe.”

Nicky is so proud of you. Of your opening up to her and yourself. Letting yourself feel.

She pulls you back, places both of her hands on your cheeks. “It’s okay to be scared. All of these feelings can be scary. But I want you to know how important and wonderful it is that you’ve found someone who makes you feel safe and comfortable. He makes you feel that way, right?”

“Yeah.”

“And that’s so good. You’re going to figure it out. I know you are. I’m so proud of you, honeybee.”

You nod again and again, your nose stinging with tears that you will away.

The timer goes off, its shrill ring ruining the heartfelt moment. Nicky’s laugh is sticky sweet. She lets you go, shutting the thing up with a turn of its dial.

“You gonna want frosting or no?”

“Maybe a little,” you say.

You walk to the living room, catching the start of Jeopardy! and leaving your mother in the kitchen, in her zone. It’ll take a while for the brownies to cool anyways.

You’re slumping against the couch when you hear tires screeching, the roar of an engine a little ways down the street. You know it’s Billy. The car door slams.

You think something might be wrong.

————

Billy’s hands are shaking. He watches Max go inside, but stays leaning against the Camaro, lighting a cigarette. She goes up the stairs, shoots him a look as she throws the back door open.

Max was late leaving Dustin’s place. They’ve been trying to teach her to play D&D, and she got lost in it today, the one time Will’s monsters hadn’t completely faked her out.

Billy lay on the horn three separate times before he finally went inside, telling her it was time to go. She really, really hadn’t meant to be late.

Billy didn’t say a word during the drive home. He knew it was going to be bad. He just knew it. They were forty five minutes late from the time Neil had said he wanted them back.

So now, Billy stood outside, trying to toughen up before facing what he knew was waiting for him.

He stomps his cigarette out, locks the car. He makes his way inside and gets through the dining room where he sees Neil sitting at the table, but he keeps walking. He makes it through the kitchen. He passes the living room, where Susan is reading a book, though she’s not really reading.

The electricity that runs through the house is tangible. Max sits on the edge of her bed, knee bouncing up a storm. She waits for it to start.

Billy doesn’t make it any further. Neil’s footsteps are heavy on the hardwoods as he walks down the hall.

“You’re late.”

Billy closes his eyes before turning around. He knows better than to not face his father when he’s speaking. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“What was that?” Neil’s hands are on his hips now.

Billy’s heart is pounding. “I’m sorry, sir. It won’t happen again. Max was just spending time with her friends.”

Neil ignores Billy’s explanation. “Responsibility. We’ve talked about this, again and again, isn’t that right, Billy?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I don’t care if your sister is having the best time of her life. I tell you to be home at a certain time, then that’s when you’re home. It is your responsibility to get her back here and to respect my rules, is that clear?”

“Yes, sir. I understand.”

Billy thinks for a second that it’s over. In the other room, Max hopes it is too. She’s chewed off all her nails listening to them talk.

Neil drops his hands, drags one over his mustache and sighs. Billy starts to walk away.

“You know what, Billy? You’ve been late an awful lot lately. It’s because you’ve been hanging out with that slut from down the road isn’t it?”

Billy freezes. Usually, he just lets it go. Locks himself in his room, cries it out. Smokes it out.

But he just made this about you.

Billy turns around. “What did you just say?”

Neil stalks closer to his son, raises his voice.“You got your own whore now, huh? You’re just like your mother.”

Billy’s brow furrows, and feels like he’s burning. Max doesn’t know what to do. She’s never heard Neil say something like that before.

Billy gets just as close to Neil as he is to Billy. “Fuck you.”

Neil laughs. It’s heartless. He cocks his head. “I’m sorry?”

“I said. Fuck. You.”

Neil puffs out his chest and straightens his back. Billy knows he shouldn’t have said that. He doesn’t really care.

Neil is looking at Billy like he’s prey. And then Neil hits him. Max can hear the sound Neil’s fist makes as it cracks against her brother’s jaw. He’s got Billy by the collar and up on the wall before the boy can even struggle to move away.

