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#i try to only tag who is actually in there but i messed up

emphistic · 13 days

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Bf!Sukuna who sometimes calls you 'girlfriend' — and not in a flamboyant way

"Girlfriend, c'mere."

"What do you want, girlfriend?"

"Sure, girlfriend."

Bf!Sukuna who loves having your lips on his; he'll just randomly come up to you and slot his lips against yours without a word

Bf!Sukuna who walks around the house shirtless, and teases you by saying, "You should try it out," only to get a pillow thrown at his head

Bf!Sukuna who would pause his video game just for you

Bf!Sukuna who is actually super clingy, and cannot function without having you in a foot radius — but will never admit it

"I'm going to go get groceries now."

"I'll come with you," he said, immediately standing up from the couch.

"I thought you hated errands."

Sukuna shrugged, "'m bored."

Bf!Sukuna who spits in your food when you're not looking

Bf!Sukuna who, when he can't sleep, will just stare at you — a few times, you've woken up to his creepy crimson eyes staring back at you, and you socked him in the jaw

Bf!Sukuna who claims to hate your music, but whenever you two are in the car, he'll always let you handle the aux

Bf!Sukuna who purposely forgets to do your laundry so he can see you be forced to wear his clothes instead

Bf!Sukuna who is the king of keeping eye contact

Bf!Sukuna who'll hover around while you do your makeup and just ask random questions

"What does that do?"

"Why the fuck is it shaped like that?"

"It's almost as big as my dick."

Bf!Sukuna who steals your things and raises them above his head where you can't reach just to mess with you

Bf!Sukuna who never gets cold, and while that may seem like a good thing in the winter because you have a personal heat generator, it is the absolute worst during the summer — you have to ban cuddling because Sukuna is just too damn warm

Bf!Sukuna who doesn't help you bring in groceries, even if your hands are full

Bf!Sukuna who ignores you for the rest of the day if you forget to give him a good morning kiss, or good morning text (if you guys are temporarily apart)

Bf!Sukuna who is good at everything he touches

— a/n: kinda irrelevant if you ask me, but I just had to include this

Bf!Sukuna who pretends to forget if you guys have planned a date together

Bf!Sukuna who gets a hard-on when he sees your angry face; he loves having you pull on his ear and drag him away to a secluded area to hear you yell at him — he thinks you sound so sexy and look so hot

Bf!Sukuna who isn't above doing extreme pda when he sees someone staring at your ass

Bf!Sukuna who whines about going to work, claiming it's boring, but in reality: he just doesn't want to leave you — or vice versa: he doesn't want you to leave for work

Bf!Sukuna who swears up and down he doesn't want kids and hates children, but when he sees you taking care of his little brother Yuuji, he finds himself doing a mental 180°

Bf!Sukuna who goes into a trance staring at your ass

Bf!Sukuna who has no purpose for an Instagram account: you forced him to make one — he never posts on there, but when does, it's only pictures of you and occasionally him and you

Bf!Sukuna who has a drum set in your guys' shared apartment, but refuses to play it for anyone but you, and even then, he only plays to annoy you or wake you up from your nap

Bf!Sukuna who permanently quit smoking when he saw you plugging your nose near him

Bf!Sukuna who enjoys chasing you around the apartment, sometimes with a knife in hand just to make you extra scared

Taglist: @starlets-things @sad-darksoul @mochimoee @r0ckst4rjk (pls lmk if u only want to be tagged in my boy nextdoor series or all of my work) @lillycore

#sukuna x reader #ryomen x reader #sukuna x you #jjk x reader #jjk x you #sukuna fluff #sukuna headcanons

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that-fic-girl · 3 months

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HAZBIN HOTEL X READER HC #1

Head canon: what it would be like to date them.

characters: Alastor, angel dust, husk, vox

disclaimer: everything i write about these characters might not be accurate to the actual story, please take everything in the fic with a grain of salt, none of this is canon!!

Alastor

he hasnt been in an actual relationship in a while so being close and vulnerable with someone is quite hard for him, especially as someone who associates emotions with weakness.

First off, its safe to say he adores the ground you walk on. He's in love with everything about you, your clothes, the smell of your hair, your sickly sweet voice. his loves it all.

If there was ever a problem you needed fixing, a person you needed taken care of or even a errand you needed to run he would tend to it himself. he would not let you lift a finger.

PDA is a iffy thing for him, he wouldnt do grand big gestures but maybe a hand on the hip or a few words of affirmation.

everyone in the pride ring quickly learned of yours and radio demon's relationship. And no one dared to mess with you, ofcourse there was people who wanted to test their luck but they would have to pay the price later.

his love language is definitely words of affirmation, he will sweet talk the shit out of you. At night when it's just you two in bed, he will have his hands stroking through your hair whilst you rant to him about your day and he'll reply with sweet nothings

"oh darling, i've missed you all evening"

"you looked ravishing today my dear.."

"mm your hair smells amazing, my love"

Angel Dust

Angel is one of, if not, the horniest mother fuckers out there but somehow, he manages to somewhat make a healthy relationship with someone.

you two are seen as "the bad bitch" couple. you're always out together, always getting into dumb shit together. You'll get yelled at by vaggie at early hours in the morning because the two of you where playing a childish game of tag in the hotel halls.

his love language is definitely physical touch, he'll have his arms slung around your waist almost all the time. Kisses are a MUST every 5 minutes, like this boy will NOT part from you. especially in the mornings when you have to leave for work;

"mmnnnnoooooooo...stayyy for five minutes pleasseeeee"

"but sweets..you're soooo warm"

"sweetheart please, you feel so comfy"

yeah good luck with that.

nights with him are VERY eventful, if it wasn't obvious. You two would usually be at it late hours into the night but sometimes, when you two where too exhausted to fuck like rabbits, he would be sprawled across your lap whilst you stroked his fur.

Husk

Despite his harsh tone and uncompromising demeanor, you understood that Husk wasn't trying to be malicious towards you. It was simply his way of communicating, and you knew that his behavior wasn't personal. Even though he could be abrasive at times, you loved him for his rough edges and authentic personality

You and Husk's time together was mostly spent at the bar. You didn't like to drink much, but you loved seeing him work and make cocktails like a pro. You didn't mind that it wasn't considered a typical date, because you liked spending time with him in whatever way he felt most comfortable.

Husk is not used to receiving compliments, as he didn't often receive them in his past life. When you complimented him, it caught him off guard and he was surprised. But he eventually learned to appreciate it, and it even made him feel a little sentimental.

Despite the difficulty, you were able to help Husk realize that you genuinely cared about him. He had been used to being surrounded by dishonesty and hypocrisy, but you were always sincere and real. He held you in high regard, as you were the only source of light in his life, and he didn't want to lose you.

vox

You were known as a strong and independent person who didn't need assistance from others. You knew how to stand up for yourself, despite being harsh and tough at times. Despite your exterior, no one was aware of the soft spot in your heart that Vox's affection and touch alone could melt away your severity.

He appreciated seeing your affectionate side, as it felt special and intimate, like a shared secret between the two of you. He knew you valued your privacy, and he respected it by never sharing photos or other details on social media. He didn't want to betray your trust.

You were often feared and respected when you were with Vox. People found it hard to believe that someone as intimidating as yourself could have a tender, caring side that was kept hidden from most. Vox was glad that he was the only one who got to see that side of you. He didn't want to share something so special and personal with anyone else.

Quite often, he would call you on the phone, knowing that sweet words could be just as effective as a kiss. He enjoyed hearing how your voice softened from its usual seriousness to a more affectionate tone. He was aware that when he said loving phrases to you, you would blush and smile shyly, and sometimes he even regretted not being able to witness it in person.

"i've missed you today babe.."

"mhm look at my pretty girl/boy!"

#Hazbin Hotel #Hazbin Hotel x Reader #Hazbin Hotel headcanons #Alastor #Alastor x Reader #Vox #Vox x Reader #Hazbin Hotel oneshots #Husk #Husk x Reader #angel dust #angel dust x reader #vivziepop\

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angelltheninth · 5 months

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Choso being your best friend but you're secretly fucking his younger bro Yuuji

So much to work with here.

Pairing: Yuuji Itadori x Fem!Reader

Tags: nsfw, smut, quickie, sneaking around, jealousy, secret relationship, condom use, affirmation

A/N: Discovering that I really, really like writing for Yuuji.

No amount of good sex or dick could erase the guilt you felt when ever you and Yuuji had sex. You loved him, with all your heart but... he was your best friend's younger brother. How could something that started out feeling so wrong now be the feeling you couldn't do without for more than a week?

"You're thinking about him again aren't you?" Yuuji complained against your neck, his pink hair and equally pink ears being the only thing you saw when you looked at him. You could sense his jealousy in every thrust. More than that you saw in the way he looked at Choso when he'd greet you with a hug. Of course he didn't mean anything bad by it, but Yuuji was quite territorial for such a sweet guy.

"Sounds like someone's jealous of their big brother." He tried to say he wasn't but you knew he was, you knew he wished that he'd met you first, that he shared more classes with you, that he could be as openly affectionate with you as Choso was and not have to sneak quickies when his brother went to the supermarket. "Hey Yuuji, baby, look at me for a second."

There was a look of urgency and desperation in his eyes, not the fun-loving mirth you were used to seeing, "Wanna let everyone know how much I love you." Your heart swelled with love for him, you really couldn't ask for a better boyfriend. "Don't wanna stand by and watch him hang all over you like you're still single when you got me." And a more cutely possessive one.

"It's your cock inside of me." You clenched your pussy around him and didn't let go. Yuuji hissed, hips stuttering forward in a hurry, "You're the one who makes me feel good, all you. I love you Yuuji, no one else but you, understand that?"

He nodded, too overwhelmed to talk but every thrust told you how much he loved you, every kiss and every bite that you'd have to hide with your hoodie. You came while calling his name over and over, still trying to assure him that he was the one, the only one for you. The force at which he came almost broke the condom he was wearing, he needed to pull out fast. Lucky for him, the trashcan was right by his bed so he didn't make too much of a mess when he took it off and tied it up.

"Oh man. I'm gonna have to buy more of these soon." They definitely disappeared at a quicker pace now. "Choso actually asked me to lend him some the other day, I was so embaressed to say I needed all of them."

"I'll sneak some in next time." Sneaking condoms for your secret boyfriend. Your life sure took a funny turn ever since you met Yuuji, the best turn it's ever taken actually.

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demieyesore · 7 days

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so dom!mattheoriddle x shy!reader x Theodore Nott who’s there to just hold her and force her to take Mattheo.

just reader, sitting on Theodores lap and him having a hand grasping her two hands and one on her thigh to keep them open. Reader is crying from overstimulation and try to move her hips, while Mattheo is literally pounding into her furiously for talking to another guy. Theodore agreeing with him. 🫢

Jealousy, Jealousy - M.R x Reader x T.N

Summary - A fanfic in which Mattheo and Theodore see you becoming flustered by another boy and get jealous.

Warnings / Mentions - GN!Pronouns, AFAB!Reader, Shy!Reader, Dom!Mattheo, Theo is just kind of there, Theo gets no action LMFAO, Overstimulation, Dacryphilia, Reader isn't actually interested in the third party, they only get flustered because they're shy, mention of Hayden Christensen's character Sam because I love him so much that I had to include him...size kink for sure, humiliation kink, breeding kink, mentions of baby trapping, squirting

A/N - As soon as I read this request, I got a second pulse ONG. Also as someone who is shy, writing this made me feel like a total slut

Requested - Yes

Word Count - 2,697

Tag list - @vixxensvoid @maevesversion @sockiess @stylesslytherinskywalker @myheadhurtscutely @yourenogoodforme @gallerygourmet (Add yourself to my tag list and or remove yourself by going to my pinned post! You can also pick an anon emoji through my pinned post!)

Your whole life you have been a shy person; Always getting embarrassed in the most stupid and silly situations. You once got flustered while buying an item at the store, you were trying to explain yourself and stuttering over your words when the shop keeper told you that she was only kidding. The item in question was a packet of Band-Aids, you needed them because you were always tripping over yourself, always finding mysterious bruises and cuts on your body. Unfortunately, Mattheo and Theo had gone a little wild the night before, your neck was absolutely covered in hickeys.

Despite you trying to cover up the purple and red markings; the first thing the older lady said to you when she grabbed the box was, "Honey, you might need to grab another pack with how your neck looks." Of course her comment caught you off guard and you immediately tugged at the hoodie you had on, pulling the neckline upwards in a clumsy attempt to hide the love bites.

So really, it should be no surprise that when a Slytherin boy came up to you and flirted with you; completely unashamed, might I add. You reacted very awkwardly, your face promptly heating up.

You were outdoors in the courtyard of Hogwarts, leaning against one of the trees while practicing a spell from the previous class lesson. You scratched at your head in annoyance and confusion when it once again failed. You huffed a frustrated breath of air as you pocketed your wand.

When you weren't paying attention, a boy walked up to you and cleared his throat to get your awareness. Your eyes drifted up to his face, he had black hair with a streak of blue running through it. He had a multitude of piercings but his most noticeable was one sticking out from below his lip. He wore thick eyeliner and maybe even some black eyeshadow if you were to look close enough.

You recognized him as one of your classmates, Sam. You had never really talked to each other, but you weren't oblivious to him staring during lessons. It never bothered you, it did always startle you and bring a small amount of pink to flush your cheeks. It wasn't out of attraction to him though, more so just being more conscious of yourself knowing that you were being watched, seen, and perceived.

"Having trouble?" He asked, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. Your eyes widened as you stumbled out a response.

"No, well I mean yes, but not anything too hard..." You replied, anxiously messing with your after school outfit. Sam was quick to mutter something under his breath, something that you didn't quite catch but you swore that you heard him say, "Not harder than me."

He quickly spoke up again, speaking more clear this time and with confidence. "You should come to my dorm tonight, my roommate and I are throwing a little party." Your face visibly faltered, and hesitancy was evident on your features. "I'm sorry Sam, I don't really go to parties and I'm supposed to hang out with Mattheo and Theo."

