#my guy was out here like a pretentious college student | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ncteez · 2 years

Text

chiaroscuro (m.l)

Mark Lee, choice of medium: Charcoal, Graphite, Ink, and...you???

ao3 | m.list | minors dni !! | please reblog and leave feedback on my works.

wordcount―20.3k

pairing―mark lee x fem reader (ft. hongjoong of ateez)

description―the romanticization of art school is typical and no one romanticizes it more than mark lee, the too-confident messy-haired guy who, accidentally, makes people uncomfortable. to you though? it’s kind of flattering to become his focus.

content―college au, art student mark lee, he’s kind of creepy, y/n is also kind of creepy, jealous mark, desperate smut, art talk, hongjoong fwb, a lot of hickies, mark is a horny college student with a reputation for making “weird” art of people

warnings―mentions of scars, bruises, and other features against skin that could imply abuse or trauma. I also tried to be as inclusive as possible, but please note that this fic includes the idea of charcoal smeared against skin and hickies.I am not intentionally leaving anyone out. If wording needs to be changed to be more inclusive, please message me.

note―shoutout to my favorite person @domjaehyun for hearing me talk about how I fantasize about mark on campus as an art student, then mentioning that he would totally leave messy charcoal fingerprints all over you. also huge thanks to her for helping me word some things for better inclusivity!

not proofread, because you should know by now that i don’t like that kind of lifestyle.

taglist: @aedreamzy, @ahgastayzen

His shoulders were far broader than you’d managed to draw them, then again, this was supposed to be a quick sketch with loose limbs. Why you were stuck with him, Mark Lee as he’s known, you’ll never understand. His skill level was a feat on its own. Something was sophisticated about his works, whether they were scribbled or meticulously perfected by slender hands. Though they had offended several students and professors alike when he was prompted to draw them as a practice study, you’re interested in how he drew you. If he amplified your imperfections in the matter of the fifteen second exercise or if he had somehow made you out to be more beautiful.

Mark was intimidating to be paired with, solely for his reputation of art style. It was scary to compete with him silently in your head and you think many other students would agree. The pretentious attitudes of always having to be better than the other sitting next to you, or in a class three hours before your own started. Everyone wanted, no, needed to be the best. Mark never tried to compete with anyone though, and it pissed everyone off. He was effortless with his marks on the paper, proud of his creations even if it ended up being, somehow, one of the worst pieces the professor had ever seen. That’s what was intimidating about him. His art was always good in his own eyes, and everyone was jealous of that. Jealous that as they perfect their works surpassing museum quality, his form of perfection ends with charcoal fingerprints smudged across crisp lines and folded corners of his quality paper.

So here you are, paired with the one and only Mark Lee, with the exercise of drawing one another in fifteen seconds. You made his shoulders less broad, his eyebrows too arched, his eyes too rounded, uneven, unbelievably awful to look at. It looks nothing like him, and while it’s supposed to be this way, you can’t help but feel bad when you present the short sketch to him.

“I like it.” He nods his head, flipping his own sketch in front of your face and causing you to wince.

You’d barely gotten to see his own rendition of you before he had flipped the book back to himself and continued discussing the piece you presented, leaving little room to react at all.

“I like the way you made me look like an alien—” He doesn’t smile, but instead talks as if he’s analyzing an art style you had intended to present.

“It wasn’t intentional, I was trying to get everything I could before the time limit was up.” You defend, though you didn’t need to, but it feels like it’s an insult that he would assume this of all things was an intentional art piece.

“No, really. You should do more like this,” He pauses and leans back in his chair, the chatter and laughs of other student’s critiquing each other surround the two of you as you sit silent for a moment. “It’s like a first impression, y’know?”

He’s making conversation, and honestly you don’t know what he’s talking about. Maybe he is a little pretentious. Maybe he doesn’t compete because he already thinks he’s better than everyone else.

“I guess? Now can I see yours again?” You respond shortly, pulling the sketch of him back and flipping to a blank page. “You didn’t even let me see it.”

Mark hums, tapping his fingers against his chin as if he’s thinking hard. A personality like this shouldn’t throw you off, but it does. He was never ashamed to show his work, so you’re confused as to why he hid his so quickly from you.

“I’m used to people getting all pissy about me drawing them.” He admits. “But yeah, I guess I kind of have to show you, don’t I?”

You nod, quirking a brow at him in curiosity. You’re excited to see what the infamous Mark Lee did to your face and how he rendered it through an unsharpened graphite pencil (against the professor’s suggestion of sharpening the tool.)

He presents it to you again by slapping his sketch book in front of you and crossing his leg in a loose way, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed as he studies you through half-hooded eyes. He looks a little too smug. “Do your worst.” He says, rocking back and forth as he watches you scan the paper.

“It’s—um...” You stare at it, realizing how spot fucking on it is for it to be a fifteen second exercise. You recognize yourself in the sketch, from the mess of hair on your head, drawn in a perfectly loose and continuous line, straight down to the faded hickey against your neck from a heated moment that happened a few days ago. For a moment, you wonder if the blemish on the paper was accidental, but Mark’s smug face tells you otherwise when you instinctively bring your hand up to touch the matching smudge on against your neck.

He really didn’t have to mark that down in this image, he really didn’t need to pause this bruise on your neck, forcing it to remain there through led for all of eternity. You feel a little bit seen, and he watches you look at it.

“It looked pretty.” He admits, knowing exactly the spot your eyes were glued to. “For an entire two seconds I was wondering who got to do it.”

You’d never really talked to Mark much before now. You talked about him with other people, you critiqued his art when it was called for, and you even admired him from afar, watching him draw on a lonely bench in thirty-degree weather thinking to yourself ‘that looks like an actual artist’. He was so weird, but sometimes he just seemed. . . interesting. It almost doesn’t feel off to be talking to him like this, because you’re an art student. You’re the forgotten freaks of the world that people don’t realize they need right?

“You know Hongjoong?” You ask, moving your eyes from the marks on the paper back to the actual Mark, hm, clever name for an artist you guess. Irony. How artistic and cliché of him to have been given such a name.

“Oh, yeah I had a class with him last semester, smart guy.” He looks at you, leaning forward in his chair but he maintains his slouched posture. “He did that?” He glances down to your neck, then back to your eyes.

You nod, smirking a bit over it. You and Hongjoong were always very close, growing even closer once the two of you got into the same school and intended to follow the same path in life. This is the only class you don’t have with him this semester, but you see him multiple times a week in your free time. Sure, you guys fuck sometimes when things get stressful, but really, he’s your best friend. It’s never weird.

“He’s an artist for sure.” Mark raises his brow, still staring at your hickey.

Yeah, Mark is, in his own words, unique. Knowing most bodies are the same. Most people have a nose, eyes, lips, ears, so on and so forth. Even those who don’t. Maybe they’re missing a finger or an entire limb—they’re still human to him. The same, natural, boring, normal humans with the same body functions. It’s the blemishes, and bruises, and holes and scars that really get him in terms of art. The things people have that no one else on this planet can share with another person. From unique tattoos that will never disappear to the temporary hickies that show him how a person must have been feeling the day they got it. Imperfections, some would say, on a person are very telling, and it’s his favorite thing about a muse. He admires what Hongjoong did to you, almost wanting to swatch the colors the man had placed on your skin.

His brain excites towards these things, hidden facts about a person that they unintentionally show in plain sight. Maybe that’s why people get so offended by his art? Always drawing a person with uneven eyes, just like that, uneven. Amplifying scars, or acne, or bruises both intentionally and unintentionally. Without context it could be offensive to find beauty in something that could exist simply through pain, but he doesn’t have the context. All he knows is that his form of beauty is actually the ugliest part of a person when they see themselves in the mirror.

Truly, it’s not that he likes what most of these people go through to get these stories on their body, and he’s a little sad that his vision of them is seen as offensive rather than…y’know, a show of true adoration for their imperfect lives. Maybe they don’t like how seen he makes them feel with no effort. Maybe he’s a creep, maybe he’s insensitive in drawing something without permission though it is literally part of them. It’s who he is, and he cannot, for the life of him, stop seeing beauty in these things.

“He definitely is.” You say, gently touching the spot against your neck, wondering if it’s really that easy to see. You thought it had faded enough, but Mark still managed to get the shape perfectly. He really did all of that in fifteen seconds, wow. “Can I take a picture of this?” You add, pointing to his sketch.

Mark props himself back up from his leaning position in peaked curiosity, the chair squeaking as he plants his feet firmly on the ground and leans towards you on his elbows with a shrug. “Sure, I could do a lot better than this though.”

You don’t pay much attention to him, pulling out your phone and trying to take a nice and composed picture of the sketch. But then what he said soaks in a bit.

“Oh yeah? Are you implying you’d draw me again?” You look over at him, phone still in hand as you take another snap of the sketch.

He smiles at you and then straightens up as the professor makes his way to the two of you. He doesn’t say much when he looks at Mark’s sketch, he just kind of grunts at it and then taps your table so that he can see what you had to present. Sheepishly, you turn the page of your sketchbook back to the atrocious image of Mark you’d scribbled down.

“Good, Good.” The professor hums, giving Mark no critique or praise at all, but opting to make sure you were aware that you followed the exercise well.

When he walks away and heads back towards the front of the class, most of the people move back to their regular seats, Mark stays put though, to your usual desk neighbor’s dismay.