“Get off me,” Billy yells.

“Who do you think you are, huh? Talking to me like that. I am your father, and you are to give me nothing but your respect.”

Billy shoves his father as hard as he can, hooks his hands under Neil’s elbows, pushing him off.

“I said, get off me.”

Billy turns and makes for the door. Max rushes to try and catch him. She knows it’s her fault. She wants to fix things.

“Billy—” she starts, but he cuts her off.

“Stay out of this. And stay here, Max.” He’s angry, but his tone softens just for a moment when he speaks to her.

Billy is outside before anyone can do anything about it. He’s got his keys, but he doesn’t trust himself to drive. He’s never fought back before. That was a completely different thing in there.

Billy walks to the other side of the road, starts on the shitty sidewalk. He feels like he can’t breathe. His entire body is shaking. He finds that stupid ass brick wall that you’d once visited him at, and he sits, holding onto it before he collapses.

His heart is beating so fast it hurts. He hasn’t had one of these in so long. He’s clutching the brick so hard he thinks he might have scrapes on his fingertips.

He starts to breathe in, and then he counts. He breathes out.

He keeps going until he doesn’t feel like he’s going to die anymore. When it’s over, he’s just as angry.

————

You’re standing in the kitchen, shoving your face with a brownie when you look up, and Billy is walking around outside. He looks upset. You don’t know if you should go out or not. You should, shouldn’t you?

Your mom left to pick up a couple movies for the both of you to watch tonight. Some of the few you didn’t have copies of.

You walk to the front door and pull it open.

“Billy?”

You’re stood on the stoop when he catches your eye. He’d been contemplating whether or not to go to you for the past ten minutes.

“Do you want to come in?”

He does. He doesn’t think he should, but he does. He walks toward you anyways.

You offer him half of your brownie. He takes it only so that he doesn’t have to talk yet.

You both stand in your entryway, silently eating your brownies before you look at him.

You swallow, wipe your hands on your pants. “Billy, your cheek is red.”

“No shit, really?” His tone that would usually be teasing isn’t. It’s just snarky. It’s almost mean.

And he regrets it immediately. You have no idea what just happened.

You raise your eyebrows at the way he just spoke to you.

He’s upset, clearly, and you think you know why, but you’re not going to push it out if he’s not ready. You’re not going to let him be a dick to you though either.

“Watch the attitude, Hargrove.”

“Or what, huh? You gonna tell me what a piece of shit I am too?”

“Billy, stop.”

He’s hurting. You can feel it.

“You gonna put everything on me? Treat me like I’m just this fucking burden? Huh, Y/N?”

“Billy, enough.” You’re dead serious. You mean it when you say that. You look him in the eye, and he stops.

“I can tell something’s wrong, but you don’t have to come over here and yell at me about it. If you want to talk, we can talk. That’s what I’m here for. Just stop, okay?”

“Fine.”

“What happened?” You ask.

Billy tells you everything. He lets it all out, and it’s like he’s showing you his hand. He’s being vulnerable and he hates it. But he knows you don’t care. You want him to be vulnerable with you.

“And you’ve never done that before?”

“No.”

“But you did tonight.”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Y/N, I just told you.”

“Say it again.”

“Because of you,” Billy starts. “Because he brought you into it and I wasn’t going to let him talk about you like that.”

“Billy. I’m not worth you getting hit over.”

“Baby, please don’t say that. Shit, why would you say that? You’re worth everything.”

“If you say so.”

“I do say so.”

You grin, and he smiles at you. He looks so pretty.

“You think it’ll bruise?”

“I hope not. Guess we’ll find out though,” he says.

You lean in, and kiss Billy’s cheek. It’s so soft that he might not even know you’d done it if he couldn’t see you.

“Come on, you’re not gonna hurt me. You can do better than that.”

“Greedy.”

“‘S your fault,” he argues.

You kiss him on the forehead a little more firmly. Then on his nose.

You pause, running a finger over said nose until he wrinkles it at you. “I love your nose.” He just watches you. You’ve practically got sparkles in your eyes. You graze your thumb over his freckles.