He looked you up and down briefly, his tongue sucking on his canine in what seemed like irritation. "What they don't know won't hurt them." He gently grabbed your hand, playing with the ring that your boyfriends collectively bought for you.

"Sam, I really wish I could go but I just don't think I can make it tonight..." You whispered, biting the inside of your mouth as anxiety filled your system.

"God, are you stupid? I'm trying to say that I like you." His free hand ran through his hair, messing up the typical style he had it in.

Sam was a cute guy, don't get me wrong, but you simply weren't interested and you already had two boyfriends. Which sometimes they can be even a little much to deal with.

Sam's effort to convince you to go was abruptly stopped as a fist connected with his face. He fell backwards, dropping his grip on you when Theo protectively held you against him. Mattheo shook his hand, trying to find relief from the pain he had caused from punching the douchebag flirting with you.

Mattheo basically spat at the fellow Slytherin, "Yeah? Well guess who's dating them." Mattheo would've beat his fucking ass if you let him; Jealousy was raging through both of the boys. Mattheo was more loud about his anger while Theo was just passive until violence was necessary.

Mattheo didn't want to spend another goddamn minute of his time near this asshole, he was already on the ground so there's no need to continue the fight when he's already won. Mattheo's hand grasped your upper arm, dragging you in front of him as he walked away from the Courtyard. Theodore followed loosely behind, his hand resting on the lower part of your back.

They lead you through the corridors, not uttering a single word as they pushed you into their shared dorm. They had already shed their school robes before the quickly ended fight, never wanting to wear the uniform afterschool.

"What a fucking dickhead." Mattheo scoffed, referring to the scene that just played out. He sat on the end of his bed, manspreading while trying to shake the feeling of jealousy. His hands with intertwined as his head hung, just looking at the ground. Theo on the other hand was massaging his temples as if he had a headache.

"The audacity to say all that bullshit is unbelievable." Theo's accent was more prominent, often a result of his temper running thin.

He said an array of curse words in Italian, none of which you could understand. Mattheo just kept staring at the ground, something was definitely on his mind besides the interaction.

You sat down next to Mattheo, Theo still standing; even beginning to pace back and forth. Mattheo put one of his large hands on your thigh, kneading the skin possessively. He was now staring at your thighs and how his hand roamed your skin. His opposite hand was holding up his face as he lazily laid on his palm.

"Why were you blushing?' He finally asks, his fingers impatiently tapping along his cheekbone. Theo's pacing stops as he turns to look at the both of you. His eyebrows furrowing as he thinks back.

You tilt your head in puzzlement, "What?" Mattheo groans, throwing his head back before turning towards you. His left leg hiking up onto the bed. His hands moving to latch onto your hips while he leans in. His face laying on your shoulder as he pulls you closer to him. "I said, why were you blushing? He said he liked you, and you were blushing." Mattheo murmured, his controlling side peaking out. He was trying his hardest to stay calm with you, but he couldn't keep his thoughts away. He saw how you looked at that freak, a blush settled on your face while he messed with the ring that he and Theo got you. It was a promise ring, although that part was technically a secret. They never called it a promise ring, just a gift. But both of them knew that it was them promising themselves to you and to each other as they adorned the same matching ring.

"Mattheo- I was just flustered, you know how anxious I get...especially with other people..." You defended but Mattheo persisted. "With other people? Are Theo and I not enough to get your heart racing?" He quipped back as he selfishly left kisses on your throat.

"That's not what- that's not what I meant!" You stuttered out, your heartbeat increasing in your chest. He hummed against your neck, sending vibrations down to your core. "Right, I forgot, you only get shy around us when we fuck you."

"Mattheo, don't say that..." You whined, embarrassment flooding your veins. "Why not? Too vulgar for you?" He questions, still pressing firm kisses into you. Theo finally laughed a little bit, already knowing where this was going. He sat down on the bed, leaning against the headboard while he watched the heating up conversation.

"Yes! You always say such...risky things..." You mumble out, trying to find the words to explain his vocabulary. "Risky? You really think so? Theo, what do you think?" Mattheo scoffs, his arms protectively enveloping you while he looked over your shoulder at Theodore. Your back was turned to the boy with light brown hair.

Theo thought for a moment, pausing just long enough for you to nervously push at Mattheo's hold on you. Suddenly you felt too warm, like your skin was on fire. Mattheo tightened his grasp on you, placing another kiss to your neck. "Stay still." He whispered, his voice low and commanding.

Theodore ultimately decided to say, "I think...they should be just as flustered when talking to us. We're your boyfriends after all." His sentence started out directed at Mattheo but switched over to you at the end. "Theo-" You whined out in a complaint.

"Always so whiny..." He counters while Mattheo sucks at your jawline, demanding your attention once more. "You heard him. We're your boyfriends, that nobody shouldn't be getting reactions out of you that we don't." Mattheo lets go of his clutch on you, shoving you backwards, leaving you to fall towards Theo. His soft hands pulled you into the free space between his legs. You were in a position where you were partially sitting upright against his chest but loose enough that you were still laying down.

Theo's hands gripped the underneath of your thighs, prying your knees to bend so your legs were open. Mattheo swiftly removed his shirt, tugging the fabric over his head. He shuffled over to your open legs. He practically yanked off your pants, pulling your underwear down along with it.

"This okay?" Mattheo glances up at you, checking in with you. He observed as you nodded your head slowly. One of Theo's hands gripped your jaw, his sultry tone dripping. "Words."

You twisted your head away from the boys, wanting to just disappear from shame. "It's okay..."

"Good, because you obviously need a reminder that we're the only ones that can make you feel like this." Mattheo mumbled under his breath. He undid his belt, tossing it to Theo. Theo made quick use of the leather, tying your wrists together as he secured the rest of the belt in his mouth. Wanting to make sure that you couldn't move your hands while his own held your legs open.

Mattheo unzipped his jeans, freeing himself from the restrictions of his boxers next. He spat his saliva onto his cock, stroking himself a couple of times to coat the fluid over his dick as a makeshift lube.

"Sorry sweetheart, not getting you ready for me today. I need you now." He admitted, lifting your hips and forcing them to wrap around his waist.

He ran his tip through your folds, collecting the wetness. "Holy shit, no foreplay and you're absolutely soaking. You little slut." He ridiculed. You failed in an attempt to close your legs, feeling the embarrassment seep into you while Theo tightened his hold on you, keeping your legs secured in place.

"Aw, poor baby, too flustered from my words alone?" He mocked as you rocked your hips closer to him, teasing his tip.

"So needy for cock..." He whispered as he finally pushed into you. Your walls squeezed around him as you tried to adjust to his size. "Fuck, don't snap my dick off. I forgot how tight you are, shit." He said breathlessly at the feeling.

He slowly moved, trying to ease your cunt into the movement. When you started to roll your hips onto him, Theo slapped your thigh, holding you down with enough pressure so that way you couldn't get yourself off.

Mattheo gained his pace, his hands laying on your hips as he thrusted into you. You could feel Theo's boner pressed against you but he made no strive to relieve himself in anyway. Mattheo pounded into you with no mercy, the sound of your moans echoed in the dorm. You tried to hold back your moans, even trying to muffle them. Mattheo could feel you flutter around him as you climaxed for the first time.

"Couldn't even hold off on one orgasm for a little longer? Fuck, you're such a little slut, you'd probably like it if I slapped you. Maybe you'd cum on my dick harder if I manhandled you." You whimpered at his words, they repeated in your mind as he kept fucking you through your high. But he didn't stop and you knew he wasn't gonna stop.

"Oh come on baby, you can take a little more can't you? Don't you want to be good for me?" He taunted as he slammed back into you. "You know that nobody else could make you cum like this right? Ain't ever gonna leave us." He chattered to himself possessively, as if he was talking himself through the experience.

His thrusts became sloppy as he chased his own high, his eyes were closed tightly as his head flew back. He was still pumping deeply inside you as he came. He pulled out for a second, watching as his cum leaked out of your sopping hole. "So pretty when my cum is inside you."

His eyes darkened as he swallowed harshly. He pushed his tip back at your entrance, but not fully entering you. He was pushing his cum back into you, his eyes were hazy as he re-entered you.

"Can't fuck anyone else if you're carrying my baby, now can you?" He fantasized aloud. He quickly regained his composure, regaining speed, not even allowing you the time needed to recover from your climax.

"Mat-Mattheo, stop, I'm too sensitive..." You whimper out, moans falling loosely from your lips like a waterfall. You could feel the wetness between your thighs, you could feel every single touch, your skin was crawling. It was all becoming way too much. "Too much, it's too much-" You could feel your mouth going dry as you started to overheat, but none the less, Mattheo kept tearing through your cunt. "All worn out? Too fucking bad." He muttered in a cold tone, not caring about the discomfort you were feeling. You tried to pull your hands apart, the skin itching from the leather belt wrapped around them. Tears began to form in your waterline.

Mattheo was essentially abusing your pussy, all he wanted and craved for was to feel you pulse around him. He drilled into you, observing as you stiffened again, your body shaking as another orgasm was pulled from you. Tears were fully streaming down your face from the overstimulation.

"So fucking precious when you cry, all tired from my cock ruining you. I wonder just how cockdrunk I can get you." You mumbled, jutting your hips out as you squirmed from pleasure and pain. Theo struggled to hold you down, groaning when you accidentally rub against his painful erection. "Stop fucking moving." Mattheo demands, slapping your cunt causing you to whine.

Theo removes one of his hands from your thigh, placing pressure on your lower stomach, making it so you could feel Mattheo's cock inside you even more. You moaned so loud that it was almost pornographic. "Feel that?" Mattheo asks, throat going dry when he sees the bulge in your stomach. He looks at Theo for a second, speaking as if you weren't even there. "Fuck, you should see just how our baby's cunt sucks me back in. Every damn time." He moans, as he cums inside you again. Filling you up, he still doesn't stop, not until the bed is dripping in your liquids.

He finally comes to a stop, pulling out of your pussy with a pop as you squirt. You sprayed his dick with the fluid as he just smiled down at his work with a dominant aura. He was getting off on the fact that he had made you squirt, getting off on the fact that only he and Theo could make you cry from how good they felt.

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lucyandthepen · 8 months

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sweet cream, cold brew | lmh ( m )

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

alternatively: mark is shy until he isn’t.

read the second part here!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Something wrong?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You really won’t help me?”

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

“I didn’t say that.”

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

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

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

“There’s no one better than you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wait, really?”

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

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

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

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

“Oh — uh, yeah, for sure.”

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

But it just isn’t the right time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You could have sworn it looked like disappointment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You got a ride?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And you know this because?”

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

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

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

“You don’t want it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I want you to have it.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Seriously, take it.”

“Absolutely not—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Probably.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, I would.”

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

“Can’t.”

“Because?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“When?”

“Next Thursday.”

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

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

“Are you going to be here all day?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You guys seemed pretty close.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, for sure.”

“Cool. See you, _________.”

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

“Mark, wait.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He’ll live. Unfortunately.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He must really want you there.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m inviting you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The what?”

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

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

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

“How do you know this?”

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, it’s not that.”

“You think I’m only using you.”

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Respect what?”

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

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

“You were jealous.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Even when I’m jealous?”

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

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

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

It doesn’t; it tastes even better.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You don’t want to?”

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

“You seem worried.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mark, please—”

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

You shake your head, and his brow furrows.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Won’t you show me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Show me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then take me.”

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

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

“You’re not—?”

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

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

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

“You’re tighter than I thought.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do that again.”

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re all mine.”

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moongothic · 3 months

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Crocodad AU where immidiately after having left Dragon and his baby boy Crocodile finds an 11 year old Robin. And while he's 100% only recruiting her so they can make a beeline for the Poneglyph and Pluton in Alabasta by the two of them... Crocodile accidentally sorta kinda adopts Robin.

At this point Robin's been running for her life from the Government for three years so her deep trust issues and fear of betrayal are starting to take root in her little heart. Like perhaps they haven't taken fully over yet, and being still a child I'm sure Robin might've still had that genuine hope that she could find a safe place to stay in. But I'm sure the though of "what'll he'll do with me once he gets what he wants?" would be nagging at her at the back of her mind. Meanwhile Crocodile's struggling between the pain and hurt he's already gone through and given him his trademark trust issues, as well as the aftermath of The Dragodile Divorce. But he also has his Fresh Paternal Instincts and probably misses his baby. So when given a small, scared child who is running for her life, being chased by the very same Government that'll want his son dead if they ever find out about him... Yeah that might fuck with your brain a little

You know this post was supposed to be just that first paragraph and just a few footnotes from the following two paragraphs. And then I kept on Having Thoughts. And I kept on writing them down. And oh no what happened when did this post get so long (Look I was going to either kept on writing my Additional Thoughts in the tags or I just put them in the actual fucking post)

Like considder this: based on this one SBS, we can kinda tell that if Crocodile was given a chance to raise a child, that child would be a spoiled little shit, right

So in this scenario, where Crocodile's looking after lil Robin, would he be kind of torn? Unsure how to feel about her?

Because on one hand, this strange child would have the potential to not only ruin his plans, strip him of his Shichibukai Privileges by outing him and his plans to the World Government, but also put his son in grave danger by extension (if she found out about him having been involved with the Revolutionaries and/or having a child). But on the other hand, his paternal instincts could make him want to spoil this poor little girl rotten. But only because he needs to (perhaps literally) buy her trust so she'll behave. No other reason, he doesn't feel sorry for her one bit, no sirree. (But maybe he did feel sorry for her, since his son could very well end up exactly like her. Poor little thing) (Which is why he needs to nuke Marijoa out of orbit as soon as possible, no matter the cost, and this child can't get in the way of Crocodile protecting his son) (But also this is a child. Like how bad could she be. Besides all he really needs to do to win her trust is be nice and make her feel safe, right?)