“There’s no assigned seating. I’m going to sit here.” He says to the girl with another shrug.

She rolls her eyes at him and stomps to a different seat, probably a little pissed that she had to carry all her stuff over just to turn around and go back.

“Is that cool? Can I sit here?” Mark finally questions to you, casually leaning back again.

“I mean? I guess?”

You try to act uninterested, honestly.

Sitting next to each other in this class was a regular occurrence now, he really meant it when he said he was going to move seats. Always sitting there with a focused look in his eye when you appear for the shared class. The one class you don’t share with Hongjoong. It’s a bit strange actually, Mark’s weird obsession with how you and your best friend are doing. You see him study your neck most days when you show up, just to see if Hongjoong had his lips on you again. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t asking your best friend to give you more bruises though. You definitely do.

It used to be something Hongjoong would do in the heat of the moment, you didn’t mind it either way, but now you’re asking him just to see how Mark would react to the new blemish against your skin. You know he’s drawing them, his hands never setting down his choice of medium some days when you’re next to him. You feel a little weird walking around with the swollen spots littering your neck and collarbone but honestly, it’s interesting to see the way Mark gets off on another man’s claim to you.

“Good morning.” You say, knowing you’d worn your hair down today because you’re particularly more aware of how covered your neck is at this point. You may have gone a little overboard with Hongjoong lately.

“Good morning, you’ve got more today.” He says instantly, reaching over to move your hair a bit so he could see them better.

This is the first time he’s ever touched anything on your body, sure it’s just your hair but you weren’t sure how to react.

“There’s almost nowhere left for—” Mark says, analyzing each spot on your neck and then pauses.

“Hold on—Are you doing this on purpose?”

You look down with a smug smirk, because of course you are. Even if you weren’t interested in Mark’s presence— any person who focuses this much on you will have equal attention back in some way. It’s fun.

“Are you trying to make me jealous?”

You refuse to look up but shake your head, still smiling. You’re doing it on purpose because you like the attention he gives you over it, but to make him jealous? No? He never once even acted like he was jealous. It’s honestly just a slightly too-big interest in his interest.

He pulls away from you this time, making little graphite smudges on his paper, drawing the hickies with ease so that he can remember the shapes of them for later. They blend together in all sorts of ways, some bigger, some more raised, others are older—

“Okay, then are you and Hongjoong exclusive or something?”

You shake your head again in response almost frantically—worrying that the implication of dating Hongjoong would make Mark back off. You admit to yourself that maybe a small part of you is incredibly attracted to the way Mark is. . . somewhat creepy towards you. He’s very invested in your late-night rendezvous with another man, you like that. A lot.

“Oh?” He perks his head up and looks at you again, eyes staying on yours rather than your neck this time. “Does he know his work on you doesn’t mean he has laid claim then?”

You nod, opting to continue your silence towards his questions. Hongjoong knows well enough that you’re both painfully single. That’s the whole reason the two of you do this in the first place. You love him, but honestly? Dating him? It’s not like you wouldn’t but also you both look for very different things in a relationship, things that neither of you seem to match. Sex? You match up perfectly fine, but in the long term, you’d rather him stay in your life as a friend that gives you some really good dick.

“Would you—” For the first time Mark hesitates as he asks his questions, paying no mind to your silence and leaning in to whisper to you a little bit. He’s thankful this class is always loud and blatantly disrespectful to the professor; it really does lend a helping hand when he’s trying to talk to you about inappropriate things. Mark stays leaned in, waiting for you to look back at him, and you can see him swallow when you finally do.

“Would you maybe—” He hesitates again, sighing at himself. He really isn’t as confident as he sounds if he’s being honest. He doesn’t mind you knowing that though. “I guess what I’m trying to ask is—”

You wait for him to talk, anticipating what he plans to say to you. His conversation with you seemingly one-sided to anyone else, but he knows you’re listening to him intently.

“Are you attracted to me at all?” He finally lets out.

You’re taken aback by this, because yeah, you are attracted to him but never have you been asked so blatantly. Then again, it’s not like you leave many hints for him to take and run with. So, you nod and finally speak up to him.

“I mean, yeah? You’re a handsome guy.”

“So, you would let me take over for Hongjoong then?”

What?

“You know, I still haven’t gotten the chance to have a re-do on drawing you.” Mark comments one morning, his eyes more tired than usual. He smells strongly of coffee and looks like he might be a little colder than he usually would be in his loose-fitting long sleeve shirt. Stained and ripped, you can’t tell if he bought it that way or if he’s just spent a lot of time in this specific top. Still, you laugh at his words.

“Mark, you’re joking.” You look over at him again, darting your eyes to his personal sketchbook and to his hands that quickly close the book. “You draw me like, every day. You really thought I wouldn’t notice?”

He smiles at you with sleepy eyes before breathing out a drawn-out sigh and leaning back in his chair. “Caught me.”

“You didn’t even try to hide it, creep.” You sarcastically mock, and he furrows his brows at you.

Part of him wonders how much of that remark was a joke. Honestly, what he’s doing can be considered creepy, but you’ve never told him to stop. You continuously come in looking prettier and prettier for him. At least that’s what he thinks, and who is he to deny himself of drawing something he likes? Sure, he’s maybe got about thirty or so drafts of you in various angles. Maybe it’s weirder that you know he draws you but he hasn’t let on just how often he will seek you out on the days this class isn’t scheduled. There might even be a sketch or two with Hongjoong standing next to you. Who knows? You don’t. You won’t know if he can help it. He’s causing no harm to you. It’s no different than drawing strangers on the bus, right? Right?

If he tries to be honest with himself though, and he would never, he has never really drawn the same person this many times. He’s usually gotten bored with their permanent blemishes and would seek out a new muse to fawn over for a few hours. But you? With your everchanging bruised covered neck, ever changing facial expression towards him, ever changing eyeliner that you can never seem to get perfectly symmetrical. Even the things about you that don’t change. Like the jacket you wear every day on top of the clothes that change each morning, he thinks he could probably draw it with all its folds without looking by now. Or the pair of sneakers you wear, the ones that clearly will be hitting the trash bin soon considering he can see the sole coming unglued with each passing day. The way your lips curve up when he so much as makes a sound towards you, the way your brows furrow when you’re concentrated on an art piece that would receive little critique from the professor. He hasn’t gotten bored of you, and the urge to draw every little thing about you each day never goes away.

“I can stop?” He says, hoping that you’d disagree with him.

You want to disagree. Because it’s so fucking flattering to have an artist fawn over you, draw you (for free???), want to be around you without competing—but. . . he hasn’t shown you a single sketch since the first day, despite trying to steal as many glimpses as you can. You just hope he makes you look pretty; you hope his sketches are worthy to him and he isn’t trashing them like you do with your own sketches.

“Show them to me first.” You suggest, turning in your seat to reach over for his sketchbook. You know the book is intimate to look at, your own sketchbook you’d never let someone just grab. But it’s like a rite of passage almost for you, those who can grab your book without you so much as blinking an eye, is someone you’re fond of. A little strange that you’ve already internally given Mark that privilege without him knowing—you just wonder if he’s given it to you.

He hasn’t.

“Hey!” He whisper shouts, gripping the book from you and shaking his head in a firm ‘no’.

And honestly, it’s not because he wouldn’t love to hear what you have to say about his mindless drawings—it’s mostly just because the majority of this book is filled with you and god forbid if you saw it. You really would think he’s creepy.

“Why not?” You say in a childish voice, one that you’d use to argue with Hongjoong from time to time. One that got on his nerves so much to the point he would let you win just to shut you up.

“It’s personal?” He leaves little room for you to question, clutching his sketch book and promptly tucking it into his bag and out of sight. “It’s not that I wouldn’t value what you have to say, it’s just—it’s embarrassing.” He looks at you after zipping his bag. “And it’s rude to grab someone’s sketch book, you should know this.”

You stay quiet after this, wondering if you got too comfortable too quickly despite the weird hickey thing Mark focuses on with you. Boundaries exist and sometimes you forget when you think you’re friends with someone. Maybe he doesn’t have the privilege to see your sketch book either then.

The rest of the class was quiet, the sound of your own medium scratching against the quality paper. It was always such a satisfying sound, but right now you’re just annoyed because you can also hear Mark’s charcoal stick aggressively making its own way across the paper a foot away from you. And when it was finally over, you felt tired and your back hurt. You were ready to go home and throw yourself into a pile of blankets on the stiff and uncomfortable bed you called your own.

As you left, Mark never moved from his seat, and only now do you realize that he almost never leaves when the rest of the class is dismissed. You wonder how late he stays, and how early he shows up—since he does seem to always be here before you as well. Does he even go home?

Thankfully, you had no class today. The thing with Mark yesterday shouldn’t be bothering you as much as it is, but you can’t help but feel bad for thinking you had the right to his private sketchbook—it was incredibly out of line for you to do that and you wish you could run into him so you could genuinely apologize for that. It’s an ugly quality to have, honestly, entitlement.

No Mark though. You don’t have his number or any other classes with him through the week, the likelihood of running into him on campus during a day off should be much higher than it seems to be, but you’ll just wait until your next class with him to apologize. Instead, you meet up with Hongjoong to let him rant about some bullshit that happened in his own class yesterday.