“Anything else you love?”

He’s giving you an opening. You decide to take it. What’s the point in keeping it from him?

“You.”

He wasn’t expecting you to have taken it.

“What?”

“You asked if there was anything else I loved. I said you.” Your voice is soft. Kind.

“Y/N.”

“Billy.”

“You love me?” he asks, unsure.

“I do. Told my mom about it and everything.”

His head falls against your shoulder.

“Wanna know something?” he mumbles against you before raising his head again.

“‘Course I do.”

“I love you too. Told Max about it and everything.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, baby,” Billy says. “I love you.”

You take his face in your hands, looking at him, taking him in. Your eyes linger on his lips before moving up to lock with his, blue orbs burning into your soul.

“Yes or no?” you ask.

“Yes.”

You press your lips against his, softly at first, but then a little harder when you find your rhythm. Billy smiles into it, and when you pull away, he’s quick to kiss you again and again.

————

Nicky gets home and unlocks the door, pushing it open.

“Honeybee, I’m home. Wanna come look at these?”

You look at Billy where he lays on your chest. He groans. “Okay, let me get up, Billy. I’ll be right back.”

He sits up, but he’s not happy about it. He has quite literally never looked grumpier.

You make your way down the hall where you heard your mother wander off. “Mom?” you ask.

“In here.” She’s taking her shoes off.

“Billy’s here,” you blurt out. “He had a bad day and came over, and then we started talked and I told him.” You stop, realizing that was one long ramble and she’d just gotten home.

She kicks off her shoes and stands, smiling brilliantly at you.

“You told him what, exactly?” She wants to hear you say it.

You roll your eyes. “That I love him.”

She claps her hands, rings clinking together. She kisses your forehead, and it makes an audible mwah sound.

“I’m so happy for you, honeybee.” Her expression changes quickly, though, a look of concern crossing her face. “He said it back, right? He loves you too?”

You nod, and she visibly calms down. “Yeah. He loves me too.”

“Good. Shit, that’s so reassuring. I’m gonna change. Is he staying for movies?”

You grin, happy she’s happy. “I’ll go ask.”

You venture back to the living room, where Billy sits on the couch, arms crossed over his chest.

“I’ll be right back my ass,” he says, looking up at you with a pout on his face.

You sit down beside him, grab his arms and pull them apart. “Sorry, sorry.” You rub the callouses on the palms of his hands with your thumbs. “You wanna stay for movies?”

Billy thinks for a second. He doesn’t want to go home. “Is that okay?”

“Duh.”

“You’re such a little shit.” You stick your tongue out at him. “Case in point,” he says.

You go to roll your eyes and he stops you. “Don’t even think about it.” You roll them anyways.

He almost makes some other quip, but a thought crosses his mind. Max. He doesn’t want to leave her in that house all night with his father. He’s always scared maybe if he’s not there she’ll be next. It’s almost been Susan before.

“Do you think Max could join us?”

“Sure she could.” You don’t even think about it, and Billy’s insides turn to mush.

So he calls her, and when she picks up, the first thing she does is ask where Billy is. He tells her. Max says Neil left with Susan. Didn’t say where they were going.

“Would you want to come over to Y/N’s and watch a movie? Or I can just take you to El’s or Lucas’s,” he says to her.

Maybe it sounds stupid, Max thinks, but she wants to spend time with Billy. You’ve been good for him. And clearly he’s in love with you and shit.

So Billy ends up walking down the street to get Max, who he then walks right back down to your house.

“I told her,” he says.

“That you’re stupidly in love with her?” she inquires.

“Watch it.” Max raises her hands in mock surrender. “But yeah.”

Max smiles at him. “Stop that,” he says.

————

“You like brownies, Max?” Nicky asks her.

“I do.”

“Good thing I have some then, huh? Here.” She hands her an enormous chunk of brownie, frosting sloppily slathered over the top of it. Max looks giddy at the sight of it in her hands.