Of course, while I'm suggesting Crocodile could have some parental instincts, realistically, he hasn't actually spent any time being, you know, a father to a child (looking after his newborn for an unknown though short amount of time aside), so it's possible he wouldn't even know how to parent Robin even if he wanted to, would he? (Like taking care of a newborn and an 11 year old kid aren't the same either) So if he was kind of just emotionally flipflopping between No Trusting Ever and It's Just A Kid for God's Sake, Crocodile trying to be nice to Robin to make her feel safe and then telling himself to stop being so soft and vunerable... Yeah that would make for an absolute mess of a relationship. (Not to mention, let's be real, dude's a scary motherfucker too, and a bloody giant compared to itty bitty baby Robin. He could keep on accidentally scaring the shit out of Robin (who would be On Fucking Edge To Begin With) by just Being Himself. Like for example, can you fucking imagine if he caught Robin trying to cheer herself up with a little "dereshishishi" only to tell her to stop because "it was stupid"? 'Cause I can imagine him doing that, and boy howdy would that make Robin feel bad)

Or who knows, maybe Crocodile was just Born To Be A Dad, maybe he just Fucking Gets It. Like Crocodile is canonically pretty good at manipulating people to do what he wants them to do (see: how he played Vivi like a fiddle), so knowing Robin's position and understanding how she feels, maybe he COULD completely nail how she needed to be treated. Not being too familiar but still making her feel safe and happy, knowing exactly when to be stern and when to spoil her, etc. Dude just goes off and wins the Dad of the Year Award while being a deadbeat dad himself. The only thing Crocodile would have to worry about then would be making sure HE doesn't get too fond of her. And certainly that could never happen, he's so in-touch with his own feelings and so grounded, he's not a softie, get outta here. Or maybe he does but never realizes until it's too late and good luck backpedalling on those emotions now dumbass

Alright so, the reason I went on that whole rmble is just that like. I'm so interested in the relationship Robin and Crocodile already have in canon. I'm so facinated and curious about how the two feel about each other, considdering they did spend 4 whole years of their lives together as criminal business partners, though neither ever trusted the other. A partnership that was only ended because Robin betrayed Crocodile, out of her own trauma. (God, I want to see these two "reunite" so bad, I want to know how they feel about each other now after the timeskip and Robin joining the idiot in flipflops who foiled Croc's plans)

My question here is just that... if they had met 13 years earlier, would things have been different? Especially if Crocodad Real? Because as I mentioned in the begining, Robin would've been on the run for only 3 years by this point, as opposed to 16 years before running into Crocodile. Simultaneously, this would be before Crocodile went onto spend an entire decade all alone, slowly losing his marbles in his emotional solitude. They'd both be emotionally traumatized, yes, but would it have been as bad in this scenario? Like I did start this post kind of joking about Crocodile adopting Robin, and for clarity's sake I don't think they'd have like a father-daughter relationship nececarily. But it would be a strange relationship still, because we'd have two broken people, both struggling to trust anyone. One who had lost her mother and her only friends, leaving her all alone and afraid while running for her life. The other a father who had just given up his son whom he probably missed dearly. Both having these holes in their hearts from loss of family, holes that could not be filled with replacements. But could they find comfort in each other anyway, because they still as people occupy similar roles to their respective loved ones? If they both could just get over those trust issues?

Okay I've been going off on the Emotional Side Of Things for this AU Concept, THERE'S PLOT TOO

So if Crocodile did pick Robin up like 19 years ago, that should be before he set up base in Alabasta, long before he had built is homebase and financial empire etc.

Now the thing is, while we don't know when, where and how Crocodile learned about the Ancient Weapons, Pluton specifically and how the lead on it would be in Alabasta... Considdering Crocodile did once upon a time aim to become Pirate King, it would make perfect sense if he had learned about Poneglyphs during his past adventures, as he would have needed to get the Road Poneglyphs to find One Piece. And while the World Government did bury the truth about why Ohara had been burned down and why Robin had been given her bounty (remember, the WG claimed it was because she had sunken a fleet of battleships, which she had not, it was because she could read the Poneglyphs), considdering this is a Crocodad AU specifically, you could totally make an argument Crocodile could've learned about what actually happened to Ohara from Dragon and co. So, just to make this AU work, you could just assume Crocodile learned about the concept of the Ancient Weapons from Dragon. And who knows, maybe he overheard the truth about why Robin had been given her bounty from Dragon too (maybe Dragon was able to get intel from Garp in secret) or while going to Marijoa himself to attend a Shichibukai meeting or something IDK.

Maybe he learned about Pluton being in Alabasta before finding Robin by accident, and maybe they made a beeline for Alabasta the second Croc recruited Robin. Travelling takes time and the guy would've most likely had to find an Eternal Pose to Alabasta just to get there (also canonically Robin didn't enter the Grand Line until her 20s so they should've met in West Blue probably, since that's where Ohara was) Or maybe Crocodile had to haul Robin around for a few months while looking for That Missing Piece of Information that would lead him to Alabasta. (Imagine the two travelling from like island to island, library to library, Crocodile trying to find that leads while Robin's just so excited about ALL THESE BOOKS (she's helping too with the research) (but to her, research is playtime, so she's just having the time of her life) (Also, notice how Crocodile's Theoretical Child is a fucking loser ass nerd? Yeah Crocodile would encourage Robin reading and studying, surely. And that would be fucking cute))

But like, once they set sail to Alabasta...

Sure, Crocodile could try to do it The Slow Way that we know he tried in canon, building trust and creating his little empire etc. But also, in canon, Crocodile couldn't have jumped into action head first because without Robin, even if he had found the Poneglyph he couldn't have read it and found the location of Pluton. Crocodile choosing to do it the slow way may have been partially because he didn't have much of a choise and it could've felt like the smarter move long-term.

But in this scenario, he already has Robin. Yes, he could do it the slow, secure way.

But what'd be there stopping him from infiltrating Cobra's palace and kidnapping him (in the night, when nobody suspects a thing), demanding Cobra to spill the beans lest Crocodile kills him and/or his pregnant wife* (*Vivi was born 10 months after Luffy so depending on how long it's been between Crocodad leaving Luffy behind and this scenario... Yeah either the wife is there, still pregnant, or there's a newborn Baby Vivi)

Like it'd be a risky move but depending on how ballsy Croc's feeling and how confident he feels in being able to kidnap the king without being noticed... Yeah he could probably do it. And I'm sure he'd have no problem killing Cobra either, if anything it'd be required if he didn't want the Government to find out he was out to find Pluton, and god knows Cobra would tell on Crocodile if left alive. I could see Crocodad being maybe a little iffy about killing Baby Vivi though (it's not like the newborn baby could report him to the WG anyways), but if nothing else, he just needs to be able to pull off the bluff of his life to convince Cobra to do as he's told. And we all know Crocodile's good at convincing people.

The only question is, how would Robin take that?

Watching Crocodile go into Full Murder Mode, hearing him say he'd kill a pregnant woman/a newborn baby if he didn't get what he wanted? Like yeah, I'm sure 11 year old Robin would be fine with that, that wouldn't make any alarm bells go off in her head at all, it'd be fiiiine. IT WOULD NOT BE FINE, SHE'D BE SCARED SHITLESS. That fear of "what will he do with me when he gets what he wants"? Well, Robin may not have found the answer to that question in particular, but she certainly found the answer to the opposite question, and it's not good

So say Cobra, kidnapped (perhaps with Baby Vivi) by Crocodile in the night, guides the two to the Poneglyph under the tombs. Crocodile puts Cobra out of his misery because he's not needed anymore. And he asks Robin to read the Poneglyph for him.

Robin, who has spent the last little while, be it weeks or months with Crocodile, him having become her "guardian", the thing keeping her safe. Crocodile, who has now shown how cold blooded and cruel he can be. Robin, who might be scared out of her mind. Of him.

And the Poneglyph says Pluton, the thing Crocodile wants, isn't there. It's in Wano.

What's she going to do?

EDIT: I wrote a sequel post, enjoy

#Moon posting #OP Meta #Sir Crocodile #Crocodad #Nico Robin #THIS POST WAS AN ACCIDENT. I DON'T KNOW HOW THIS HAPPENED. WHY DID I WRITE THIS. WHAT DEMON POSSESSED ME #I'm sure someone's written this already right #Right #Surely this fanfic already exists #Please tell me it exists #I dunno what to tell you I am not immune to a Juicy AU #Anyway on a more wholesome side of things: Robin accidentally calling Crocodile ''dad'' and he just inhales and swallows his whole cigar #Nearly chockes to death. Gets burns on his throat.#Robin feeling less alienated because of her DF ability because Croc has seen weirder AND is made of sand himself #If anything if they're literally by themselves then Robin being able to literally lend a hand to Croc at any time could be extremely useful #Like. In regular life situations. 'Cause Croc only has one hand. And Robin as many as she wants. Perfect duo.#(Also if they were travelling on like a small ship then it'd probably be built for a Tall Motherfucker like Croc right)#(Robin's ability would just make the ship more accessible to her and Croc would find that independence good)#Robin still gets a codename because Croc can't have anyone realize who she is. Maybe she even wears like a mask or summin' in public #If Crocodile's openly trans and the news of him transitioning recently broke out. Like. No avoiding that convo eh #Baby Robin's like ''...I read in a book once that some reptiles can change sex but I didn't know crocodiles could do it too''#''💦.../Humans/ can't do that normally either''#''Hmmmm. Weird. I don't think being a girl would suit you though'' // ''...I'll take that as a compliment''#I just. I think they could have really cute interactions if they warmed up to each other after a little while #And I'm Extremely Normal about that

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cheapshrimpysheep · 5 months

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You Will Stop the Wedding! - Leona Kingscholar

SUMMARY: YOU were the one being kidnapped by Princess Eliza to marry her. How would he react and how would he save you? With the aggravation of he already having a crush on you.

CHARACTERS: Leona Kingscholar x Reader

TAGS: Fluff; GN Reader; Declaration

WORD COUNT: 870 words

Riddle Rosehearts / Leona Kingscholar / Azul Ashengrotto / Jamil Viper / Vil Schoenheit / Idia Shroud / Malleus Draconia

Rescuing You - Deuce Spade; Jack Howl; Floyd Leech; Kalim Al-Asim

COMMENTS: What have I done? Why did I commit to writing this? And why did I write so much? Why was I so inspired? There were seven of them! Why do I do this to myself? So yeah, this took me a long time. But I hope it was worth it, for me and for you.

CONTEXT: Someone was kidnapped to marry some ghost princess and might end up turning into a ghost too. And he just found out that someone was you.

Leona couldn't care less about someone being kidnapped by a delusional princess, until he finds out that the student who was kidnapped was YOU.

He is shown to be more interested in the subject after that, which makes the other Housewardens question and some even messing with him. Probably Vil and Azul. He tells them to shut up.

He ends up not being part of the first groups, being in the last. Why? Because this is important, it is your life that is at risk after all. So he first needs to analyse those ghosts to know the best way to act. If it is necessary to risk losing pieces, then let them be pawns.

The whole time he acts like he's not doing this for you. As if he just wanted to prove that he could solve this in an instant. When it's the last group's turn, the other three who are with them end up staying behind to stall the guards. And he is the only one who can reach the ceremony hall.

And he follows the plan. He says to stop the wedding and the reason why the princess should marry him and not you is: “Unlike everyone who tried to woo you and unlike the person standing with you at the altar right now, I am actually royalty. Weren't you looking for a prince? Well, you have one right here. Now you just need to exchange that herbivore you have with you for me.”

The princess said he had good arguments, but she also showed that she didn't really like Leona's presumption.

“I apologize. I'm just trying to show you that I would be the more suited partner for you. The person you chose to be your partner doesn't even want to be there with you. Doesn't even like you.”

She gasps! And she starts to defend herself saying that it's a lie, that there is love for her in you, you just needed a little more time.

“Sorry to be the one to break the bad news to you, Your Highness, but that's not how it works. It is not after marriage that love arises. It is not with money and wealth that love arises. At least not true love. You should find someone who sees beyond that. May they see you for who you are and not for what you have. Someone who doesn't care about titles. And only then, maybe marry them. Knowing that with or without your kingdom, they will stay by your side.”

The princess admits that what he says makes sense and is wonderful. But wouldn't something like that take a long time? Someone who can prove that they would stay with you no matter what. How would she know when she found them? And then, the guard who is in love with her decides to declare himself. And that whole ending of the princess realizing that she loved him too happens, they get married and happily ever after.

After everything, he took the time to brag to the others about having solved the problem and saved them all and the school. Some of the others still comment that that speech was very interesting. Maybe true? But with all his pride, he continues to say that just goes to show what a good actor he can be. He just doesn't get Vil's roles because he's not interested. “You would wish.” Vil replies.

When everyone was leaving and only the first-years were left to clean everything, Leona calls you for a minute. “So the ring ended up not being needed in the end. Tsk.” he comments “Here, you can have it.” He throws the ring towards you like throwing a coin in the air. “You never know if there are more single ghosts out there looking for a herbivore partner. Ha ha ha.”

He likes to mess with you, so you mess with him back. You say you wonder if the ghosts are the only ones who would like to have you as their partner.

“Are you implying that I'm also interested in you?” He smirks. In response, you ask why he would go to so much trouble to save someone he doesn't care about. “Did I ever say I didn't care about you?” He says, still smirking, but then adds: “Before I really know you don't count.”

Slightly fed up with all these mixed signals, you tell him that if he wants to tell you something now would be the time. Especially because if he just continues with those comments, you will simply accept the excuses he gives and understand that he really doesn't like you that way.

“Are you going to tell me that you don't like it when I'm hard to put up with?” he keeps saying with his smug face.

You turn to drop the conversation and walk away. After about three steps, he grabs your hand, stopping you and then pulling you towards him. His other hand on your waist.

“Fine, fine. What if I told you that whole speech was about you?” Maybe if he repeats it, looking into your eyes, you'll believe it. “Unfortunately for you, Savanaclaw is a dorm of actions, not words.” And he kisses your lips.

If you would like to read more from me, you can find it in my pinned post: INDEX

#Twisted Wonderland #twst #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #disney twisted wonderland #twst imagines #twst wonderland #twst fluff #Twisted Wonderland Fluff #Ghost Marriage #The Phantom Bride: Love at First Fright #Leona Kingscholar #Leona Kingscholar x Reader #Leona x Reader

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ponderingmoonlight · 5 months

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would you be able/want to do something with gojo where him and the reader are both teachers and are in an established relationship but the student (aside from megumi) don’t know and start trying to figure out who gojo’s in a relationship with? i feel like gojo would either mess with them or be honest that it’s you but they just don’t believe him cause. yk. it’s you?