The two of you are walking closely in the cold, heading towards the local coffee shop that is ‘conveniently’ placed on the edge of campus. Sure, you could always go to the cafeteria’s coffee shop, but both of you would be fucking damned to pay six dollars for the same drink you can buy at the local shop for three dollars.

Hongjoong is warm next to you when you get there, probably from the sheer rage in his blood from the day prior you assume.

“She looked me in the eye and said—” Hongjoong gripes at you, jerking his wallet out of his pocket and grabbing cash to pay the lovely cashier who is listening in on the rant session. He pauses, gently smiles at the woman, and hands her the cash before insisting she keep the change. Only then does he turn to you to continue his rant. “She literally said, ‘hongjoong you have the worst technique I’ve ever seen.’”

Both you and the woman at the cash register gasp at that, quite dramatic if you’re being honest. But those words from a professor must feel like a literal knife in the heart. Not only is it not constructive, but it’s blatantly dismissing a skill that Hongjoong had worked so fucking hard to develop.

“Oh, oh no.” You reach out for him, kind of thankful that he’s mad rather than sad.

“I didn’t even know what to say to that, I just got up and left.” He says, defeated as he wanders over to the receiving end of the counter. The woman behind sighing because she knows she can no longer listen in or hear what he has to say. “Y/n, I’m stressed.”

It’s a simple word. One that gets used every day by all sorts of people, but it has a different meaning behind it for the two of you. Neither of you blatantly will say you’re stressed without it being an implication.

“My roommate is home today. . .” You trail off, seeing a barista set your coffee down onto the counter. You grab it, remembering that Hongjoong just paid for it and you need to thank him.

“Damn.” He sighs out, waiting for his own drink to be placed onto the counter.

“Mine has class at five. Will you please just—”

“Joong, we can have stress relief at five.” You automatically confirm for him, and he smiles at you, his angry features softening in appreciation.

“You are my favorite person.” He says, tilting his head cutely like he always does when he sweet talks you. “I swear if we are single by the time we hit thirty five, we are going to get married.”

You just nod at him with a smile, because yeah, for sure you’d marry him if all else fails. Because you know he wouldn’t fail as a friend or as a lover. It would be open, fair, caring, loving, even lustful—but never with the weight of a broken heart because neither of you are in love with the other.

“Okay, lets stay here for a bit?” Hongjoong adds, grabbing his freshly made coffee and walking backwards towards the regular table the two of you claim when you’re here.

And of course when he takes a sip of his coffee, it’s made incorrectly. He doesn’t argue it though, because coffee is coffee. He just assumes that this week is not his week as he drops his head to the table in defeat.

It’s four thirty in the afternoon when Mark leaves his dorm so he could grab something to eat. It’s four forty when he hears a familiar voice, and it’s four forty-one when he finds the owner of that voice being clinged to by none other than Hongjoong.

This isn’t a feeling Mark is used to. Wishing he could be someone else for a brief moment, wanting to be in a different body to experience something. He’s always experienced what he’s wanted and didn’t have many regrets he could admit to himself—but seeing you right now? Seeing you sitting all close, laughing as Hongjoong holds his arm around your waist? The waist shrouded by the jacket that only Mark could draw to perfection? It makes his insides crawl in a weird and unnerving way.

He’s seen you with Hongjoong before, but never looking this bright, never looking this warm despite the near freezing temperature the weather is offering today. He’s never seen Hongjoong’s hands around you or on you either. Sure, he knows it happens, but anytime he’s seen it you clearly looked like just friends. Right now though? You look to be dating him. He wishes you’d sit with him like that, or hell, ask for his number or something so the two of you can hang out without thirteen other students and a professor being able to listen in.

Mark knows that you’ll show up tomorrow with a new swell against your skin. He can tell from the way you lean into Hongjoong, and the way the man gently leans right back into you to whisper something in your ear from time to time. He can practically see the warmth radiating off the two of you, and it, for some reason, makes him lose his appetite.

It’s four fifty when he stops watching the two of your from afar, and it’s only because Hongjoong pulls himself up and grabs your hand, leading you to what Mark presumes is his dorm. This is bullshit, Mark literally asked you if he could take over for Hongjoong. He was completely serious when he asked you, but you played it off so well. You made it obvious that it had to have been a joke. Throwing a small ‘you wish’ as a response with a wink. It was never brought up again after that and he’s really pressuring himself now to just fucking go for it. He really didn’t expect to feel jealous over Hongjoong, honestly, he didn’t.

Devastating. Truly, having to wake up so goddamn early because your dumbass slept over at Hongjoong’s place and he has an early as fuck class. You’re technically not even allowed to sleep over, and his roommate is a snitch so you have to be extremely quiet as you leave.

Hongjoong’s matched exhaustion shows in his face as he keeps watch for you when you leave, reminding you to take the back exit so none of the fucking math kids call you out for being in the dorm at such an hour. You do just that, as you always have—desperately needing a shower and at least another hour or two of sleep before you go to your own class at noon.

Unfortunately, that doesn’t happen. You get to your dorm safely, freezing, and hop into the shower. That went over well enough, cleaning off the missed areas of cum you’d fallen asleep with the night before—Hongjoong definitely needed this, dude was fucking feral the moment you got into his dorm. But, when you attempted to lay down to sleep, it never came. You continue to lay there, hearing every bird and student outside of your window being as loud as they possibly can in this moment, probably to personally piss you off. You’re in such a bad mood, honestly.

Sighing at your last attempt to sleep, your roommate’s alarm begins to blare loudly and you literally could scream right now. You throw yourself out of your bed and angrily put on your clothes. You should be in a better mood than you are, considering how many times you got off last night, but three hours of sleep isn’t fucking it bro. It’s not it.

You opt to lazily get dressed, hair still wet, and just go to the studio. You didn’t work on the project you needed to do anyway and sitting in this fucking dorm room will just make you angrier in the way your bed is entirely available but offering no comfort.

By the time you do get to the studio, you forgot that you need a fucking code to get in and all you can do is kick the door out of frustration. It’s cold, you’ve had no sleep, your legs are sore, you’re hungry—and then the door opens.

“Y/n?” The soft voice croaks out, another set of equally tired eyes coming into view and greeting you with a pathetic look.

“It’s barely nine, why the fuck are you here?” You grimace, shoving past him and plopping down into your seat.

“I’m always here this early? I have the code to get in and the workspace is better than at my room?” For some reason, his voice is soothing you. He seems slightly concerned, maybe a little defensive and it reminds you that you need to apologize to him.

“Mark.” You say, knocking your head flat on your table and stretching your arms out across the surface. “I’m sorry I grabbed your sketchbook without asking.”

You can hear him let out a small chuckle in response as he makes his way back to his own place next to you. He picks his charcoal block back up and gets back to his project.

“I normally wouldn’t mind—I’m always very proud of my work.” He admits, looking down at his current piece and feeling confident in it. “It’s just that I’m very much struggling to draw things that aren’t you.” Mark isn’t even entirely sure why he decided to admit that to you, but what’s done is done.

You perk up in curiosity, lifting your head slightly to look at him. The sleepiness draining in an instant as he smiles back over to you. “Really?” You ask, a little dumbfounded.

“Yeah, I guess.” He shakes his head at himself. “I’ll show you a few of them if you really want, but only because you’re clearly having a bad day and I’d rather that not be the case.”

You sniffle a bit, only because it’s cold outside and lift yourself up. He nervously glances away from you when you shift your chair and scoot in closer to him, to the point your arms are touching. He’s incredibly warm and smells like fixatif spray, which is weirdly hot to you. “Can I see?” You say in a small voice, one that makes him soften up immediately and relax next to you.

He reaches into his bag and pulls out the sketchbook, clearly stained and well loved. All Mark can think about is how he can’t let you see the ones he’s drawn when you weren’t aware of his presence. You’d run out of this room and straight to campus security probably, so he’s very careful when he flips through the pages, intentionally skewing your view when he turns slightly.

“I’m picking the best ones, calm down.” He laughs, trying to sound cool about it, but you keep trying to peek despite your apologies of being entitled. “Okay here’s one.”

You can only look for a moment before he pulls the book away and flips through more pages.

“Here’s another one.”

He does the same thing.

“And this one.”

Only now does Mark start to get red in the face because of your silence. He chickens out a little bit, pulling the sketchbook away again and immediately stuffing it back in his bag.

“Is it creepy?” He asks, still not looking up from his bag.

“Maybe to a non-artist. To me though? It’s kind of flattering—” You try to pinpoint specific parts of his sketches when he flashed them to you, all of them had the hickies against the neck, that much you’re sure of. “You really do like detail huh?”

“Just you, I think.”

You weren’t expecting this from him, but the boldness of it has a grip on you in a way that makes you feel as though you’ve had plenty of rest, a full meal, and you’re only in the studio right now because you’re a good student. All because of this weird art boy in front of you? You barely know him but you don’t really care that much.

“Oh.” You sigh out, making eye contact with him again. He looks a little different in this moment, like his guard is down or something. “Just—me?” You try to confirm.

“Hongjoong keeps making you interesting to draw.” He stares back at you when he offers this excuse, knowing full well the jealously he felt a day prior. Maybe this comment is coming out in the form of a passive aggressive remark as if to state you aren’t interesting without Hongjoong doing something to you. Naturally, he immediately regrets the words.

“What do you mean by that?” You ask, pulling back a bit and widening the space between the two of you.

“I just—think you wear the swell in a pretty way. . . “ He trails off, knowing he is sounding like a complete asshole right now, but your cheeks are warm at the words.