The four of you sit in the living room, and your mother turns on Footloose. Billy promises not to complain. Max doesn’t buy it.

Nicky sets up shop in her oversized chair, while you sit in between Max and Billy on the couch. You lean over, lowering your voice to speak to the redhead. She leans towards you in response.

“What are your thoughts on Kevin Bacon?”

“He’s cute. Looks good in those jeans.”

You hold up your hand for a high five, which she gives you. “I’m glad we agree.”

Billy looks over at you, feigning betrayal. You shrug your shoulders, and he snatches the rest of your brownie from you. You gasp and go to pinch his thigh, but he takes your hand, holding it to his chest. He settles further into the couch, throwing his leg over yours.

Max would probably fake gag or something, but Kevin Bacon is much too entertaining.

Nicky, on the other hand, looks at you and Billy fondly. You look content. That’s all she’s ever wanted for you. That and someone willing to watch Footloose with you.

————

please let me know if you liked this! feedback is always appreciated!! comments and reblogs mean more than you know. <33

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[deanwritings]

What We Lost

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Request: I was wondering if you could write Dean x Reader, where they are in a relationship but Dean has been pushing her away lately and she is struggling with it ? Thank you.:)

Summary: After a shapeshifter hunt, Dean begins pushing you away, and you can't figure out why.

Trigger Warning/Spoiler in the tags

Word Count: 2.3k

A/N: My first request in 5 years! Turned out WAY more emotional than I was expecting.

You drag yourself into the bunker, your heavy duffle barely hanging onto your shoulder as Sam and Dean wander in silently besides you.

The three of you were exhausted after your last hunt. It had been a pair of shapeshifters running amuck in a Minnesotan city. It took you a few days to figure out what monster you were hunting, but after one took the form of you, things became a little more clear. Kinda.

It managed to time it perfectly that when you had split from Sam and Dean, it had slipped in, playing your part perfectly until it had the opportunity to knock the brothers out and take them hostage.

It took you a few hours to figure out what had happened and track the boys down, and when finally you did, it was a pretty bloodied battle between you and your lookalike.

But once your doppelgänger was dead, you untied the brothers from their hanging ropes, their wrists raw and shoulders numb from the hours of dangling, and the three of you carried your beaten and worn bodies back to your motel rooms for a chance to recharge before the 8+ hour drive back to the bunker the next day.

It had been quiet on the drive back to the motel, but you chocked it up to the typical post-hunt silence. But once you got to your room with Dean, you could tell something was off.

He went straight to the bathroom for a shower, no quip from him asking you to join for some relaxation, just his strong back to you as he quietly shut the door.

After his shower, he remained silent, somehow always keeping a distance between the two of you, even in your shared bed. You had asked him if everything was alright, but all you got was a nondescript, "mhmm" in response.

You decided to let it go, your body too exhausted to try and break down the emotional wall that Dean decided to put up. You had hoped that after a good night's sleep, either whatever was bothering Dean would be gone, or he would be ready to open up to you about it.

But neither of those things happened.

In the morning, the silence continued, following you all the way back to Lebanon and now down the hallways of the bunker.

You waited until you and Dean were in the safety of your room, with the door closed, before you decided to take a sledgehammer to that wall of his.

"We gonna talk about what's bothering you?" You ask as you peel off your jacket, wincing at the gash in your arm that probably could use some stitches, but you don't feel like dealing with at the moment.

"Nothing to talk about," Dean murmurs as he moves around you, beginning to unpack his duffle like he did after every hunt, no matter how tired he was.

"Well we both know that's bullshit, Dean" you cross your arms. "You've said about ten words since yesterday." Dean just nods his head, acknowledging your words, but carrying on as his refolds his clean shirts, tucking them away in his drawer, before pulling out his dirty clothes and moving to throw them in the hamper.

You feel the anger rising in your throat, your chest heating up from the unsettling peacefulness of the room. A stark contrast to the rage beginning to grow inside of you.

You take a deep breath through your nostrils.