Hey, thank you so much for that great request, it was really fun to write! I mixed it up a little with an already existing fic of mine, I hope you don't mind. Let me know what you think <3

Part l to this fic can be found here

Gojo going nuts when his students don't believe him that you are his wife

Pairing: husband!Gojo x fem!reader

Word Count: 1,5k

Synopsis: When Satoru wears his wedding ring for the first time in front of his students, Nobara can't help but wonder who he's married to. But when Gojo confesses it's you, his students just don't believe him.

Warnings: language, sad Gojo lol, this is an absolute comfort fanfic so there you go if that's what you need today, read part l if you haven't yet <3

Tags: @arehzhera @ploylulla @tzubaki @beatrexworld @kenstarsworld @dazaisdick @hellkaiserinphoenix @lauv4chuuya @shadowfoxey @starlightanyaaa @sindela @kayleegomez @sunshine7queen @magalimachete @mokoartpost @gatitam @idontknow1123 @creative1writings @sanicsmut @mynahx3

„Itadori!“ Nobara hisses through gritted teeth.

“Did you just see that?”

“What do you mean?”, Yuji remarks with doe-eyes, gazing up at her with no clue what she’s even talking about.

“That ring on Gojo-sensei’s finger, you idiot”, she barks back at him while frantically running to the door in order to catch one last glimpse at him.

“Is he by any chance married, Fushiguro?”

Megumi signs to himself, staring at Nobara in nothing but annoyance. That talk from last week where she literally forced you to describe Gojo still doesn’t sit right with him. Of course, Megumi knows about your relationship. After all, he’s been with both of you for many years now, witnessed countless times how Gojo caresses your cheek gently in the darkness of privacy, how he calls you “darling” around the house and passes out on the couch next to you 10 minutes into a movie. And even though both of you never talked about this whole marriage being private thing, Megumi simply refuses to talk about your love life – even with his friends.

“I have no idea. But maybe minding your own business will help with your complexion or something”, Megumi bites back.

All of the sudden, Nobara smacks the back of his head hard.

“Hey, that’s pretty mean, you don’t have to be so rough!” Yuji complains in an instant.

“Both of you, shut up. I will just ask him when he returns. Why wouldn’t he tell me?”

“There are actually a lot of reasons not to tell you…”

“SHUT YOUR MOUTH FUSHIGURO!”

“Huh, what’s going on here? I’ve been gone for a minute and you’re already smacking your heads?”

Casually, Satoru sits down behind is desk, long legs stretched out in front of him while nipping at the coffee you just made him. Oh, how much he loves to pay you a small visit during work. Just to be assured that you’re fine, that the second years don’t get on your nerves while training them. He just loves to adore you from afar. Yes, and the minute he gets home, you’re all his and his alone.

“You’re wearing a ring on your finger”, Nobara suddenly blurts out.

Satoru tils his head to the side, gaze wandering over his wedding ring. While he normally never wears it in fear of losing it during some stupid mission, today is your anniversary. The urge to proudly show off his ring became much greater than any anxiety. Also, today is a teaching only day and he’ll return home with you by his side after this lesson is over. The things he has planned for both of you tonight…He smirks to himself, joyful like a child when thinking about the surprise that’s waiting for you at home.

“Gojo-sensei!”

Megumi’s urgent voice rips him out of his daydreams.

“So what? A ring has many meanings”, Satoru replies calmly.

You never talked about this. While you seem to silently agree that showing each other affection at Jujutsu High isn’t what you want and that you are keen to keep your relationship private, you never talked this through. Last week when you described Satoru Gojo so well as your favourite type of men, you never said his name once, probably turned completely red when Yuji mentioned it so casually.

“Yeah, like being married for example!”

“Maybe I am, who knows?”

Satoru intertwines his fingers behind the back of his head, smirking at Nobara who is close to lose her mind widely.

“Maybe you should leave him alone…”, Yuji suggests in hushed tones.

“Maybe you should shut up, Itadori. This is far too important to let it slide!”

“You are way too dramatic about this.”, Megumi comments dryly.

“You guys just don’t understand the magic behind this!”

“So you want to know what this ring means?”

Nobara’s eyes light up in an instant, filled with so much unveiled curiosity that Gojo can’t help but wonder why she is never this invested when it comes to learning.

“Please tell me!”

Let’s see what happens.

“This is my wedding ring. I’m married to (y/n) for three years by now.”

Thick silence, utter speechlessness. The expression on Nobara’s face is so priceless that the urge inside Satoru to take a picture and show it to you later almost becomes unbearable.

“What’s up, Kugisaki? Did you see a ghost?”

“There’s no way in hell this is true”, Nobara mutters into Yuji’s ear, which earns a serious nod from the pink-haired boy.

Wait, what? Satoru furrows his eyebrows while gazing at the girl in front of him in disbelief. What did she just say?

“Why on earth couldn’t this be true, huh?”, he barks at her, hands clenched into fists.

“(y/n) is a real sweetheart with great taste. I just don’t think she would get involved with someone like you. Also, she said that she likes muscular man. And she never wore a ring”, Nobara explains briefly, earning a death stare from Satoru Gojo himself.

Both Yuji and Nobara eye him up and down, critical expression plastered on their faces while whispering unclear things into each other’s ear.

Satoru is on the brick of losing it. Did his students just suggest that you are too good for him? And that he’s not muscular!?

“I am muscular!”, he cries out.

“Megumi-chan, tell them I’m married to (y/n).”

If the ground would be able to swallow Megumi whole, he would take that offer in an instant. They already discussed this stupid matter for over 10 minutes now, when will the lesson finally start?

“Don’t drag me into this. Just do your job”, Megumi mumbles in annoyance.

Of course, Satoru is very aware of the fact that you are striking gorgeous, popular even beyond the boundaries of Jujutsu High. Damn, even here there might be some men who’d want you. But he is the strongest, he is good-looking, he is funny…Why on earth wouldn’t you be married to him?

“See? Nice try Gojo-sensei, but we don’t fall for your shit.”

He can’t believe his ears, face so red that Megumi slides back in his chair just in chase.

“You brats have absolutely no idea what love actually is! I won’t let you tell me who I’m married to or not!”, Satoru spits at his students, catching the attention of you.

Huh, what’s going on inside that classroom? You were on your way to grab some cursed weapons to show Maki, but the way your husband’s furious voice is heard through the entire hall makes you stop in front of his slightly opened door.

“Why are you screaming around here, Sir?”, you question, gazing at Nobara in confusion as she almost breaks down in tears from laughing her ass off.

“(y/n), darling, tell my students that you are my wife!”, Satoru demands.

Is that why he’s so stressed, because he wanted to tell his students that the both of you are married? What is going on here?

“I already told him multiple times we don’t believe him. Last week you said you like muscular man-“

“I AM MUSCULAR!”

You desperately try to hold back a laughter, the stressed out look on your husband’s face being enough to let a little giggle escape your lips. How on earth did that topic even pop up? Your gazer wanders to the wedding ring on his cramped finger, heart filling with warmth in an instant. Oh, he really wears it.

“Maybe he’s wearing that ring only for attention…”, Nobara whispers into Yuji’s ear.

“This is getting ridiculous”, Megumi comments.

“Why don’t we all just calm down a little? Your lesson started 15 minutes ago, why are you still arguing around?”, you playfully throw at your husband.

Despite the fact that you want to throw yourself in his arms right away, you keep your cool composure. This is what he gets for picking on you last week. You’ll make him suffer just the way he did it to you.

“You are supposed to help me with this!”, he complains.

“I am supposed to work right now”, you reply sweetly before turning on your heels and closing the door.

You can’t hold back any longer. Tears start to tickle in your eyes, that priceless look on his face. Oh god, you can’t stop laughing. This evening will definitely be entertaining.

-in the evening-

“Hello, stranger”, you playfully greet your husband as soon as he returns from work, blue orbs almost piercing through you.

“You are supposed to help me! Why didn’t they believe me? I’m I really that much of a downgrade compared to you?”

That little pout forming on his delicate face warms your heart in an instant.

“Maybe it’s better this way. I like to enjoy my time with you in privacy. Nice try though”, you playfully remark, your hands gently running through his soft white hair.

Suddenly he grabs your legs, pulling your body up in the air while all you can to is shriek and laugh out lough. He carries you into the bedroom, letting your body fall onto the soft mattress.

“I will make you pay for not helping me out today you traitor.”

“Then I’m happy to be a traitor.”

2K notes · View notes

spdrwdw · 6 months

Text

Pairing: 1042 Miguel X f!reader Warnings: 18+ (Minors DNI) fluff, smut, food play (Is that a term?), Miguel has a weird kink ( it is still kinktober, after all), oral-m/f receiving, slight breeding kink, unprotected intercourse, no use of y/n Summary: Miguel seems to have a sweet tooth. Not only for the birthday cake you are making for Gabriella's birthday, but also for you. Word Count: 2018 A/N: Thank you to @phoenixflower468 who requested some earth 1042 Miguel content! I will continue working on my other requests. Thank you to those who submitted requests to help my writer's block! ALSO; if you'd like to be tagged for my future fics, please let me know! No translations at the end. I figured most of Miguel fic readers already know some of the Spanish pet names and phrases used by now, lmao Check out more of my work on my Masterlist

☆*:.｡. o .｡.:*☆ ☆*:.｡. o .｡.:*☆ ☆*:.｡. o .｡.:*☆ ☆*:.｡. o .｡.

Tomorrow was Gabriella’s birthday and you were scrambling getting the cake finished. It was already eleven at night and you were covered in flour and frosting. Or was it icing? You could never tell them apart. Anyway, you were decorating the cake when you heard footsteps coming down from the stairs.

You quickly paused what you were doing, trying to hear the footsteps. They were too heavy to be Gabriella’s. Miguel was coming downstairs to check on your progress.

“Miguel. Mi amor, I thought you were sleeping already,” You spoke softly as he made his way into the kitchen, taking a seat on the stool across from you.

“I miss you,” he pouted. God. He was too adorable. He was six foot nine of pure muscle and dad bod and yet he was the most adorable thing in the world. Besides Gabriella, of course.

“Lo siento, Miguel. I’m just trying to get this cake finished,” You apologized as you went back to work. Thankfully, those baking lessons you took back in college were finally paying off. The cake didn’t look half bad at all.

“Why are you making a cake rather than just buying one?” He asked as he took a bit of leftover frosting..or was it icing..and licked it from his finger. You couldn’t help but to bite your lip at the sight. The simplest things this man did made you go feral. It just wasn’t fair.

He noticed your expression and smirked. Oh, he was such a bastard!

“What?” You asked, narrowing your eyes at him.

He simply contained the smirk on his face and grabbed more of the frosting onto his finger and opened his mouth, tongue sticking out slightly before slipping his finger in, letting out a moan.

You crossed your arms over your chest, trying to keep your composure.

“I still need that, you know?”

Miguel chuckled and shrugged. “You know how I get around sweets, querida. I have such a sweet tooth.”

You simply gave him a look before grabbing your things and went back to decorating the cake.

“Yes well, that sweet tooth of yours is going to have to hold off until tomorrow, Miguel. I can’t have you messing this up,” you grumbled, trying to concentrate on your work. You were almost done.

As you tried to concentrate on drawing up some flowers, you could feel Miguel’s strong arms wrapping around your waist, his chin resting against your shoulder as he watched you work.

“You’re doing amazing,” he complimented, placing a kiss on your cheek. You knew what he was trying to do. He was trying to get you distracted.

“Thank you, mi amor,” you hummed, trying to not let him get to you. At least, not until you were finished with Gabri’s cake.

Surprisingly, he was actually behaving, watching you in admiration as you finished up the cake for your daughter.

“Looks perfect,” he hummed as you nodded your head in approval, marveling at your work.

“It does, doesn’t it?” You smiled, glancing over at him before pecking his cheek.

“Mind putting it in the fridge while I clean up?”

Miguel nodded his head and did as he was told before an idea popped into his head and he glanced over at you.

“Take the frosting upstairs with you,” he said, causing you to raise a brow.

“What? Why?” You asked as you continued to clean the kitchen island.

“I want to try something,” he stated.

“Try what?” You pressed, curious as to why Miguel wanted to take the leftover frosting upstairs.

“Just..I’ll show you when we get up there. Come on, mi vida. It’s getting late.”

—-

“What on earth? Miguel!” You gasped as you now laid completely naked in bed, with your hands tied above your head. It was to prevent you from stopping Miguel and his shenanigans.

Miguel shushed you as he squirted some frosting out of the piping bag and onto the bottom of your navel, leading a trail all the way down to your pubic bone.

“I told you I had a sweet tooth, mi vida,” he chuckled before he began licking the frosting off of you.

Your body twitched a bit and you tried to fight back a moan. You had to keep quiet. You didn’t want Gabriella to wake up.

“And you thought this would be a good way to ease your sweet tooth?” You questioned as Miguel began to coat your breasts with the frosting before taking a breast into his mouth, licking and sucking off the sweetness, swirling his tongue around your nipple and tugging at it before doing the same with the other breast. You couldn’t conceal your moans any longer.

“M-Miguel..please..” you breathed.

“Hmm? Please what?” Miguel asked, a smirk on his lips.

“You’re making me all sticky,” you pouted.

“Don’t worry, I’ll wash it off of you later,” he continued to smirk before taking hold of your chin and ordered you to open your mouth. You did as he said, and he squeezed some frosting into your mouth, keeping it along your tongue before he kissed you, slipping his tongue into your mouth to catch the sweetness.

“Mmm, tastes so much better coming from the pretty mouth of yours,” he moaned, licking his lips.

“Alright well, don’t be greedy. Let me in on some of that, too,” you stated.

Miguel chuckled and freed your hands before he began to take off his own clothes. Geez, how did you get so lucky to have a man like him as your husband and father of your child?