It’s only nine-fifteen in the morning and you keep looking at his hands, covered in charcoal. You keep looking at the little smudge on his cheek that you couldn’t bare to point out to him, and the mess of hair that he clearly hasn’t ran a comb through. You’re not upset, if anything you’re still relishing in his comment from before about admitting that he likes you. The sketches he showed you is proof, is he getting nervous now? Pulling back because you were shocked by it?

“Should I request he give me these hickies every time then? Any specific requests of where he should do it?”

“You already do that. I can see the new one right—” He reaches over and presses his thumb against your neck. “there.”

You wince only a little bit at the contact, but your cheeks continue to heat up.

“And honestly, Y/n?” He stays leaned in this time, his confidence coming back to him because you might play it off as a joke again anyway. “I think it would be better if you’d let me be the artist for once.”

It’s almost insane how quickly you agree to his request. Laughable even. Maybe it’s from the lack of sleep or maybe it’s because you’re insanely attracted to him in this moment but—does it really even matter? The point is, you’re entirely too interested to see where this leads and you could give less of a shit about questioning it.

“All you had to do was ask.” You say, blinking at him and wishing you looked a lot cuter right now.

“I did ask.”

“Oh, you were serious?” You’re laughing now, already scooting back to your spot next to him. “You should have made that clear, because—”

“Because?” He says, leaning back and away from you as you lean in towards him like an animal in heat.

“I would have let you.”

Mark freezes, wondering if what he’s hearing is true. He glares at you through squinted eyes for a moment before clarifying. “Are you fucking with me?”

“No, I mean it.” You say, leaning in further towards him. It probably looks awkward, both of you practically look as though you’re sharing a desk at the moment, the arm of your hoodie smudging his crisp charcoal lines on the bristol board in front of him. “When?”

He continues to stay leaned back, not because he wants to, but because if you were to lean any closer to him he would either start kissing you or lean back far enough to topple over in his chair. He stutters at your words though, relaxing his shoulders and reaching forward to move your hair from your neck. He glances down, just to see if there’s any room left at all for him to even attempt to leave a claim on you.

Barely. He could do it over your nearly faded ones, or one dead under your chin, maybe the spot in the center of your neck where your chin would be awkwardly stabbing into the top of his scalp. He’s thinking too hard over it, but he doesn’t want to break any more veins in your neck that are only attempting to heal. It would hurt and be sensitive to the touch, and sure, when he imagines you wincing at it if he were to brush his fingers across it the day after giving it to you, it would be hot. But—

“Unless you’re the one fucking with me?” You say to his silence, leaning yourself all the way back into your seat and propping your elbows up on the desk. Your eyes move to the clock, and honestly there’s plenty of time if he wanted to do it now. He could get away with doing it right here if he so wanted to, because the door is locked and only he has the code outside of the professor.

Mark says nothing as he adjusts himself back into his regular position in front of his project, staring down at the smudges you had caused and deciding he likes it better this way. In fact, he could probably call the piece complete now because of you. Then he looks at you, darting his tongue out against his lip in a way that tells you he’s probably thinking about doing it right now, but isn’t sure if he should push.

“Now?” You ask gently, squishing your cheek against your palm as you rest against your elbows, almost in a stance as if you’re daydreaming. “It would be kind of hot if you did it now.” You reiterate to him, raising a brow as if to ask if he agrees.

“I can do that.” He says in a small voice, but he doesn’t move from his spot.

“Then do it.” You say, rolling your head so that your hair shifts away from your neck.

It’s a little awkward, he thinks, but he still stands to his feet and closes the distance between the two of you. You’re still sitting, only shifting your eyes up to him and giving him a look as if you’re waiting for him to position you in whatever way is most comfortable for him. He isn’t entirely sure of how to do it, because he’s never just given someone a hickey without kissing them at the very least. He’s never done something like this in his learning space or workspace either, but he’s so willing when you suddenly push back in your chair and stand to your feet in front of him.

You’re standing so closely it almost shocks him and he has to remind himself that he’s supposed to be attaching his lips to your neck in this moment—so he does. Awkwardly.

The position isn’t ideal. In fact, it’s pretty uncomfortable just standing there in front of him when he cups your cheeks and skews your head to the left. You can feel the cool air of the room replaced by his gentle warm breath, and then his lips attaching to a place you’ve surprisingly never felt before.

Right beneath your ear lobe, slightly against your jaw line, he licks against you before sucking hard. His hands are holding your face in place so that he can angle his own against your skin, you can feel him gently move one hand away and loosely rest against your lips, fingertips sitting across the plush surface.

In all honestly, it felt so good you almost moan over it, which would be entirely too embarrassing to actually do. His one hand firmly holding the other side of your face by the jaw, the other hand resting against your lips and chin, his lips pressing harshly against your skin as he attempts to bring any amount of swell against the vacant flesh—you seriously almost forget that you’re just standing there with him. No roaming hands, no panting, no making out, no removing clothing—nothing more than a simple hickey in the early morning in the middle of a classroom you’re both about to have to sit through together for a full three and a half hours.

You’re a little dazed, you’ll admit, when he pulls back with his own lips slightly reddened. Probably because he had sucked quite hard against your skin there, his lips may have gotten caught up in it too.

“Pretty.” Mark hums quietly when he looks at you again, tucking your hair behind your ear so that he can look at the work.

You’re entirely silent, feeling a little dizzy when you regain control of how you’re feeling right now. A bit of tingling is left in the area he had been working on, and when you reach up to graze your fingers across it you can already feel a slight swell. It’s still damp from his tongue, even a little raw. Hongjoong had never left one this quickly on you, nor has he ever been that aggressive with his mouth. You look up at Mark.

“This is new for me—” You very nearly stutter, but thankfully it came out smoothly and weirdly confident. “No one has ever even kissed me there before.”

Mark says nothing at first, finally stepping back from you as casually as he can while trying to place his hands in front of his not so obvious growing bulge. He is genuinely trying not to think about the fact that he just got to give you a hickey. It definitely wasn’t on his schedule today, but to be fair he would free up an entire day just to do this on other places if he’s being honest. And it’s not that he’s insanely horny all the time or anything, it’s mostly the fact that he hasn’t been laid in like six months and this is the first time he’s had any form of intimate contact since then. He hopes you don’t notice his desperation through his pants, he would never come to class again in that case.

“So—” He coughs, sitting down in his seat and sighing out of relief because you seemed to have not taken notice of his hard on. “That spot?” His confidence comes right back upon finally studying your face as you look back at him, taking your own seat. “Hongjoong can’t have it.”

Mark is already possessive, having claimed a spot on your body that he expects no one else should be able to have. Weirdly, though you would never be attracted to a man trying to ‘claim’ you, you’re insanely attracted to it when it comes from Mark.

“It’s all yours then.” You finally mutter out, still touching the spot and feeling the warmth radiating from it. “Hongjoong can’t have it.” You confirm, eyes darting up to meet his.

Both of you are warm in the cheeks, and trying so hard to sound cocky and confident, but it isn’t working. You’re both being shy despite the conversation of claiming at hand. You wonder when he will ask to do it again and if you can manage a kiss out of him.

“Can I have your number then?” Mark finally coughs out, attempting to get back into the right headspace for class later—though there is still plenty of time to keep doing whatever it was the two of you were doing.

All you do is nod, handing him your phone.

It’s only a slight obsession, honestly. Not at all one that would cause you to take photos of the spot or save Mark Lee as your phone background. Except you have taken photos of the spot, though you haven’t quite gone as far as the wallpaper thing yet. Sure, you maybe sort of kind of save the random selfies he sends to you—and you maybe sort of kind of don’t tell him that you like him genuinely so much already.

The spot though, the one just beneath your earlobe is an obsession now. You’re more aware of the sensations when your hair hits it, or when you touch it yourself. Several times now Mark has left claim there, always coming up with the excuse to do it again when he can no longer make out the shape he had so perfectly left there.

You’re also a little obsessed in the way his eyes react truth though his words do not when he takes notice of Hongjoong’s less aggressive hickies still appearing. Mark knows he claimed a spot on you, but how come Hongjoong gets the whole of your body and he only gets this one hard to see space? Is his work on you not worth flaunting?

Still, Mark loves that spot. Loves the way you get all dazed about it when he finishes bringing the swell back up—it’s just, as the days pass, he wants more from you. Selfishly maybe, he wouldn’t know because he doesn’t know how to communicate it to you. Clearly, you’re still having fun with Hongjoong, if you wanted more from Mark he assumes you would have suggested it by now.

On this day, it should feel like the others where two of you meet hours before class starts, and without fail by this point Mark would have made excuses in order to get his lips on your neck again. Never kissing, never roaming hands, always just a hickey that ends in both of you flustered for the remaining time you spend together. Except this morning you’re not here, and you’re not responding to Mark’s nine a.m. texts asking if you’re okay.

Of course, he doesn’t expect you to respond to him every time he texts, it’s just—you usually do. Even if it’s at midnight and can’t bring himself to sleep, you’re always texting back with a youtube video you tell him he should fall asleep to. He won’t lie, some of those videos gave him some intense nightmares, but it put him to sleep, nonetheless. You’re not texting him back this time though, and it has been at least an hour since he’s sat in his seat anticipating that you’ll knock on the studio door with your hair already behind your ear.