"You're really going to ignore me? After I saved your asses?" You shout, your sore muscles seizing up with the tension and uncertainty of Dean's avoidance.

Dean sits on the bed and begins to untie his boots.

"Are you mad it took me so long to find you?" You start guessing, looking for any fucking expression on his face, but still finding no answers.

He was starting to scare you. Before you wasn't the man you loved. It was like he himself had been replaced, but instead of a shapeshifter, he was a soulless robot.

"Or because I let the shifter get one up on me?" Your ask is exacerbated, having no idea what to do or what to say.

Dean just glances up at you through his lashes, not even bothering to move his head.

You shake your head, tears starting to pool in your eyes as Dean continues to shut you out.

"You're such an asshole sometimes," you voice is quiet and you hurry out of the room before the tears can hit your bedroom floor.

You hurry through the bunker until you're at the garage, grabbing the keys to one of the many spare cars as your chest tightens and your breathing hitches. You desperately need fresh air, now.

You throw yourself into the car and speed out of the garage as the tires peel out under you from the sudden need to escape.

You don't have anywhere to go, you just need out. You need to breath and you need space.

By the time you return home, the sun has set and stars speckle the Kansas sky. You hadn't gone anywhere, just drove around, taking in new sights and neighborhoods you hadn't seen before. You eventually found a lake where you parked the car and gripped the steering wheel until your knuckles were white as you let out a feral scream, releasing every emotion that was wound up inside you. You screamed until your throat hurt and your fingers cramped around the leather, finally extinguishing the fire of emotions inside you.

As you walk through the bunker again, you stop in the kitchen for a beer before you continue down the hall until you're in a room you haven't visited in a long time.

You open the door, welcomed by your original room, the bedroom you first called yours before you had moved into Dean's. The bed is still nicely made how you left it, but all of your personal touches were gone, currently keeping company the man who had led you here in the first place.

You didn't want to stay in this empty room void of any life or love. You wanted to be down the hall, relaxing into the broad body of the man you loved while he wrapped you up in his arms, his beating heart lulling you to sleep. But that wasn't going to happen, not tonight at least. You were too hurt to face him, and you were too proud to stand in front of a man and beg for his attention or affection. So tonight, for the first time in a very long time, you were sleeping alone.

You curl yourself under the covers and hug yourself tight, despite your muscles screaming for you to relax. You let the emotional exhaustion take over and you dream of a better tomorrow.

The next morning, you wander into the kitchen in yesterday's clothes, grateful for the pot of coffee that's already been brewed.

As you pour yourself a cup, you hear some footsteps shuffle in behind you and you turn around and are disappointed to see the floppy-haired Winchester walk in. You were hoping to catch his brother. Corner him would be a more accurate term. But that would have to wait for now.

"Heya, Sam," you mumble as you bring the mug up to your lips and take the first sip, the warm liquid soothing yesterday's raw throat.

Sam gives you a soft smile as he brushes by you and pours himself his own cup. You wander over to the table and take a seat as Sam stirs in his one sugar and dash of milk.

"Same clothes as yesterday?" Sam quirks an eyebrow as he takes you in. You close your eyes and take a deep whiff of your coffee, letting it settle through you before you open your eyes again.

You swallow. "Yeah, I stayed in my old room last night. Didn't get a chance to change."

Sam frowns, but he doesn't look surprised, which makes you sit up straighter.

"You know what's wrong with Dean, don't you?" You accuse. Sam's mouth gapes open then closes again and you can see him mulling the words over in his head.

"Care to enlighten me, Sam?" You snap. "Because my boyfriend has not said a single word to me in two days. He will barely fucking look at me," you voice rises. You don't mean to take this out on Sam, but if he knew something, you would appreciate it if he could give you a clue as to what was happening.

Sam takes a deep breath, shifting his coffee mug from one hand to the other.

"Look, when the shifter had us, it uh," Sam scratches the back of his neck with his free hand. "It told us some stuff." Sam's eyes look up to you. "About you." He says pointedly.

"What kind of things?" You accuse.

Sam takes yet another deep breath, looking away from you.