Miguel then laid down on the bed as you straddled his waist and saw him open his mouth, tongue hanging out as he waited for you to squirt some frosting onto his tongue. You did just that, shaking your head before leaning down and kissed him hard, all teeth and tongue as you tasted the sweetness in his mouth.

In no time at all, you were both sticky and smelling sweet. The piping bag was now discarded somewhere on the bed, and you were now sitting on his face. Honestly, it was the best seat in the house, if you had anything to say about it.

Miguel was eating you out as if your pussy was the sweetest thing on earth. Tongue slobbering over your folds, teeth nipping at your clit, and long fingers curled into you, hitting you at just the right spot, making you see stars. You couldn’t help but to grind against his face. Miguel could take it, though. He was sturdy.

You tried to cover your mouth to muffle your moans, your other hand stroking his meaty cock. You could feel the veins twitching as your wedding band rubbed against them. Leaning over, you finally took him into your mouth, slowly, of course. You could feel his moan vibrating through you as he continued to eat your pussy, causing you to moan out around his cock in response. After taking in as much of Miguel’s cock as you could, you began bobbing your head, the tip hitting the back of your throat every time.

It wasn’t long until you felt him twitching in your mouth, and you doubled down on your efforts, pumping him with one hand, and gripping his balls with the other as you continued bobbing your head.

You felt his tongue assaulting your pussy, running through your bundle of nerves while his fingers curled up and rubbed against that spot that made you see stars.

In no time at all, you were orgasming into each other’s mouths, and you didn’t dare to waste a single drop of him.

Before you could even blink, Miguel picked you up and flipped you over, pinning you down onto the bed, lining himself between you and rammed his cock into your soaked pussy.

“Oh! Miguel!” You gasped as he pounded into you. The wet, sticky sounds of skin hitting against skin bounced off the walls, filled with the harmony of yours’ and Miguel’s moans.

“You feel so good, mi amor. So fucking good,” Miguel groaned through gritted teeth.

“Kinda makes me wanna put another baby in you. Think that’d be okay?” He grunted. The thought of filling you up and getting you pregnant with another baby made his cock twitch inside of you.

Eh, the conversation of having another child did come up every now and then, and..yeah, why not? Gabriella deserved a sibling.

“M-Miguel..” You breathed, your mind going fuzzy as you tilted your head back against the pillows.

“Qué pasa, amor?” He cooed once he leaned over and pecked you on the cheek, his pace still brutal. You were so close to your orgasm, you gritted your teeth.

“Can’t handle my cock? Hmm? Is my pretty wife gonna cum?” He continued to coo, pivoting his hips against you in a more snapping manner.

“Cum over my cock, mi amor.”

And you did. Because when he commands you to do something such as this, you do it, gladly.

“That’a girl,” Miguel groaned, his thrusts getting sloppy as he reached his limit and came, coating your walls with his seed, filling you up just how you loved it.

Once he was finished, Miguel slowly pulled out of you and laid on top of you, however, didn’t put all his weight on you cuz, the man is huge.

Miguel rested his head over your shoulder as you both caught your breath. Your arms wrapped around him, pulling him closer before kissing his cheek. You just loved him so much. He was a great husband, and a wonderful father. The best person you could ever imagine having as your life partner.

“You alright?” He then asked, a cheeky smile on his face as he gently rubbed your back.

“I’m fine, Miguel,” You giggled softly before kissing him sweetly just as you heard something coming from the hallway. Your eyes suddenly went wide.

Gabriella.

The bedroom door opened as you both scrambled to get your naked bodies under the covers.

Gabriella slowly stepped in, rubbing her sleepy little eyes as she held her stuffed bunny in one hand.

“Mamá? Papá?” She muttered.

“¿Qué pasa, mija?” Miguel asked softly as Gabriella stepped further inside.

“I can’t sleep,” she said, looking up at the both of you.

“Oh, Gabri. Do you want to sleep here with us?” You asked her, and she quickly nodded her head.

“Okay, go grab your blankie and your pillow.”

She then smiled and nodded her head before walking out of the room, and you and Miguel both bolted to the dresser and closet to grab some clothes and a quick change of sheets.

As you fixed up the bed, Miguel as in the bathroom getting himself cleaned up, and then you stepped into the bathroom to do the same just as Gabriella came back in, holding her bunny, blankie and pillow. She climbed onto the clean bed just as you both made your way back out of the bathroom. Miguel closed the door and turned off the lights and joined you two, wrapping his arms around Gabriella.

“Feel better, mija?” You asked with a smile and Gabriella nodded her head, grinning.

“Yeah! I kept hearing these weird sounds and I couldn’t sleep,” she said, causing you and Miguel to look at each other with slight embarrassment.

“I’m sorry, Gabri. Hopefully you won’t hear them again,” you told her, gently stroking her hair as she snuggled up against you. You noticed Miguel pouting over at you, to which you rolled your eyes and smirked at him.

“Let’s get some sleep. It’s your big day tomorrow,” you reminded her, kissing her cheeks as she giggled, nodding her head.

“Good night, ladies,” Miguel said, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you and Gabriella closer to him, having your daughter sandwiched in the middle; which she loved.

“Night night, papà,” Gabriella giggled.

“Goodnight, Miguel,” you smiled over at him and leaned over to give him a goodnight kiss, still being able to taste the frosting on his lips.

Perhaps you had a bit of a sweet tooth as well.

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Tags: @migueloharastruelove, @camzzn

#miguel o'hara #miguel ohara #miguel x reader #miguel o’hara x reader #miguel ohara fanfiction #miguel ohara x reader #miguel o'hara smut #miguel o’hara smut #spiderman 2099 #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel ohara smut #miguel smut #miguel o'hara fanfiction

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princeoftheeternalbog · 6 months

Text

OP characters reacting to you kissing them and running away (here's part 2) established relationship ish. Feel free to ask for other characters.

ALSO I've definitely seen another creator who did this idea with op characters but I can't remember who so if someone could tell me I would really love to credit them :(. I tried to make mine different but still it's the principal of it.

Slightly suggestive in some parts so mdni.

Luffy

Thinks its a new game like tag but with kisses and it ends up actually becoming one. You'll both wait for the other to become distracted and then you'll strike, planting a kiss and sprinting off around the ship or the island you're docked at. It's not hard to chase after each other because the trails of laughter are so easy to follow and it always ends up with one of you on the floor from a tackle or something similar.

Zoro

Gobsmacked. Genuinely his jaw drops especially if there's other people there and you get away so easily only because of how long it takes his brain to boot back online. Oh but he doesn't let it go. He waits until you're in a similar situation, either talking to someone or doing work and he sneaks up to pull you into a deep, intense kiss that leaves your knees weak. Like he fully puts the moves on you, hand on your lower back, other hand cradling your jaw, hes literally licking into your mouth and then he just disappears for the rest of the day. Asshole.

Sanji

You are not running away from this man. Not in a scary way but he can't do just one short kiss, as soon as you're leaning in his hands settle firm on your hips and that grip is not something you can wiggle out of. You can try to run away but he just laughs at you and pulls you closer to him, ofc he would let go if you actually wanted him to but he knows what you're trying to pull. Says something like "Oh? Trying to run darlin? How sweet." swoon- Just don't even bother, he will always try to win if your affection is involved.

Nami

Honestly thinks nothing of it. A lot of your affection is sweet but quick because yk pirate life. But if you look disappointed from her lack of reaction then she catches on quickly and starts playing along. So sweet even though she can be scary. Oh but don't try to run if she's initiating, like Sanji you aren't going to get out of her grip. If she wants to shower you with affection, she is going to thank you very much. If you do manage to slip away she's surprisingly quick and surprisingly stealthy. Like you'll think you got away and you walk into a room and she drops down from the ceiling like fucking batman.

(maybe not that dramatic but shes good)

Robin

She lets you run away but only because she knows she could summon a mouth to kiss you at any time and in any place so she's content knowing she always wins. Also thinks it's really cute when you try to rile her up like this, she just finds it so endearing and usually ends up playing into it anyways- "My, my, aren't you getting so bold my love". Sometimes will purposefully trip you up while you're doing these antics so you can't get away or so you're plan is ruined, absolutely pretends she has no idea what you're talking about.

Usopp

Highly likely he was doing something when it happened. Highly likely he dropped something onto his foot as a result. Yowls like an injured cat and then when his brain catches up it's like steam comes out of his ears. Stands there with his mouth open and pointing at you like you betrayed his entire family. Very funny and very cute. Also a possibility of him smacking you out of fearful instinct in which case he'd probably cry his eyes out and beg for forgiveness. Nami makes it worse by punching him in the face for hitting you. A mess all around if you get him at the wrong time so just be careful.

Ace

Immediately sprinting after you, it's actually a bit scary. But like hey he's not letting you get away with just one measly little peck on the cheek. Absolutely nobody on the crew helps you unless it would be funny, i.e. someone tripping Ace up so he faceplants. If it's near the beginning of your relationship then you likely go back out of concern which he takes as a chance to catch you, but if it's later then you already know this man's antics and you know he wouldn't be injured just from tripping so you use it as an opportunity to get away💪. You still have to kiss it better later though when hes whining to you about how cruel you are for leaving him in the dust(he would do the same).

Izou

Don't bother. As soon as you turn he snatches you by the back of your collar and pulls you onto his lap, proceeds to resume his conversation like nothing is wrong but his arms are firm around your waist and his cheeks and ears are a particularly pretty shade of red. Once his conversation is over and the other person has left, he turns his attention to you with a very pointed look. He's not actually irritated but if he enjoys watching you squirm that's his business. "If you wanted a kiss you should've just asked my love" and then he's practically devouring your mouth. Doesn't care about the other people in the vicinity. Doesn't care that he's smudging his lipstick. Just wants to fluster you more than you flustered him.

Marco

Do you even want to run away from this man lets be real- anyways.

If he's doing work then he just laughs and lets you get away with it, tallys it in his head for later, but if he's free and hes in a good mood then he absolutely plays into it. Will chase after you. Will cheat by using his powers. Its a bit scary but also very attractive, somehow ends with him pinning you in some way (☺️), looks very smug when he wins. Like you'll end up flat on your back, legs trapped under his and his hands restraining yours and he's just grinning- "Oh what a surprise. You were so easy to catch-yoi" Yeah yeah shut up. Absolutely asks what his reward is just to see your shocked face (absolutely asks again later when you two are alone).

Sabo

VILLAIN!!!!!! Sorry only way i can describe how devious and obsessed this man would be. Like Izou he tries to snatch you immediately but you planned for this so you manage to spring out of his grip in time. You falter a bit at his reaction then because he just blinks at you for a while. You start to feel a bit nervous and when he finally grins at you, you definitely feel nervous. "Playing like that are we honey? How about I give you a headstart then?" Evil. You know he's going to catch you. He knows he's going to catch you. He's just giving you false hope but yk hope is hope so you take the chance.

You don't get far. It's not even fair how quickly he catches up to you and gets you underneath him, it takes him barely any effort, not even a strand of hair is out of place. Spends the next 10 minutes kissing you on the floor of the hallway until Koala comes back and promptly drags him back into his office.

#one piece x reader #marco the phoenix x reader #portagas d. ace x reader #x reader #luffy x reader #zoro x reader #sanji x reader #nami x reader #nico robin x reader #ussop x reader #izou x reader #sabo x reader #op headcanons #one piece x gn reader #gn reader #usopp x reader #one piece fics #monster trio x reader

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astonmartinii · 6 months

Text

we don’t play about halloween | max verstappen social media au

pairing: max verstappen x fem reader

max doesn’t play about three things: formula one, his cats and his girlfriend’s love for halloween

MASTERLIST | TIPS

yourusername

liked by oscarpiastri, maxverstappen1 and 607,344 others

tagged: maxverstappen1

yourusername: yes we dress up to carve pumpkins, it’s rude if you don’t.

view all comments

user1: gosh they are so cute

user2: did max just dress as himself whenever he’s within 5ft of y/n?

maxverstappen1: i get why the americans don’t play about the statue of liberty

yourusername: i think they should build one of you in zandvoort

maxverstappen1: and they still wouldn’t worship it as much as i worship you

yourusername: i literally light candles in your name and pray for you with you mum, i think i worship you more sorry

maxverstappen1: the ONLY loss i’ll take

user3: i feel lonely year round because of them but it’s SO much worse during halloween

user4: they are the definition of the couple costume they invented it and they PERFECTED it

landonorris: i thought your apartment was a safe space, why did i get harassed over my costume?

yourusername: it was more of the lack of costume? “streamer” does not count

landonorris: who actually dresses up to carve pumpkins?

maxverstappen1: COOL PEOPLE

yourusername: imagine not dressing up and having an awful pumpkin … could never be me

landonorris: STOP BULLYING ME

maxverstappen1: do better then.

user5: obsessed with how peace and love y/n is for the whole year but as soon as someone doesn’t care about halloween it’s fight time

charles_leclerc: remind me to never accept an invite to a halloween event at the verstappen-l/n household - far TOO much stress

yourusername: but you’re like the only one who deserves an invite to next year because the air max costume slayed

maxverstappen1: i might even let you back on it

charles_leclerc: might???

maxverstappen1: follow me on instagram

yourusername: 2019 was so long ago we really need to move on

danielricciardo: you seriously underestimate just how petty these men are

maxverstappen1

liked by danielricciardo, yourusername and 894,560 others

tagged: yourusername

maxverstappen1: halloween is a full family affair

view all comments

user8: JIMMY AND SASSY I CAN'T

user9: yall looking at the croissant and the lobster i'm focusing on AMY AND NICK?

user10: has max even seen this film?

maxverstappen1: nope i just like doing the costumes y/n wants to do

user11: i wish i had enough friends to have like ten billion halloween parties

oscarpiastri: i didn't know what to expect but i did not think i was going to see alex trying to drown george at the apple bobbing station

yourusername: i let them work out their own mess as long as they don't accidentally flood our living room again

oscarpiastri: AGAIN?

maxverstappen1: f1 drivers are just competitive about apple bobbing as they are about driving

alexalbon: in my defence there is a sick trophy for the champ i simply cannot let anyone else win it

user12: they got a trophy made? and girlies are serious about this?

yourusername: custom trophies for apple bobbing, pumpkin carving and best costume

alexalbon: three time apple bobbing champ right here

charles_leclerc: i'm coming for best costume this year

danielricciardo: pumpkin carving was an easy dub last year

maxverstappen1: but no one has out done us for costumes thus far

yourusername: and that's not bias, there is a democratic voting process x

user13: i need to be in this friendship group right now

yourusername

liked by georgerussell63, maxverstappen1 and 723,409 others

tagged: maxverstappen1

yourusername: it's the most wonderful time of the year ! thanks to everyone who came out and making the spooky season special. p.s. shout out to max who found this wig while going through our costume box and insisted on not taking it off the whole set up.