He sits there for about two hours until deciding to go grab himself something to eat before class starts. His appetite is a little bit shot if he’s being honest, mostly because he might be a little worried about why you’re not responding to his texts, or in front of him right now. If he doesn’t eat now though, and you don’t respond soon, he might not eat at all if he’s being honest. That weird, insecure feeling that he used to get so often coming back to him. Did he do something wrong? Did he flirt too much? Did you finally decide that what the two of you are doing is definitely creepy?

He’s overthinking when he leaves his stuff on his desk, and over thinking when he leaves the studio, and over thinking when he makes his way to the cafeteria. He overthinks the breakfast of granola, overthinks the overpriced coffee, and overthinks where to sit. He feels fucking stupid for how dramatic his brain is being right now. It’s just one day? You don’t show up or respond one time and he’s panicked like this? Insane, pathetic.

His granola tastes bland, the yogurt scratching no spot of his brain in terms of enjoyment, and the coffee is lukewarm. Everything is stupid. Including Hongjoong, who looks like he doesn’t have a worry in the world when he walks through the cafeteria doors with his stupid hair and his stupid clothes—wait.

Mark fumbles his last bite of bland breakfast into his mouth before swiping it off the table and throwing it into the trash bin, making his was up to Hongjoong with a subtle sort of confidence. Mark tries to sound nonchalant, considering he’s never actually talked to the dude before.

He walks up, wiping his hands on his jeans and then clapping Hongjoong on the shoulder.’ Chill out Mark, you don’t know him like that,’ he thinks to himself, quickly pulling back when Hongjoong’s soul appears to jump out of his body quite literally at the sudden contact.

“Oh—” Hongjoong breathes as he turns to face Mark, hand on his own heart. “Scared the shit out of me—” He breathes before smiling at him.

Mark is immediately comforted by Hongjoong’s casual demeanor towards him, relaxing a bit as he stands awkwardly in place, obviously with something to say.

“Can I – uh— You good? Do you need something?” Hongjoong looks at him with a quirked brow, kind of eyeing him down, because honestly, if Mark is gonna randomly walk up to him like this, he probably has a reason.

“Oh! Right.” Mark says, condemning himself for being so fucking awkward. “You and Y/n are close right?

Hongjoong nods with a smile. Because of you, he knows all about Mark.

“Have you seen her today?” Mark tries to ask as casually as he can, scratching the back of his neck.

Hongjoong is a little caught off guard, but only because Mark must really be curious considering he’s reaching out to him. Honestly, they don’t talk. They may have shared classes but never have they considered each other more than an acquaintance. All Hongjoong knows is that Mark is the guy who keeps sucking on his best friend’s neck.

“Oh, have you guys not talked?” Hongjoong quirks a brow, sounding a little cocky. “She was up all night, so she slept in this morning.”

“Oh—” Mark says with a sigh. He feels a little better, because you haven’t responded to his texts and if Hongjoong is telling the truth he probably shouldn’t be as worried as he is. Wait— how come Hongjoong knows that you slept in, but he doesn’t?

“Did she tell you that, or?” Mark questions awkwardly.

“Seeing as how she was asleep in my dorm when I left, yeah—”

Mark automatically assumes you had sex with Hongjoong again, and maybe he marked you in the spot he wasn’t supposed to. Maybe that’s why you didn’t come to class—maybe—

“Oh, okay.” Mark already starts to wander off with a small ‘thanks’ before his ears perk up.

“245.” Hongjoong sighs out, aware that you’re very much interested in Mark but have mentioned numerous times that you don’t think Mark’s feelings are mutual outside of the whole—hickey thing.

“245, what?” Mark asks as he turns back to Hongjoong.

“That’s my dorm room number, go wake her up.” Hongjoong laughs. “And Mark?”

Mark is just standing there, unsure what to do with this information.

“If you like her or something, can you just say it?”

“Like her? Don’t get the wrong idea.” Mark attempts to hide any ounce of care he’s obviously showing for you through a laugh—realizing how desperate he must look to Hongjoong right now.

“Oh, so it’s okay if I go home and keep her awake all night again?” Hongjoong smirks, knowing full well that Mark has a thing for you when his face falls at the words.

Mark glares for a moment. It really is competition, huh?

“Maybe you should tell her that you’re the one who likes her— Just a bit of advice.” Hongjoong adds easily. He knows you like the back of his hand, and if Mark is trying to shoot his shot he’d better get on with it so Hongjoong can start mourning his future lack-of-sex-life.

He takes a few steps towards Mark and throws his arm over his shoulder this time, seeing how awkward the man in front of him seems in this moment. “Mark, we don’t know each other in the slightest, but I’m sure she’s told you about our little thing, right?”

Mark nods his head, feeling a little uncomfortable, looking over at Hongjoong and seeing a glimpse of a hickey on his neck. It’s small, dainty almost. He wonders if you did that.

“If I wanted to date her, I would have tried already. But you wouldn’t be looking for her this morning if you didn’t feel something for her—you wouldn’t be talking to me to see where she is.”

“Fair enough.” Mark finally admits, because there’s no point in lying. He would just make a fool of himself considering Hongjoong seems to know well enough what’s going on. In fact, most of his worry drained away the moment he heard Hongjoong say that. “So, what? You want me to go to your dorm and do my thing then?”

“Do not.” Hongjoong warns with a grimace, pulling away from Mark. “Just like, go see her or something. She’s always bringing you up—I’m sure she would be happy to know you’re looking for her.”

“Oh yeah? Then why hasn’t she responded to my texts?” Mark interrogates without intention, coming across as a little more toxic than he was intending. It’s not to control you, or to claim possession over you—it’s more to have his own insecurities answered. Sometimes he doesn’t even realize that he is grasping for as much relief as he can find, even for the smallest questions floating around in his head.

“Probably because, like I said, she’s asleep?”

“Okay, but. . . would she really be happy to know that I’m—” Mark needs to hear what Hongjoong has to say, even if he’s coming across as too strong. When Hongjoong sighs out of frustration at him though, he feels like maybe he pushed a bit too far with this half question.

Hongjoong just looks at him and shakes his head. He knows that if shit gets bad with Mark, you will at least have him in the end—but clearly you and Mark got some shit to work out. The poor dude looks like he’s about to cry and Hongjoong doesn’t even think Mark notices his own facial expressions right now.

“Because she said only you’re allowed to touch her if it isn’t me, and from what I can see, you haven’t gone below the neck yet. And she’s been—” Hongjoong looks around to make sure no one is listening. “She’s been wearing me out the past few days, I thought she was stressed or something, but after meeting you officially—I can see why.”

Mark blushes a little, feeling warm and jealous still at those words. Hongjoong didn’t mean it to sound sexual though it definitely was, it was more the fact that he can tell Mark must be insufferable to have feelings for since the dude refuses to admit he’s interested—and seems very clearly insecure about his feelings for you.

“So, like, I don’t know? Go take her to your dorm?”

Mark doesn’t know why, but he smiles at Hongjoong with a nod. The confirmation he needed should have come from you, but he’s thankful enough that Hongjoong seems ready to step the fuck off for a bit. He would figure that if you hadn’t said something about him before, Hongjoong would be up in arms about him looking for you. That must mean something right?

Mark leaves class feeling something different inside of him that day. He didn’t go to Hongjoong’s dorm to look for you, nor did he worry about the fact that you didn’t text him back until late that afternoon. Hongjoong just lit a fire inside of him. Competition or not, Hongjoong is willing to lose if it’s what you want.

Hongjoong has abandoned you, and to be fair he did say you were ‘wearing him out’ or whatever. It has been upwards of a week since he’s last needed you, and even casual hang outs feel scarce right now. Sure, he’s working hard on school work for the classes the two of you do happen to share, and sure he has huge projects—but so do you? Usually this is the season the two of you really get it on, but instead he’s just, aloof? Making excuses? You’re not sure, maybe he’s found a girlfriend or something? You aren’t entirely sure why he wouldn’t just tell you if that were the case either though? Because you’d be happy for him and knock it off with the needy horny texts?

It’s not even that Hongjoong was worn out, it’s just that he does actually have to shift his focus to a few other things right now that don’t involve getting his dick wet every night. You really are seeking him out more often for the sexual favors compared to the semesters before when the two of you did this. It’s gotten to the point that he wouldn’t have any free time if he keeps accepting your requests, and it kind of makes him feel a little used considering he knows half of the time you just wanna get laid because Mark wont step up his game.

So, even while Hongjoong makes excuses, Mark appears to be more. . . available. Meaning, some of your horny texts tend to go to the man giving you the most attention. You’re not being entirely horny towards Mark or anything, mostly just a lot of intense flirting via text and any time you’re around each other. The hickey he had given you originally stays in place each time he gets a chance to attach his lips to you too—maybe even placing a few more since Hongjoong is too busy to do it himself these days.

On the down low, Mark wonders if Hongjoong is giving him time to shoot his shot. He feels giddy each time he sees how empty and vacant your neck has become, the only swell coming from his own mouth. He feels on top of the world knowing you’re getting absolutely nothing from Hongjoong, now if you’d just. . . yknow, give him a green light or something.

This morning, still early of course, both you and Mark are doing your regular routine together. Sitting, chatting a little bit before shooting each other a knowing look. Only this time Mark isn’t biting the bait. He crosses his arms instead, leaning forward in his chair and looking at you with squinted eyes.