"Y/N," his voice is somber, almost broken, as he sets his mug down on the kitchen counter.

Your heart begins to pound in your chest, terrified by Sam's demeanor. First, Dean shut you out completely, something he's never done before, no matter how bad a hunt was, and now, Sam could barely look you in the eye.

Something bad had happened. Something that managed to shake the Winchesters to their core. And that was a hard thing to do.

What the hell could the shifter have told them? You didn't keep a lot of secrets, none that were damning anyways. What the hell could have possibly happened in the few hours it took you to find them.

"Sam," your voice quivers. "You're scaring me." You stand from the table, walking until your in front of your giant friend.

"Please. Just tell me."

You laying across the back seat of Baby, warm tears rolling down your cheeks as you stare up at the familiar roof.

The car smells like Dean. It's the only place you could think to come to be close to him without having to actually face him.

And the irony isn't lost on you.

Your chest begins to heave again as a new wave of sobs escapes your lips, your hands gripping onto you shirt as you rest them over your stomach.

Your fingers tighten around the fabric.

You hadn't known. You don't know if that was a good thing or bad thing.

When your period was late earlier in the year, you chocked it up to stress. It wasn't uncommon in your line of work.

But then you went on that werewolf hunt. Dean had taken some pretty bad hits and you had jumped in in an attempt to save him. Which you did, but in the process you had gotten pretty beat up. Thrown into a few walls, took a few blows to the face. A few kicks to the stomach.

You thought the pain and bleeding the days after was just a result from your injuries. It never crossed your mind you were losing a baby. Your baby. Dean's baby. One you never knew about, and one you never had the chance to protect.

But somehow the shifter knew. When it took on your form, and took over your memories, it was able to read more than just your mind, it also read your body.

And it revealed it to Dean and Sam. It wanted Dean to know what he caused you to lose. Both to lose.

The thing was a sadistic fuck.

Why did it have to tell Dean? Why did it have open a wound you didn't even know you had? Why did it have to make you miss something you never knew existed?

You really wished you had the chance to kill the bastard again. You would have really taken your time, making it as agonizing as you possibly could. Torture it the way it was torturing you and Dean even after it was cold and dead.

Another sob escapes you as you hold yourself tighter, squeezing your eyes as you wish it all away.

You hear the door above your head creak open. You breath is uncontrollable as your cries get lodged in your throat.

"Hey, hey," you hear Dean's voice call out in a whisper. You shut your eyes harder and shake your head.

Please not now. You don't want to look at him. You don't want to see the pain and disappointment on his face. You don't want to look at him and finally understand the coldness of the past two days.

A hand slips under you back and begins to lift you up. You struggle against it, but it's stronger than you, and continues to move you up until you're sitting.

You feel Dean slide in next to you and suddenly he pulls you into this chest, you feel the warmth of his body underneath your cheek, and with his heart next yours, your grief pours out in a flood of uncontrollable tears onto his shirt.

His hands hold you tight, his fingers deep in your skin as his arms lock you to his side.

He refuses to let you go until your cries begin to soften, your breath short and shallow as you feel your heart finally start to steady.

Warm lips dig into your hair, a stubbled chin rubbing against your forehead.

"I didn't know, Dean," your voice is tight in your throat. "I didn't know."

You feel his finger dig into your forearms.

"It's my fault," he whispers, and you hear him swallow hard. "If it wasn't for me," you feel him shake his head above you.

You finally push off his chest, your eyes bloodshot and swollen as you open them for the first time in who knows how long.

You look up at the man you love, your heart shattering all over again as tears stain his green eyes, making them even brighter despite his pain. He's staring ahead, out of the windshield, looking at nothing.

"Please don't say that," you quietly beg. He nods his head and swallows again. You know he's just appeasing you, but that's a battle for another day. For when your hearts weren't broken, for when you could acknowledge what you could of had together without it cutting through you.

For now, he holds you, the two of you leaning on each other as you sit in the only Baby you know, thinking about the one you didn't, waiting for better days ahead.

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