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user16: NOOOOO WHY IS HALLOWEEN OVER ALREADY

user17: rip to all of us who were hoping for a sexy y/n x max costume

user18: they heard we wanted sexy and gave us ratatouille i hate their asses

oscarpiastri: okay so lando wasn't lying when he said you guys go insane for halloween

yourusername: i fear not. i hope you enjoyed your dip in the pool, we found you in a guest room in my bath robe at 3am

oscarpiastri: oops.

maxverstappen1: you fared better than others on their rookie halloween appearance, just ask lando and charles

landonorris: you told me there was no alcohol in the jelly so it's not my fault i ate the whole bowl and threw up in your shower

yourusername: wow way to blame the victims there lando, you literally blocked the drain

landonorris: MAX SAID THERE WAS NO ALCOHOL

yourusername: it was labelled with the ingredients. you just can't read

landonorris: no comment

yourusername: and charles got so drunk that he decided he would sleep on the couch but got 'lonely' and insisted on cuddling with us

charles_leclerc: Y/N!!!! YOU SAID YOU'D KEEP THAT A SECRET

maxverstappen1: don't worry we thought it was cute

carlossainz55: wait is that why you came as a "cuddle bug" this year?

charles_leclerc: NO

alexalbon: and that must be why he got best costume RIGGORY

yourusername: no riggory here, you and lily as mavis and jonathon were a close second

user19: i won't rest until i have an invite next year.

maxverstappen1

liked by charles_leclerc, yourusername and 821,309 others

tagged: yourusername

maxverstappen1: sorting the recycling with your head barely attached is always the worst part of halloween

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user20: drunk max looks like so much fun

yourusername: i think i might drink my weight in coffee today but i need to see the kitchen floor soon before i lose my mind

user21: ma'am i know you're clinging to life rn but can we know who won what?

alexalbon: ALEX ALBON APPLE BOBBING CHAMP FOUR YEARS IN A ROW

charles_leclerc: i won best costume and it's purely because i'm cute cause NO one there knew about my cuddling escapades last year

landonorris: ugh pretty privilege back at it again

charles_leclerc: jealousy is a disease get well soon

oscarpiastri: my pumpkin ended up winning !! turns out people love a kangaroo in the ghostface mask

maxverstappen1: first rookie to win that title (i am so impressed by the kangaroo)

yourusername: you were actually so good you have to help me with all the decorative ones next year

oscarpiastri: i'm in

user21: but who won the real award - most embarrassing moment?

maxverstappen1: daniel got stuck in the door in his inflatable horse/cowboy costume

danielricciardo: NO esteban dressing as the cheese string man was worse

estebanocon: that's real creativity at least i didn't fall asleep in the bath like carlos

yourusername: not to gang up on carlos but the blanket you took in their is damaged beyond repair and i request a replacement

carlossainz55: fair, but it was me, lando and george in the tub

georgerussell63: fake news @carmenmundt

carmenmundt: i was also at the party babe, it was impressive how you all fit in there

user22: the fact they do all of this and race like two weeks later and the teams just deal with it

maxverstappen1: we've done much worse on race weekends

yourusername: someone didn't have to try and get home after abu dhabi 2021, halloween is nothing compared to that

note: a lil halloween one for you all. i also DO NOT PLAY ABOUT HALLOWEEN. and am currently planning my costume lol. just wanted to get a small one out before all my work comes in tomorrow, much love xx

#f1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 instagram au #f1 #f1 x you #max verstappen imagine #max verstappen fanfic #max verstappen x you #max verstappen instagram au #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen

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ceilidho · 8 months

Text

prompt: you keep seeing apparitions of a dead special forces operative who's been haunting the barracks. (light angst; nsfw) (actual ghost simon riley)

War dogs chewed up and spat out by the machinery of war.

It is an incalculable blow to learn of his death. Worse still that you learn of it by happenstance, one officer talking to another, only listening in because it’s been weeks since you’ve seen him and their voices go hushed in that way that makes your ears prick up. You’re sitting at a nearby table in the canteen when someone says the single most devastating words that have ever been spoken near you.

“They weren’t able to recover the whole body, just some of it. Pretty gruesome. Don’t know if you ever met him, but he was an alright guy—pretty quiet. Scary, yeah, but—I don’t know. He was fair. Got the job done though. Soap’s taking it pretty hard.”

You barely breathe at the news. Something is squeezing your heart until it overfills on the other side.

You walk around base in a daze after that. It’s not anyone’s fault that you aren’t notified—no one was supposed to know. Your whole arrangement with Simon was predicated on the knowledge that it would never be revealed to your commanding officers or the rest of the infantry. Made sense at the time. Makes less sense now when your world is falling apart and you have no way of even requesting Ghost’s dog tags.

Pain holds you upright like a splint while it also tries to smother you. You crawl back to your barracks after training the recruits, voice a hoarse whisper in your throat. Showers are an optimal place to cry, when maybe you won’t be heard. Grief is not grief when there’s nowhere for it to go.

Maybe Soap was privy enough to Ghost’s life to know. He doesn’t spend time with you, but you see him once from across the tarmac on a flight out and his gaze lingers on you. There are deep troughs under his eyes, dark even with the distance between you. His posture is still, rigid; despite his uniform being pressed and his hair being cut and gelled into place, there is something singularly heavy weighing him down.

He nods from across the way to you. You grit your jaw and nod back.

It’s the only time you’ll ever acknowledge it. Soap never seeks you out after that—maybe it’s too painful. Maybe shared pain isn’t always enough.

The worst is only finding out weeks later that Ghost has been buried. That’s your closure. An offhand comment from an operations officer on a smoke break. Your numb hand flicking a lighter. Rain breaking in the early twilight hours and you stand in it so long that you shiver and shake on your way back to your room.

Lightning that crackles in the storm clouds, illuminating the place where you just stood outside while you stare from your window. Illuminating someone standing where you just were. You squint, but they round the bend to one of the other buildings before you can make them out.

Every soldier has a story. Conducting barracks checks on staff duty only to find a soldier with half their jaw missing asking for a cigarette. A marine approaching a soldier asking for his rifle, garbed in a ripped vest from early Iraq. Squad bays known for apparitions, known for hauntings. Figures seen from the trees, the half-shadowed remains of old tanks, burned and hollowed out, suddenly upright and mobile.

In certain barracks, soldiers won’t even leave their rooms at night to use the washroom. They’d rather piss in old bottles or hold off until morning light altogether. It’s common enough to be joked about, for soldiers to trade stories in the mess over supper, trying to spook each other with the things they’ve seen or claimed to see.

You can tell the ones who’ve actually seen things from those who haven’t though. The ones who have are often quieter, often only laugh a little. The truth is buried in their inability to fully commit to the bit. It’s the knowing that does that.

Knowing that there are things that death cannot hide.

The first time you see Simon again, it’s not a homecoming. You know there’s something very wrong.

It’s 3am and someone’s standing in front of your door. You feel it before you see them, feel something like every single hair on your body standing on end and the sudden lucid thought in the middle of a dream that you need to wake up. That you need to wake up right now.

Heart racing when your eyes snap open. Sweat already slicking the backs of your knees. You’re lying on your side, hands curled close to your face, and you feel its gaze on you like the heaviest dread you’ve ever felt in your life. You stare at the wall that your bed is pushed up against until you find the courage to roll over.

Just a shape in the dark. A dark shape. Distinct from the rest of the darkness in your room. Tall as it is wide. The slightest motion to it, like breathing or the gentle swaying of the human body when it’s allowed to be loose.

There’s a lamp on your end table. You flick it on without tearing your eyes away from the dark shape looming by the door, but when light unveils your room, it flickers away like a bad illusion. Just a jacket hung up on the back of the door. Your heart races still.

When the light goes off, the shadow doesn’t reappear.

It might not be him, but something’s haunting you. You spoon cereal into your mouth in the morning with a shaking hand. It’s the massive shape of a body behind the shower curtain in your private bathroom that has you certain—certain—that someone’s there until you whip it to the side and see only tile wall. You know what you saw though, and you know from the way the top of it peeked over the curtain that it was blond.

Weeks go by. You’re in a bivy sack and a voice you recognize wakes you up for watch. It’s the same voice that used to rumble low in your ear when you let him into your bed on leave (you always used to take them at the same time, no one the wiser). You’re back on base in your room and something leans its full weight onto your bed. You wake up to him sitting on the edge of your bed, blood dripping from an old wound. Him though, skull mask and all. Eyes shadowed always, black staring at you seeing and unseeing.

You don’t need to ask what he wants from you. He lumbers around the barracks like a wraith that only you can see. Never truer to his old moniker than he is in death. A civilian worker flirts with you one day and he winds up in the infirmary. Fell down the stairs, another sergeant tells you when you ask. You smile tight, brittle. If only.

He slips into your bed at night when the lights are shut and you’ve turned over onto your side. You can’t see him, but the bed compresses under his weight like it did when he was alive. He’s still for a minute, stare heavy on you while you lie there motionless, waiting him out. When he finally lays a hand on your hip, you flinch at how normal it feels. Like he didn’t go out and die one day. Like it’s really him at your back dragging a hand down the curve of your hip and over your thigh.

He divests you of your pyjamas the same way he used to in motel rooms, your apartment off-base, his cabin up north that you still have the key to but can’t bring yourself to visit. You let him. Shorts pulled down and kicked to the bottom of the bed, then your underwear. Shirt rucked up so he can fit a big, rough hand over your tit. His hands are solid where they touch you, nothing ghostly about them. He squeezes like the memory of your flesh is half-gone, like he needs to sink himself into you again.

“Missed…you…” His voice comes like a deep rumble, tectonic plates shifting over the asthenosphere.

The hand on your breast slides up, over the delicate skin of your throat, over where your pulse goes mad and you dry swallow because there’s nothing in your mouth. Over and up the curve of your cheek, thumb pressing against your lips, curling your top lip up until you’re almost kissing it. Then he lets go, hand coming back down to your hip.

“Simon, are you—” you start, cut off on a gasp when he lifts your leg over his hip and something presses against your opening. Notches there, sinks in hot inch after hot inch. Head spinning and breath wild when he spears you on his thick length, half-tumbling over you until you’re lying prone on your bed. Simon’s as heavy as you remember, the full weight of him keeping you trapped there. You can only take. You can only draw in a deep breath and let out the softest sounds while he presses in,

“Had to…come back,” the ghost of your old lover says, growling into your ear. “Couldn’t…leave you here…alone.”

You wonder what’s really behind the mask this time. His hands and dick feel flesh enough, but fear still quivers in your belly because you know that whatever it is pressing you down with a firm hand on your shoulder blade, it’s not fully him.

You’ve heard of ghosts haunting places but never people. There’s something achingly loyal about the way he fucks you though. It’s dark and hot under him, and he mouths where he can, mask pulled up finally. Not that you can see. Better that you can’t, maybe. Pulsing in and out of your cunt, silent but for his shallow intakes of breath. He feels enormous and terrifying at your back.

A big arm still clad in his old uniform jacket is braced beside your head. Simon whispers apologies into your hair; that he pulled himself out of a grave for a second time because he couldn’t untangle his soul from yours, but he got it wrong this time around. He didn’t make it in time.

“I won’t leave you though, love,” he says around kisses laid tender on the nape of your neck. He bites the meat of your shoulder hard enough to leave an imprint of his teeth. “Never gonna leave you.” His words make you slicker, hotter; tightening around him until he snarls and fucks more viciously. A promise you thought he couldn’t keep.

In the morning, you stare at yourself in the bathroom mirror. You take off your shirt and turn around. There’s a red bite mark on your upper left shoulder and it aches when you touch it.

#cod mw2 #ceil writing #cod x reader #cod simon riley #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost cod #ghost/reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley x you

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upat4amwiththemoon · 26 days

Note

Okay AN IDEA !

If you like it you can use it, if it's not something you wanna write that's perfectly fine too !!

So the request is for wandanat x daughter reader

R is secretly spider girl, only Tony stark knows because he's the one who got her the spider suit. R knows her moms would absolutely be against it, always telling her to stay away from that "spider girl" (not knowing it's actually their daughter. Yes like aunt May does in Spiderman : home coming :3)

So let's say R gets into trouble after trying to fight a villain way too strong compared to her and ends up being saved by wanda herself. Wanda finds out at this moment that the spider girl is her daughter and you can choose how the story goes from there

💕

(your favorite mf who sent 8678 request)

Spider-Girl

Summary: Is it a plane? Is it the Friendly neighborhood Spider-Girl? Sort of, it’s a girl who doesn’t listen to her moms!

Pairing: WandaNat x daughter!reader

Warnings: violence

Word count: 2111

a/n: there surely are words written down here

Tags: @thought-of-you-and-me @rafecameronswhore @emsmultiverse @natashamaximoff69

masterlists | guidelines

A video of the Spider-Girl stopping bank robbers is shown on the evening news. Y/N stares at the television screen as she eats with her moms, at times glancing at them to see if they’re paying attention to the news.

Natasha shuts off the television with a sigh, throwing the remote to the couch afterwards. Y/N turns to look at her scrunched brows and pursed lips. “If you ever see that Spider-Girl, stay away from her, okay? We don’t want you getting dragged into anything she does.” Her mother mumbles while eating.

Y/N rolls her eyes, though she hides it from her mom. “Mhm.”

“We’re serious about this, Y/N.” Wanda sets her cutlery down, looking at her daughter. “It’s dangerous and we don’t want you getting hurt.”