“Let me kiss you.” He speaks out, breaking the silent comfort in the room around you.

You’re taken aback a little bit, though it shouldn’t be a strange request considering he’s already hovered over you several times licking against your neck.

Mark, on the other hand, feels warm and confident right now. He hasn’t fully confronted you with any type of feeling he holds towards you since Hongjoong encouraged him over a week ago. Instead, he’s been working up his courage through flirting. Each time he flirts, you always double the energy back to him—so maybe, you feel mutual? Maybe he is special like Hongjoong implied? It would be kinda nice if you stopped making him do all of the work though.

“Was wondering when you’d bring that up.” You say nonchalantly, standing to your feet like you always do. “Kiss me then.”

“Kiss me first to prove I’m not the only one who thinks about it.”

You scoff, tilting your head to the side as you stand in place and watch him. He stays put, lounging in his chair like it’s the most comfortable place he could be in this moment.

“You think I don’t imagine it?” You bellow out it in somewhat sarcastic way, chuckling a little as you lean over him, placing your hands on your knees to study his face. “You’re joking, right?”

Mark shoots his hands up in defense, his eyes glancing away from you in what you can only read as panic, and then he shakes his head. “I’m not, actually. You never ask for m—” He tries to say, but you cut him off with an immediate kiss. One that he should have expected in all honesty, but he didn’t. His hands are still up in a defensive manner, his eyes still open, and his brain trying to process the fact that for the first time, your lips are on him.

You could have kissed him anywhere in this moment, he thinks. His forehead, his nose, his neck, his boots—hell, any semblance of your lips against him is enough for him to call it a genuine kiss at this point. He’s almost angry that he didn’t get to enjoy it long enough because he was too busy realizing, but you’ve already pulled back, and he’s still sitting there in the same position as before. Hands still up, eyes still open.

“Are you—um…” You trail off when you pull back further from his face, still leaned over and studying him. “Hello?”

“I—” Mark pauses, having no solid thought in his head to offer. It’s like? You guys didn’t even make out? His lips have done far more to your skin than what you’d just offered up to him and it still has him frozen in space. You kissed him the same way puppy-lovers do. Timid, silent, gentle. It was just your lips against his, no moving, no breathing, nothing more and nothing less than a simple pop kiss— but he still thinks it was the best sensation he could have felt today.

It could simply be because, again, he hasn’t been laid in the past six or so months and the only contact he’s had is by his own fist. If not that, it’s just aggressive suckling against your neck where he gets nothing from it outside of knowing a pretty girl lets him do that to her.

“Mark.” You say, lifting yourself from your leaned position and reaching out to tap him on the cheek for a second. “You literally told me to kiss you?”

You can’t lie, it feels a bit like a rejection. There was no effort to that kiss, you simply did it to prove to him that you would. What you expected in return was a deepening of the kiss considering he’s the one who suggested it. He’s the one who admitted to thinking about it, he’s the one who wanted you to do it because he was unsure that you even wanted to…and yet, he just sat there.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t, like, I didn’t think you’d just do it?” He finally admits in a small stutter, his hands finally falling to grip the seat of his chair.

Without hesitation, you lean forward again. Your lips barely in front of his as you keep your eyes fixated on him. “Well, I did.” You whisper out to him, feeling as if you’re in full control of the situation. Mark, the man who seems so confident, with such big energy, looking completely small and helpless beneath your hovering body. “Do you want me to do it again?”

He just looks at you, darting his eyes down to your lips only for a moment before nodding and fluttering his eyes closed.

“Do it yourself then.” You complain, pulling back from him completely and moving to your seat. You don’t miss the way he leans forward in chase of the anticipated kiss that never came, and it makes your heart beat a little faster.

Mark doesn’t say a word as he studies you in shock and what appears to be embarrassment. He’s frustrated that he’s the only who always has to pull the moves, because it makes it hard to see what you want from him clearly. You look back at him intently, blowing him a short kiss and winking with a chuckle. “I’ll be here all day, take your time.”

He’s quick to move this time, silent and swift, lunging forward to grab at your chair and roll you quickly back over to him. He braces his hands on the seat of your chair now, seemingly locking you in place when he leans forward. “I wasn’t prepared.” He seethes out, staring at you.

“Are you prepared now?” You smirk, tilting your head again in a way that makes him feel like you pity his attempt to be attractive right now. In reality, your cheeks are growing warmer and warmer at the interaction. “Because you say you want to kiss me, but you didn’t even kiss back.”

He narrows his eyes at you, feeling like you might just be his favorite person on the planet right now despite never making the first move. Still, you’re his favorite in the way you look so pretty, in the way you don’t push away from him, in the way you kissed him without hesitation, in the way you just—continue to surprise him more and more.

Mark does it this time. Slotting his lips against yours before you can mock him any further. You can feel his eyelashes flutter against your cheek when he does it, and you can also feel the need for him to kiss you this time. It’s exactly what you wanted.

You wanted him to kiss you. You wanted him to kiss you back. And he does it so well, deepening the kiss by the second each time he pulls back only slightly to get a better angle at your lips. You can feel his forearms against your legs, keeping you in place in your seat when he drags the chair even closer to him, spreading his legs so he can slot yours between them.

You squeal a little at the movement, but he doesn’t react and dives right back into kissing you. He wants you to know how good he is at it, needs you to know his mouth can do a lot more than marking spots against your skin and speaking artsy terms. Only so, if anything, you’re the one chasing this time.

You’re a little dizzy by the time he trails his lips down to your neck, right to the familiar spot below your earlobe. He wastes no time in blemishing it harder than he ever has before—that’s when you take a moment to roll your head back and bask in the sensation. It’s a lot less than you’d prefer to have right now, but enjoyable, nonetheless.

Being trapped by his arms like this is so much nicer than when the two of you would stand and do this. Better than the time he held you against the wall to do it, better than when you imagined him doing this to you in the comfort of your own dorm—and not in a brightly lit drawing studio. Even when Hongjoong had been doing this to you in much more pleasurable situations, from time to time your mind would drift off to the thought of Mark doing it instead. Kissing you, sucking your neck with his fingers plunging into you, pressing your legs further apart—all sorts of things.

This solidifies the lustful imagery you’d kept to yourself. He kissed you like he wanted it despite the awkward first attempt, and then, without permission or excuses this time, he’s left claim on you again.

When he pulls back from your neck, he just stares at you with a glazed over look. He knows his body is way too excited right now and he can’t bring himself to care too much when he sees the way your eyes stare back at him, implying that you must feel the same in this moment. But then he sees you dart your eyes down and his cock twitches on instinct, as if your gaze sent some sort of sensation to it. His cheeks drain and he groans, pulling back and slapping a hand over his eyes.

“What are you being so shy for?” You laugh nervously, having noticed the quite large bulge sitting against his leg beneath the fabric.

“I’m so creepy—” He whines out, and it’s endearing to you. “I like it.” You assure him, trying to turn him in his chair to face you again. “Just don’t be creepy with other people. I might get jealous.”

You leave class that day knowing full well why Mark left before you could even grab your jacket. He always stays after, but not today. You decide he’s probably just going to go rub one out, much like you’re about to do considering Hong-fucking-joong is too busy putting a padlock on his cock.

You’re cracking at the seams. Hongjoong won’t budge, and it’s been at least a week since you and Mark decided to just have random make out sessions whenever time allows it. That means you’ve had a solid two weeks of no fucking, and a solid week of making out with your incredibly hot classmate who gets hard every single time. He never hints that he needs more from you though, never pushes, never anything more than making out. You’re not sure why, but you also never push. It’s not like you’re hiding it though, you are making it obvious to Mark that you’d very much let him in your pants.

His texts are as casual as ever, and you wonder if you’re really the only one who wants to absolutely get fucked senseless at this point, despite his raging hard-ons that he hides not so well. It’s pissing you off. Every selfie he sends, you wonder if it’s before or after he jacked off to you. Every text he responds a little too slow to, you wonder if he’s one handing it and in the process of getting himself off.

Maybe you’re the creep.

You: are you jerking off rn?

Mark: …..why

You: idk you haven’t texted me yet since we left class?

You: you always text me after you get home

Mark: what if I am?

You: are you?

Mark: you’re being weird

You definitely are, but it’s not like he didn’t spend half of this semester obsessing over how Hongjoong sucked on your neck? It’s not like he doesn’t make out with you every morning and warn you not to let Hongjoong have his spot on your skin. He’s fucking weird too?

You: I learned it from you

Mark: brb

Sighing, you toss your phone onto your bed and wonder why the fuck you haven’t just masturbated. You’re sure that’s what Mark is doing anyway, kinda fucked up he won’t just tell you…or call you, and like…moan your name by accident or something.

Cracking. You are absolutely bursting out of the world of sanity simply because you don’t want to use your own hand?! Since when did you ever have to do all of the work yourself when you’re feeling spicy? Why the fuck does Mark just settle with his own hand? Why doesn’t he just, like, come over right now? You pounce back to your phone.

You: you’re jerking off, don’t lie

Mark: stoppp omg, no im not

You: then call me and prove it, ill be counting your breaths

Mark does call you, and he was not, in fact, jerking off. It kind of offends you if you’re being honest. Even despite your intense and forward flirting, he’s casual and flirts right back as if he’s not in a hurry or anything. Well, you are. He doesn’t even text you to ask why you hung up on him either, what an easy life he must be living.

Without your knowledge though, the way you’ve started acting towards Mark has, ultimately, excited him beyond belief. He is doing his best to remain calm, working hard to seem as cool and collected towards you as he possibly can—because he doesn’t want to come across as desperate or like he’s been waiting for it. The reality is that he definitely did start fucking his hand the second you hung up on him. The harsher reality is that, not only did he want to immediately call you back, but it’s becoming increasingly more difficult to not appear desparate.

Anyway. Thanks to Mark being too cool for school, you opt to try again with Hongjoong.

You: why do you hate me?

Hongjoong: you are so dramatic, and way too horny during crunch time. do your projects or ill never touch you again.

Hongjoong? The worst. Mark? The devil.

It’s been another week. Absolutely dry. When you take a step it feels like your thighs are cracking for the sheer dryness between them. Even worse? Mark didn’t show up early today. You sat outside of the door for what felt like ages before he came bopping up to you like everything was all sunshine and fucking rainbows, typing in the door-code like some— some—buffoon. He looked so good though, his lips were pretty, and his hair was actually brushed, your eyes stayed narrow and trained on him as you internally compliment how stupidly attractive he is.

You don’t even realize how your entire mood and attitude has changed from confident to – too confident around Mark solely because, if you had a dick, you wouldn’t be able to see past it right now. You’re literally thinking with your clit at this point.

Mark on the other hand, knows his time is running out before he, too, cracks and gives in. He doesn’t even know why he hasn’t yet, but it’s probably because he’s really enjoying the way you’re clinging so hard for his attention, demanding it, actually. He’s not the only desperate person in this situation, he assumes.

“Where were you this morning?” You ask as casually as you can, already rolling your chair over to Mark in hopes of making out with his stupid pretty face again. It may not be exactly what you want, but at least it’s something.

“Why? You came early so we can make out again?” He wiggles his brows and chuckles, as if that hasn’t been the plan since the two of you started doing this in the first place.

“Yeah.” You deadpan, tapping your foot as you look at him with disappointed eyes. “And you left me hanging.”

“Y/n, look at the time.” He is very much endeared by you right now, finally pointing out that he was one hundred percent on time as usual this morning. “What does the clock say?”

You glare at him, wondering what he was getting at before realizing.

“It’s—” You throw your head back in a groan for your own stupidity. “It’s nine thirty.”

“How long were you waiting here, being all mad at me about it?” He slouches his shoulders, happy that he’s starting to feel so entirely comfortable around you that he couldn’t possibly fuck things up at this point.

“A…while..” You whisper.

Mark coughs in response, not realizing you’d actually just admit to have been waiting that long for him. “You are literally— so my type. Jesus Christ.”

You groan again, slapping yourself on the forehead for not getting that extra hour of sleep. To be fair though, you didn’t look at the clock at all and just assumed he would be here waiting for you all the time. Wait—

“I’m what?” You question for clarity and Mark just looks at you with a very amused smile.

“You heard me.”

“Actually, I don’t think I did.” Narrowing your eyes further, you lean towards him. “By the way, the hickey you gave me is fading, what are you going to do about it?”

Mark smiles at you, rolling your chair back and away from him with his foot. “Nothing.” He says, feeling, for some reason, on top of the world.

You’re being needy, and quite frankly, you’re doing a terrible job at hiding it. He feels so in control right now and it’s clear what you want if he goes by your texts alone. Is he also vibrating in his skin wanting to lunge at you? Absolutely. Do you realize it? He has no fucking clue how you don’t already.

“Y/n,” Mark starts, watching you glare back at him in disbelief. “It’s not that I don’t want to.” He explains in a cheerful voice, pulling out his paper and flipping to find a new page. “It’s just—” He bites the inside of his cheek to decide if he wants to say it or not.

He does.

“You’re really cute when you don’t get what you want.” He smiles at you again. “And if you really want something, I think you should just take it.” His heart pounds when he says it because he is absolutely alluding to the fact that he thinks what you want, just so happens to be him.

He studies you for the remainder of the class. You look a lot more needy than he does, and suddenly, he doesn’t feel embarrassed anymore about all of the boners he’s hidden from you.

“Mark—” You whisper into the phone as soon as he answers it. You’re being quiet in an attempt to not bother your studious roommate, but she still glares at you for somehow finding all of the time in the world to do things that aren’t studying or final projects. You’re not gonna just like, ignore the fact that you have piles of shit to do, it’s just—y’know—you’re gonna get laid first.

“Hm?” He hums back as if you were calling out for him in class, casual, sweet almost, and you can hear his papers crinkling through the speaker at you.

“Seriously? Are you studying too?” You groan, eyes darting to the empty blanks on your own study guides that you really should have already filled in. You have too much energy inside of you right now, but none of it can be spent on studying.

“Yeah? Finals are like, really soon—” You can hear the crinkling of papers on his end go silent and then he speaks again. “Why aren’t you studying?”

“I cant.” You deadpan, staring directly at the wall in front of you and deciding you should just go to the club or something since all of your favorite men are too busy being good students. Then again, a club on a Tuesday probably isn’t popping with any sort of possible lust interest.

“Why not?” Mark is amused at the tone of your voice, already putting studying to the side so that he can sit here for however long just to hear you drone on. “Do you want to study with me?”

“Please—no.” You groan, causing your roommate to jolt in annoyance. You wave your hand in an apology as you try to lower your voice again. “Can you take a break and just talk to me for a little?”

“I’m glad you asked. I definitely need a break.” Mark agrees with a sigh, stretching his body out against the uncomfortable chair. You can hear it squeak through the phone and you wonder what he looks like right now.

On one hand, Mark really does need a break from studying and meticulous artwork—on the other hand, if that break includes you, he’s going to need another break for at least a solid hour after you’re done with him. Mostly so he can release all of his tension in the only way he knows how.

He wonders when you’ll make a move, and if you even want to at this point. Maybe you’re waiting for him to do it. Which isn’t fair, considering everything the two of you have already done has been by his own suggestion. That should be enough to show you that he would very much put his head between your legs if you wanted him to, right?

“So…” He trails off, scratching the back of his neck nervously as he pushes himself from the desk and stands to his feet. “What do you wanna talk about?”

And god. It’s like the two of you are so aware of each other but neither of you push for what you both, very obviously want. Mark fills his mornings with frantic thoughts of ‘will today be the day?’ Working on his projects more aggressively than usual at the very thought of never getting to try. His mornings used to be for working on his art, but now it’s just working on you. He doesn’t even know at this point if you’re an art piece or someone who is actually, genuinely, interested in him beyond the simple pleasures of a make out session and hickey.

All of your flirting point to the one thing he wants, the way you move when you’re with him as well. But you just. . . you don’t do anything else? And it’s fucking confusing to him considering how open and honest you genuinely are. It’s like, you imply you want him but you don’t take him when he, himself, makes it clear that he wants you too?

Even still, on the phone, you’re quick to begin the hushed flirting on your end, diving straight into the whole reason this started happening in the first place.

“Y’know, I think I’d be sad if someday, you stopped drawing me.”

“Why is that?” Mark isn’t thrown off at all, he knows you’re edging on the line of flirting right now, he’s grown used to it despite it practically going nowhere.

“Because it would mean you’d found an interest in someone else, and I –”

“Y/n.” Mark snaps. He’s tired now and has decided that, once again, he’s going to be the one pushing for what he wants. He loves the clinging and the needy voice you have every time he pulls back from kissing you, but at this point— “If you keep doing this to me, I’m going to die.”

He wants you to stutter and blush so badly, he wants to hear the way you sound when he makes you feel warm and recognized as someone that is, quite literally, driving him up a fucking wall—

“Do you want to come over right now?” He suddenly says, barely letting you process what he said before.

“Depends on what you’d want to do if I did.” You laugh, trying to tease but ultimately teasing yourself at the way you don’t immediately accept the invite. This is what you’ve been waiting for, right?

“Can you stop flirting for ten seconds and just tell me what you want?” Mark scolds, crossing his legs on his bed and waiting for your response. When it doesn’t come, he continues. “Are you really going to make me be the one to say it?”

A tingle in your stomach and you’re already feeling warmth between your legs (only because you’re sex-starved right now) at the very idea of what he may be suggesting to you. You’re glancing over at your roommate out of fear of how loud you may end up being within the next three seconds.

“No, I’d say it if my roommate wasn’t three feet away from me right now.” You let out in a whisper, wondering if the two of you are on the same page.

“You’ve had so many opportunities to say it before now. So, I’ll ask again.” Mark feels like he’s vibrating right now, mad that he’s always the one to get the point across because you always seem too stubborn to do it yourself. “Do you want to come over?”

“Yes.”

“What would you want to do then?” He asks you this time.

You sigh, standing to your feet and making your way to the bathroom, then turning on the fan so your roommate can’t hear you. “Mark, I am literally going fucking insane.” You say in one deep breath. “And honestly, I know you can do a lot more with your mouth than kissing.”

“You sound so pretty when you talk like that, you know?” He sighs in relief at your words, his body tensing at the same time. “What took you so long? Did you need my permission to tell me these things or something?”

You pause, realizing the eggshells you’re walking on.

“I. . . did need the green light, just this one time.”

It is confirmed for Mark.

“You can do whatever you want to me.” He says blankly, sitting himself up in his bed and looking down at the forming bulge, feeling pathetic at how you don’t even have to try and he would probably beg you for more at this point.