“I know,” she pushes her plate away, still half full, “you think I can’t handle myself.” Her voice is full of defiance as she mumbles.

The two women sigh as they glance at each other and their daughter, who is keeping her eyes away from them. This isn’t the first time conversations like this have come up.

“It’s not that we think you’re incapable,” Natasha raises her brows as Wanda starts speaking, which makes her wife give her a subtle slap to the arm, “we’re afraid that the bad guys will hit you twice as hard when they realize whose daughter you are.”

“Mhm.” Is all the answer her mothers get before she excuses herself from the dining table and makes her way to her bedroom.

As Y/N slams the door shut, she locks it and moves the curtains in front of her single window. Sitting down to her bed, she closes her eyes and takes some deep breath, calming down her mind. She is aware her mother would never read her mine without permission, unless absolutely necessary, but Y/N likes to make sure there are no loose ends.

Her mind clears from any unwanted thoughts—thanks to Natasha making her meditate with her since she was a kid—and a smile appears on her face. Y/N walks over to her wardrobe, her steps light as she opens it and starts digging through the mess of things inside. She finds the back wall of the wardrobe and moves it out of her way, taking her suit out of its hiding place.

She slips on her Spider-Girl suit, grinning from ear to ear at the empowering feeling the suit gives her. This is what she wants to do. This is her life.

Pressing her ear against the chilly wooden door, listening to the quiet sound of a laugh track coming from the television. Her mom won’t come bother her when they think she is upset. She has plenty of time to fight crime.

Y/N opens her window and climbs out of it, the palms of her suit sticking to the walls of her home as she makes her way to the roof. She shivers as the wind picks up, but she doesn’t let it bother her.

The homemade web shoots out of the web shooter and she flies towards the city centre, where the evening bustle is starting to wake up. She props herself on top of a building, it’s high enough to be hidden from the people, but still low enough to keep an eye on the streets.

After a few minutes of surveilling the area, a bright light flashes just outside the city, leaving a trail of smoke behind. Y/N grins and makes her way to the smoke, practically flying over the buildings as she glides in the air with the web wings of her suit.

It only takes her around 15 minutes to get near the site. She lands on top of an industrial building, staying low as her eyes adjust to the lack of bright city lights.

Y/N can quickly figure out where the light came from. There is a machine on an otherwise unoccupied patch of land between all the abandoned looking buildings. The machine is big, but it looks crude, handmade. She frowns, not feeling good about any of this. It’s still slightly smoking when two men wearing safety gear finally step onto her line of sight.

She tries to hear what they’re talking about, but they’re too quiet even with her heightened sense of hearing. Her eyes scan over the near area, trying to calculate how safe she’d be if she made herself known to them. Not seeing anything on top of the two men and the machine, she starts quietly crawling closer, keeping a close eye to the men’s hands.

Suddenly, a buzzing sensation fills her mind. She snaps her head to the direction her spidey senses guide her, and even though she is fast, it’s not enough. A third man has climbed onto the roof. He is holding a weapon Y/N doesn’t recognize and shoots it before she is able to react.

A bolt of electricity flies out of the gun-like weapon. It hits Y/N right on her side, making her lose her grip and fall down from the building, all the way to the ground. A small cloud of dust puffs out from the impact.

With a groan, Y/N opens her eyes, seeing the two men standing over her with grins on their faces. “Well, well, well,” one of them chuckles, “what do we have here?” His voice is low and raspy, the smoked a pack a day for years kind of voice.

She lets out a quiet growl-like noise, which clearly doesn’t intimidate the men. “What’s she supposed to be?” The other man mumbles, his head tilting from side to side as he studies Y/N’s suit. “Some kind of bug, eh?”

Using the moment to her advantage, she pushes herself on her feet with a move Natasha taught her, webbing one of the men to the face and kicking the other’s knee. The men let out surprised noises, stumbling away from Y/N, which gives her a slight advantage as she starts fighting them.

She does well for a while, at least when there’s only two of them fighting her, but slowly she starts hearing noises growing louder, like running.

Just as she knocks one of the men unconscious and stick the other to a wall with her web, a group of people with the man who shot her in front arrive. “Shit.” Y/N pants, already having used a lot of energy. The man raises his weapon, shooting an electric bolt again.

Y/N lets out a shout as the bolt of energy hits her square in the chest. She flies a few meters back, landing on her back with a grunt. Her hand flies up to her mask, quickly whispering, “SOS,” before she stands back up.

“The Avengers have been notified.” A robotic female voice speaks up.

Mumbling out a quiet thanks to her artificial intelligence helper, Y/N lunges towards the men again. She feels as if part of her strength is back, now that she knows Tony is coming, but reality hits her like a brick wall once an electric beam hits her.

“I’m getting tired of this.” Y/N grumbles, shooting webs to one of the weapons hitting her.

She webs herself into the air, using the altitude as an advantage against the men. While one of the men is still busy with getting the web out of his gun, Y/N swings down, feet first, on one man’s head.

The impact makes a nasty cracking sound, one that makes Y/N cringe. “Sorry!” She lands on the ground, on her feet, while the man falls on his back, unconscious, hopefully. Her spider senses active, and this time she has enough time to web away another weapon pointed at her. What she doesn’t notice is a new group of men on top of a building pushing down a cell tower.

“Take that!” Y/N mumbles to herself, making up sound effects as she shoots her webs, trapping a man to the ground.

A crashing sound gets her attention. She looks up into the sky, where the cell tower is falling down right towards her. She goes to shoot out a web, but nothing comes out of her suit. She lets out an ear shattering scream when the metallic tower drops right on top of her.

Tears are brimming her eyes as she heaves, trapped under the structure. Her vision is blurred and she can taste blood. The men around her look pleased, ready to end it, until one of them flies away.

The others start looking around, shooting at the smallest movements and noises, but one by one they get either flown away or shocked unconscious.

Y/N recognizes the familiar red wisps of magic in the air, and the small widow bites flying. She lets out quiet curses as she starts pushing herself up, using all of her strength to push the structure off of her.

“Let me help you with that.” Wanda lands in front of her, easily lifting the cell tower with her magic while Natasha punches the last man standing unconscious. “Are you alright?” She helps Y/N up, letting her lean on her for support.

Y/N nods, not daring to speak. She knows her mother would recognize her voice. “You got hurt pretty bad. We could help patch you up.” Natasha states as she walks over to them after letting Tony know someone could come collect the men now.

Y/N shakes her head, her eyes wide, though the two women can’t see it. She steps away from Wanda’s hold, giving them finger guns before going to web herself away from the situation. “Shit!” She grumbles as nothing happens.

Wanda frowns. She flicks her wrist, causing the mask on Y/N’s face to fly away. “Y/N!”

Gasping, Y/N looks at her moms with wide eyes. “I can explain! It’s not what it looks like.” She holds out her hands.

“It looks like you sneaked out to fight bad guys on your own,” Natasha’s hands are crossed over her chest, “and you didn’t tell us you’re Spider-Girl.”

“Well-“ Y/N opens and closes her mouth a couple of times, “that’s.. that’s it.” She mumbles, avoiding looking at her moms. They’re angry, so very angry.

“What in the world were you thinking?” Wanda scolds, though concern clearly slips through her angry tone. She walks over to Y/N and starts looking at the wounds she has. “This could’ve ended up so much worse. Do you understand that?”

“Yes..”

“How long have you been doing this?” Natasha walks over as well, wrapping her arm around Y/N’s waist so she could lean on her.

Y/N has a sheepish smile on her face, “as long as you’ve seen Spider-Girl on the television.” They start walking towards Natasha’s car.

Letting out a quiet huff, Wanda shakes her head. “You’re so lucky I’m more worried about your health right now.” She gives Y/N a pointed look, a look that says you’re in so much trouble. “But you better believe we are going to take that suit away and ground you until you’re 30, do you hear me? You will never leave the house again.”

Natasha opens the back door for Y/N, helping her in before getting in herself, while Wanda gets into the driver’s seat. “Who gave you the suit?”

“Tony.” Y/N says quickly. She’ll happily put some of the blame on someone else than herself.

“Oh, I’m going to kill him.” Wanda states from the front of the car.

“I’ll help you.” Natasha mumbles, pulling Y/N closer as she starts to look over her wounds. “You know Wanda is right, yeah? Once you’ve healed up properly we will talk about consequences. And you can never do this again, never ever.” Her hands are on her daughter’s cheeks to hold eye contact, she wants to make sure Y/N is really hearing her.

She nods. She understands this was a close call, she has never gotten this hurt before, but Y/N doesn’t see it as a reason to completely stop. She can get better.

Natasha pulls her close, kissing the side of her head gently. “At least not before you train with us.” She whispers, giving her a small wink before going back to acting as if she never said anything.

Y/N can’t help but let a grin grow on her face. She looks down at her lap to hide it from Wanda, who keeps glancing at her from the rear view mirror.

She’ll never stop being Spider-Girl.

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joelalorian · 10 days

Text

Fall Into Me - Chapter Six: And I Knew My Heart Wasn't Mine

dbf!Joel x f!reader

Summary: Joel is hanging on by a thread as a single father to a tenacious 10-year-old Sarah. Feeling like he's drowning, like the world is about to spit him out, he needs some help before he breaks in half. At your dad's insistence, you show up in his life and change everything.

Story is inspired by the song Fall Into Me by Forest Blakk. Chapter titles will be lyrics from the song.

Word Count: 3.8k

Chapter Warnings: Explicit, under 18 take a hike. No outbreak AU. Lots of feelings, confusion, and self doubt. Two idiots falling in love. Finally some smut-ish stuff. Dry humping on the couch. Joel is his own warning. Tommy keeping it real. Age gap of about 9 years (Reader 24/25, Joel 33/34). No use of y/n. Reader has a nickname used only by her dad.

Dividers by the wonderful @saradika-graphics

Some of the tags aren't working in the taglist - if you're not getting the notifications, please check your settings to make sure you are taggable. Thx!

Chapter Five | Main Masterlist

Sitting at the kitchen table on Sunday morning, you reviewed an email on your phone from the Texas Education Agency. Relief washed over you. The State Board finally approved your certification after jumping through a million hoops, just in time for your upcoming meeting at Sarah’s school.

Yet another step closer to finally feeling like an actual adult contributing to society.

“Morning, Spud,” your dad greeted as he walked into the kitchen in search of his morning coffee. “You’re up early. Did you have fun with Sarah yesterday?”

“I figured I’d seize the day and all that. I had a blast yesterday! Sarah is so smart, and Joel was really nice, as always,” you replied, playing down quite how much of a roll Joel had in making the day so enjoyable. You still couldn’t believe how things worked out.

Joel Miller, dead sexy single father, liked you, wanted to be with you. Little morsels of doubt tried to weasel their way into your mind, trying to make you question what was so special about you that a man like Joel would be interested in. You shook those thoughts away, resolving to believe that you deserved someone like him, someone who liked you for who you were and not who they wanted you to be.

“He comes from good stock, that Joel,” your dad interrupted you’re wandering thoughts. “Not sure what happened with Tommy, though. Musta been dropped on his head as a baby or somethin’.”

“Dad!” you laughed, shaking your head. “There’s nothing wrong with the guy. He’s young, single, and unburdened by responsibility. I imagine you were like that once upon a time.”

“Musta been so long ago I can’t remember,” he replied, hip checking you into the counter when you stood to place your glass in the sink. “Watch yourself there, Spud.”

“Jeez, thanks, Dad,” you replied with an amused eye roll. Your dad watched as you tidied up your little mess from breakfast and grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge.

“You know, Spud. You’d do well to find a man like Joel. He’s a really good guy. Shame he doesn’t date. All the women go crazy over him.”

Your dad kept going on about Joel’s aversion to dating, but your mind froze on that one simple statement – you’d do well to find a man like Joel. You tuned back in just in time to hear him say, “He needs to settle down with a girl like you. Someone smart and responsible who’ll still give him a run for his money.”

Practically bursting with the urge to admit that you and Joel just officially started seeing each other, you curled your lips between your teeth and just nodded. You promised Joel you’d wait a bit before mentioning anything to your dad and you planned on keeping that promise. “He should be so lucky to find someone like me,” you sassed finally.

The day carried on as you spent some quality time with your dad watching TV and lounging around. It was refreshing and relaxing, reminding you of times past where the two of you spent a bunch of time together.

The urge to text you plagued Joel all day Sunday, distracting his attention from the football game until Tommy finally snatched the phone out of his hands and hid it.

“Enough, brother. You’re like a lovesick fool checking your phone every five fuckin’ seconds. You just spent the day together yesterday. Give her a little breathin’ room,” Tommy chastised. “Women like a little mystery after all.”

Flopping back into the couch cushions with a huff, Joel crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I don’t want to play games with her, Tommy. None of that aloof, hard to get bullshit.”

Shaking his head, Tommy waited until a commercial break to turn to his brother again. “I’m not sayin’ to play games. I’m just sayin’ you don’t need to be up her ass 24/7. You’ll see her every day this week. It’s ok to build up a little healthy anticipation today.”

Joel knew his brother had a point. He just couldn’t help himself. It’d been so long since he felt like this about someone – if he ever really did before – and it was messing with his head. Berating himself for not even kissing you yesterday, Joel wanted to at least text with you today. It felt somehow wrong to not talk to you.

Then again, you hadn’t texted him either.

Tommy made a valiant effort to distract Joel from his thoughts, talking statistics about the game and the players, anything to get the guy talking. It only worked for so long before Tommy couldn’t take it anymore.

“Alright, how ‘bout this. I’ll take Sarah for a dinner and ice cream date tomorrow so you two can spend some time alone. Get a little action in and maybe that’ll help you get your head out of the clouds.”

For the first time in hours, Joel’s face lit up. “You sure?”

“I wouldn’t offer otherwise,” Tommy replied. “You two need to figure out if there’s something there and you can’t do that with a ten-year-old hanging around all the time. Not unless you want to scar her for life.”

Joel nodded, reaching out to take his phone back. Before letting go of it, Tommy grinned. “I already texted her for you. You’re welcome.”

Ripping his phone out of his brother’s hand, Joel scrolled through his text messages to find what Tommy sent you.

JM: Hey sweetheart. Netflix and chill tomorrow?

He only knew what that meant because of Tommy and you had to know that wasn’t something Joel would say. “Jesus fucking Christ, Tommy!” Joel growled, his ears turning red from what you must think. He was about to really lay into his brother for overstepping when you responded.

You: Netflix and chill, huh? Sounds like my kinda date 😉

Not expecting that response, Joel chuckled. Maybe Tommy knew exactly what he was doing after all.

“Like I said, you’re welcome,” Tommy teased when he saw the goofy smile on his brother’s face.

Joel ignored him, proceeding to ask you about your day. The two of you texted back and forth well into the night until it was time for bed.

Climbing between the cold sheets of his large, empty bed, Joel wished you were there with him. He could already imagine you there, falling asleep together after a romp or two, waking up next to you in the morning. It sounded like heaven to him.

Hmm, maybe he could Netflix and chill his way to convincing you to spend the night tomorrow.

You didn’t know what to expect when you walked into Joel’s house Monday morning, but it certainly wasn’t a flustered Joel, knelt on the floor, staring down at a mess of pancake mix surrounding him and Sarah giggling her little heart out at the breakfast table.

“What happened here?” you asked, hands on your hips and eyes surveying the damage. “Did you have a fight with the boxed pancake mix.”

“He really did!” Sarah exclaimed, still laughing. “It went everywhere!”

“I see that,” you replied, grinning at her before turning back to Joel.

He stared up at you with wide, sad eyes and shoulders slumped. “I couldn’t get it open and then it just…” His arms spread wide, gesturing at the powdery mess on the tile in such an endearing way. You couldn’t stop your smile from growing wider.

“Go finish getting ready for work. I’ll get Sarah some cereal and clean this mess up,” you directed, gently pulling him to his feet and around the mess.

“You shouldn’t have to clean up my mess, sweetheart,” Joel replied, pulling you in for a hug. You could tell the warm press of your bodies together made him feel better and you basked in it as well, not minding the bit of pancake mix that transferred to your clothes.

“Don’t worry, I got it. Now git!” One hand swatted at his ass playfully as he rushed out of the room. “Now, what kind of cereal do you want, nugget?”

Fifteen minutes later, Joel returned to find the mess gone and you running a mop over the tile to wipe away any last remnants of the pancake mix disaster. Sarah already finished her cereal and was upstairs brushing her teeth before it was time to head to school. When you put the mop back into the bucket, Joel crept up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist. He pulled you close until your back was flush against his chest.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” he breathed in your ear, sending a flood of goosebumps down your arms. Joel pressed his lips to the spot just below your ear and left a trail of kisses down your neck. The feel of his lips on your skin exceeded any expectations you had, and a contented sigh left your own lips.

With a hurried tenderness, he spun you around in his arms, the mop forgotten as it nearly fell out of the bucket. Faces close together now, your eyes drank in every detail of him from the richness of his dark brown eyes, the curve of his nose, the purposeful stubble of his beard, and, finally, to the fullness of his bottom lip. You could feel his eyes doing the same, drinking in every bit of your face before tilting his head impossibly closer.

“I’m going to kiss you now, ok?” Joel murmured; lips nearly pressed to yours already and you hummed in approval.

After all the weeks of mutual pining and self-doubt, Joel finally kissed you. It started as a soft press of lips and quickly morphed into an overwhelming need to devour each other when his tongue teased along the seam of your lips, begging entry to deepen the kiss. Teeth knocked together and tongues tangled as you tasted each other – somehow, the taste of coffee was suddenly appealing when it came from Joel’s mouth.

Hands wandered – his over your curves and yours into his luscious, dark curls. Joel’s hair felt as silky as it looked, and you had been itching to get your fingers in it from the moment you met him.

The sound of Sarah’s footsteps bouncing down the stairs broke the two of you apart, breathless, and dazed.

“Wow,” Joel murmured, struggling to remove his hands from your waist.

You smiled up at him, equally unwilling to remove your fingers from his hair. “Exactly,” you whispered, stepping back with your hands at your side just as Sarah entered the kitchen.

“I’m ready!” she declared excitedly and you both grinned at her cuteness.

“Okay, nugget. Let’s head out.”

Heart melting in your chest, you watched Joel and Sarah do their morning routine of saying goodbye. The love between the two of them was so strong it was like a tangible thing you could hold in your hands. Nostalgia washed over you as memories of your own childhood, moments like this with your dad, flooded your mind. What you had with your dad, what Joel and Sarah had together, was a connection that would never fade, only grow stronger with time.

Briefly, you wondered if your evolving relationship with Joel would affect that connection, interfere with it in anyway. You couldn’t move forward with him if that was the case. Some woman showing up and changing the dynamic between you and your dad would have upset you as a child and you refused to be the cause of any upset Sarah felt.

When the two of them stepped back from their hug and grinned at you, any question about your place in their dynamic washed down the drain. You felt nearly dizzy with relief when Sarah quickly said, “Give her a hug, too, Daddy,” and shoved him as hard as she could in your direction.

With a chuckle, Joel gave in to Sarah’s demand, wrapping his arms around you. The broadness of him surrounded you, enveloping you in warmth and a sense of security you’d not experienced before. Was that what love felt like?

“Have a good day, darlin’. I’ll see you later,” Joel’s deep voice was but a whisper in your ear, his lips just grazing your earlobe. “I’m looking forward to tonight.”

Warmth raced up your neck to your cheeks and you squeezed your thighs together in anticipation of what you hoped would happen later. “You have a good day too, Joel. Be careful, ok?”

“Always, darlin’.” He winked as you led Sarah out the front door to your car.

The journey to Sarah’s school started off quietly, Sarah bopping along to the music on the radio as you navigated the morning traffic. Your thoughts wandered to what you should wear later when Sarah startled you with a sudden question.

“Are you my dad’s girlfriend now?”

She asked the question so nonchalantly that you weren’t sure how to respond. Would she be upset with whatever answer you gave? Was there even a right or wrong answer? What did she want to hear? Mind racing, you settled on asking Sarah a question in return.

“Would you be upset if I was?”

Tilting her head side to side a few times, the little girl contemplated her answer while you held your breath. She turned to you with a smile so big it scrunched up her nose. “Nope! It’d make me really happy.”

“Really?” Your eyebrows were nearly at your hairline.

“Uh huh. You’re the coolest and prettiest. My dad would be lucky if you were his girlfriend,” Sarah admitted with all the confidence and knowledge of a ten-year-old. Another head tilt and she added, “So, are you?”

Equal parts amazed and grateful for Sarah’s acceptance of the idea, you opted for honesty. “I mean, I don’t know,” you shrugged. How could you explain what you had to a 10-year-old? “We haven’t talked about naming it yet, but we did decide to see how we like being together. Does that make sense?”

Sarah gave it a moment of thought. “Yeah, I think so. It’s kinda like how you’re a teacher, but not officially until you get the job, right?”

You laughed at the comparison with a nod. “Exactly. I’m as good as your dad’s girlfriend, we just haven’t made titles official yet.” You pulled up in front of the school and it was Sarah’s turn to get out. “Now get going, nugget. Have a good day!”

The little girl bounced out of the car, calling out to one of her friends. Just before you pulled away, you heard Sarah tell the other girl that you were her dad’s not-yet girlfriend.

The day absolutely dragged. Joel could swear that time went backwards every time he looked at a clock. It didn’t help that every single subcontractor gave him a hard time about something today.

The roof trusses arrived six weeks early and the sub refused to take them back even though the damn things would rot before they got to the roofing phase of construction. The company he rented the extra backhoe from wanted to raise their rates in the middle of his contract. The list went on and Joel ran out of patience three hours ago.

The only thing holding him together was the thought of you. Spending time with you. Kissing you. Touching you. Burying himself inside you… He adjusted himself with a sigh. Damn, he needed to put those particular thoughts on ice before he got himself riled up. The workday was shitty enough, he didn’t need the guys giving him a hard time about an untimely chub in his pants.

Finally, Joel had enough of everyone’s bullshit and called it a day, leaving his foreman in charge of the worksite.

“Off to doll yourself up, are ya?” Tommy teased as Joel headed for his truck. Gesturing in the general direction of Joel’s crotch, he added, “You remember how to use that thing? Make sure to clear out the cobwebs and use protection!”

“Jesus, Tommy,” Joel grumbled, climbing into his truck, and driving off. He knew his brother was only teasing, but Joel was nervous enough as it was. He didn’t need Tommy getting in his head. He did have a point about protection, though.

A quick stop at the convenience store to grab a box of condoms, Joel made it home before you and Sarah. Putting on some 90s rock, he jumped in the shower, putting in the extra effort to tidy himself up down there. He wondered if you preferred pubic hair or not. Fearing he was getting way ahead of himself, Joel opted to just trim his down and hoped for the best.

By the time he finished trimming his facial hair and tousling his curls, you and Sarah were downstairs, working on her homework. As he walked down the stairs, Joel could hear you encouraging his daughter to think the questions through and congratulating her when she got the answers right. His heart grew three sizes watching how you were with Sarah. You held his whole world in the palm of your hand and treasured it like the precious cargo it was.

Joel was falling so hard for you. You were quickly gaining the power to destroy him.

“Hi Daddy!” Sarah called out when she spotted him in the doorway. “We just finished my math homework. Can I play in the backyard?”

He set up a tire swing on the large live oak out back a week ago and it quickly became his little girl’s happy place. “Of course, nugget. Come give your old man a hug first.” Bending down, Joel swept Sarah up in his arms, biceps stretching his shirt sleeves as he swung her around in a circle. Sarah’s laughter echoed through the room, and you smiled sweetly at the pair of them.

“Uncle Tommy’s coming to take you out for dinner and ice cream in a bit. Ok?” Sarah nodded when he settled her back on her feet and raced for the sliding door. Once she was out of sight and earshot, Joel turned to you. “Come ‘ere, darlin’,” he said, voice deep and velvety.

Your body followed his command without conscious thought, so great the need to be in his arms. “I thought about you all day,” you admitted, staring up at him with wide eyes.

“Me, too. Could hardly focus on the job thinking about you and spending this evening together.” He tightened his arms around you, head bending to seal his lips to yours. When your lips parted at his prompting, Joel teased your plush bottom lip with his teeth. “It’s like a tasty little gummy worm,” he teased. “I could nibble on it all day.”

You moaned into his mouth, the little breathless sound music to his ears.

The kiss deepened until you were licking into each other’s mouths, hands wandering and grasping for purchase on any piece of real estate you could reach. Neither of you heard the front door open or the footsteps approaching the kitchen.

“Am I interrupting somethin’?” he asked cheekily as the two of you sprang apart, disheveled and gasping for breath.

Joel ran a hand down his face, closing his eyes for a moment to gather himself. “Excellent timing as always, brother.”

“Y’all just couldn’t wait five more minutes, could ya?” Tommy’s grin a mile wide as he teased. “Lemme get the nugget out of here before you two scar her for life.”

You tucked your face into Joel’s shoulder bashfully when Tommy slipped through the sliding door. Joel groaned and wrapped his arms around you. “Don’t mind him, darlin’. He just likes to bust my balls.”

Ten minutes later, after some hugs from Sarah and more teasing from Tommy, you and Joel were alone. Taking your hand, he led you to the couch. He hoped you didn’t notice that his rough palms were sweaty with nerves. You were abnormally quiet, and he wondered if you were nervous as well.

Seated a few inches apart, the tension became too much. “What are you in the mood for?” Joel asked, breaking the silence as he pulled up Netflix on the TV. He barely logged into his account when you suddenly straddled his lap.

“Hi,” you said when he stared at you in surprise. “You know what I’m in the mood for?”

“What?” He barely got his mouth to form the word, his brain short circuiting with you in his lap. His grip on the remote loosened, yet neither of you cared when it fell to the ground.

“You.”

There was a moment where you both froze, each waiting for the other to act first. Then the tension snapped, and Joel’s lips crashed against yours. His tongue danced along the seam of your lips until you opened them to let him in. Tongues tangled in a never-ending dance as your hips tilted, grinding down on him. Joel was uncomfortably hard in moments, pressing up against your warmth.

His hands were everywhere, fingers tenderly tracing the structure of your cheekbones, down the curve of your neck, along the swell of your breasts. They finally settled, grabbing handfuls of your ass to pull you impossibly closer. You moaned into his mouth, hips bucking in search of more friction.

Gasping for breath, Joel tore his mouth from yours, his hands urging your hips into a rhythm as you dry humped him. His mouth left a trail of scorching kisses down your neck, eliciting a wave of goosebumps to flow down your arms. Your hips rocked, gliding across his hardened length and Joel swore he could feel your wetness breaching through the layer of clothes separating you.

Fuck, how he wanted to taste you, get high on your sweet nectar. He knew, just knew in that primal way, that yours would be the best pussy he ever tasted. His cock swelled impossibly harder at the mere thought of burying his face between your legs.

“Jooooeeelllll.” His name coming from your luscious lips in a drawn-out moan caused his own hips to buck up into you, hitting just the right spot to make you both see stars from the friction alone. His mouth sucked little marks into your neck, leaving his left ear exposed to your mouth as crooned, “I’m gonna come, fuck. You’re gonna make me come in my panties, Joel.”

“Fuck, darlin’. Come all over me, pretty girl. I want to see you fall apart from grinding on me like this. Drench those panties.” Joel sat back a little, just enough to watch your face as your orgasm swept over you. It was the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen, eyes rolled back in your head, mouth hanging open in a silent ‘o’ as you trembled above him, delicate hands clenching the meat of his shoulders for balance. A little sheen of sweat dusted your hairline. Fucking beautiful.

Joel was absolutely certain he could feel you drenching his pants as you came, your breath finally coming back in a sharp exhale. He had never been so turned on in his life. Watching you come apart for him, feeling it seep through the layers of clothing became too much. For the first time in his adult life, Joel Miller came in his pants with a desperate whimper.

tbc

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#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel x female reader #the last of us #tlou #dbf!joel #Fall Into Me #pedro pascal #eventual smut #mutual pining #idiots falling for each other

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