“Then I want to come over.”

“Hm, then what though?” Mark teases again, standing himself up to clean up a little bit, mostly so his bulge goes down and he doesn’t look so fucking pathetic when you show up.

“Mark.” You say pointedly, not wanting to outright say the words. “Give me your address.”

“You know, my roommate will likely not be home tonight, you can sleep over.”

You’re quiet for a moment, mind already flashing images that are too inappropriate to speak of right now.

“Room 112, second floor.” Mark finally says. “The door is open.”

You didn’t try to look too good for him, honestly. You didn’t want to blow the cover of being casual—but you did at least, brush your hair and spray yourself with a bit of perfume. And as you walk, the cold wind shifting your hair in all sorts of directions, you figure you probably didn’t even need to brush your hair at this point.

The cold air stings your cheeks, which are far too hot right now, as you walk to Mark’s dorm with several ideas of what may happen. You’re thankful the two of you live on campus, because you make it there in less than ten minutes.

Timing, what a funny thing. It’s only funny because the moment you and Mark agreed to meet up tonight, Hongjoong started texting you. How is it that after three weeks, he wants to get laid now? If circumstances were any different, you’d be at his dorm in less than ten minutes, pants at your ankles the second you see his building. Instead, though, you’re texting him a small ‘sorry, I made plans’. Of course, Hongjoong is put off by that considering the sheer number of times you’ve asked for a hook up recently. You don’t respond to anymore of his texts though.

Mark is at the door the second you knock, swinging it open and revealing the small room. You realize this is the first time you’re ever truly in a private space with him, and he looks so—artistic. You notice piles of ripped and crumpled newsprint littering his tables with figures darkly sketched onto them.

“You are literally so hot right now.” You groan out without hesitation, staring up at the man who did nothing more than open his door and revealing the mess of his living space to you.

His hair is a mess much like the room, probably from rubbing his hands through it as he studied, his sweatpants sitting loosely against him, the t-shirt, clearly far too big, skewed against his shoulder. Truly, he is the most attractive to you in this moment, you would probably start drooling if he didn’t speak up.

All he does is laugh, leaning down to you and reaching his arm past your head to close the door. He stays in place, looking so incredibly confident that you think you may be in love with the way he looks at you right now.

“We are on the same page, right?” He whispers, his breath, which smells suspiciously minty, wisps around your cheeks when he says it.

You stare back at him, clearly very much on the same page in the way he keeps you pinned against this door. Do you really even need to clarify or confirm what’s about to happen? Because you’re pretty sure it’s obvious at this point. You dart your eyes down between his legs, back up to his eyes, to his lips, then over to one of the two beds in this room. You aren’t sure which is his and to be fair, you could give less of a fuck about which bed he chooses to bend you over in.

Without any amount of hesitation, you shoot your hands up to his face and connect your lips to his in a way that feels…starved. His body is too relaxed over yours when you do it, and the door is too stiff behind you when you try to press off of it in a sense of urgency for the kiss—but finally, he puts more force behind his lips too.

You’re pressed right back against the door by his lips, his hands dropping already to pull your coat off of you. Urgent hands he has, and you would fall to your knees thanking God if you didn’t have other plans down there in all honesty.

It’s fast, confirmed, and obvious what the two of you are here for. Your coat is off so quickly that you’re almost frustrated he didn’t immediately start trying to lift your shirt off as well, so instead, you go for his shirt and pull it off in such a quick movement it shocks him.

“How long?” He mumbles, lurching back towards your lips without letting you admire his naked chest. You start working your own shirt off now, feeling his hands reach directly for your waist as soon as the skin is revealed. “How long what?” You sigh against his lips when he tries to connect them again, hands rubbing up and down your sides.

“How long were you going to make me wait?” He pulls back, finally staring down at you. Everything is further confirmed when he realizes you did not, infact, wear a bra and this is the first time he is seeing your bare breasts after weeks of wondering what they look like.

He groans before you can answer, his mind already distracted from the conversation at hand when he pulls at your body and leads you to his bed.

“How long was I--? Mark, I was waiting on you to do something!” You laugh at him, and then at yourself for actually trying to have a conversation right now.

“Uh-uh.” Mark pouts, pressing you back against what you assume to be his bed and throwing himself beside you to start unbuttoning your pants. “No, I was the only one pushing, it was your turn.”

You stare at him in shock. So, the reason he didn’t—because he was waiting— god. You truly are entitled.

You simply nod at him so the conversation can be put to rest, leaning over again to connect your lips with him as he pulls at the band of your pants. He’s gotten them undone and unzipped and is…cutely trying to pull them off of you in a way that makes you want to see how long it’ll take him to grow frustrated.

Eventually he does, you can see him furrow his brow when he pulls back from the kiss in a huff, pulling his focus to getting your pants off of you in a determined way.

“You’re—” You sigh, eyes searching along his body to admire a little while he does his thing, your eyes zoning in between his legs. Truly, you were going to say he was cute, but when you saw the twitch, and you saw the sheer length hidden by fabric, a different word slipped out. “big.”

Mark pauses and looks at you and then down at himself. Your pants are only half down your thighs now when he smirks at you and his cheeks somehow manage to darken even more. “Yeah? I am?” He asks for clarity, and you swipe his hands away from your denim long enough to pull them off yourself.

“That’s how you take a woman’s pants off, by the way.” You mock him easily and ignore his need for you to elaborate. You see him shift his gaze away from you in embarrassment, and then your eyes are right back between his legs. “Now yours.”

You barely even get the words out before he’s pulling his pants off in one swift motion and leaving your mouth feeling dry and—incredibly thirsty at the way his sheer desperation shows. How lucky you are, to not have a dick that tells on you—how lucky that the damp spot between your legs can only be seen if you were to blatantly show it to him.

“I’m—” Mark pauses in a small voice, hands going to cover himself before he continues. “It’s been a while, I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry.” You mock in disbelief, turning your body so that you can throw yourself at him when the time is right. “Mark, you have no idea what’s happening between my legs right now,” You try to assure him and it has him relaxing his hands away from himself.

“I very much—and I mean very much—want what’s in your boxers right now.” You seethe out, leaning over him to the point you’re the one hovering.

He says nothing, but his hips buck up at your words against absolutely nothing and you think that seeing him like this might be your absolute favorite thing in the fucking universe. His body searching for the friction only you can grant. Immaculate, but you’re not gonna give him that yet. Instead, throw one leg over him to sit on his thighs and stare down against his bulge. You’re sure you’ll get his boxers off around the same time your panties get lost somewhere in the room, but the time isn’t now.

Your eyes zone in the spot below his earlobe, the place he attached his lips to so frequently, and you think, yeah, it’s your turn to do it now. He needs to know what your body felt in the early mornings before class, he needs to know how badly you wanted more from him this whole time.

One of his hands instantly shoots to your breast, yknow, the skin he has been staring at since you pulled yourself on top of him, and the other grips your hair as you touch your lips to that spot against his jaw. He groans out at the sensation, hips bucking up again, against nothing because you haven’t granted him the pleasure yet. You’re still sitting against his thighs and each time his hips move, your body shifts with him.

He realizes now though, that this spot you’re sucking on had to of been the best spot anyone could ever feel a pair of lips. He can hear your soft suckles so clearly and feel the heat of your tongue against his skin—jesus. He did this to you so many times and you didn’t break? Not even a little bit?

“How does that feel?” You pull your lips back and whisper against his lobe, shifting your core a little higher on his thighs so that you’re barely grazing against some part of his bulge.

Mark doesn’t respond, he simply swallows at your words before turning his cheek and catching your lips against his again. He’s far to ready, far too desperate, and far to lost to the sensations of you that you’re a little taken aback when his hands grip your waist and force you forward against his incredibly hard length. He takes a short moment to slip his hand away and into his boxers to adjust himself properly and only now do you realize the actual length and girth of it beneath you.

You can’t fully think straight right now, your panties rubbing against you in such a harsh way that you almost wish you opted not to wear them at all. His hands guide your waist in a frantic way, pushing and pulling you as he lurches forward to kiss you again, breathing deeply into it. None of his thrusts match the way he’s moving your body and you find it incredibly hot that he can’t seem to control his desire right now.

In an attempt to help, you lift yourself and guide both of his hands to your chest. You press against his fingers so that he knows to massage the hardened nubs beneath them and then you brace yourself for his reaction by leaning back on your elbows, hands braced against his thighs, and grinding your entire core against his full length.

His eyes widen and then quickly fall hooded as he stares up at you. You can see his abdomen tensing each time you grind up and against him, and his breath hitching when you pull back again—you’re not entirely sure how long you can do this for though because the wetness between the two of you is almost embarrassing.

Mark thinks it might be the hottest thing he’s ever done with a woman though, being shown how to touch her, his cock being grinded against as a form of teasing that very well could have him cumming within the next minute if you were to quicken your pace at all. The slick of your panties dampening his own fabric, he isn’t even entirely sure who is releasing the majority of it at this point—

And then he feels air. Cold air hitting the tip of his cock. He glances down, seeing your hips pull back and press so hard against him that your movements catch his boxers and pull them back just enough—just barely.

He moans first. Like a genuine moan, and he wasn’t even sure why he wasn’t already but it’s not like he needs to keep his cool in this moment considering he’s already shown you how desperate he truly is for this. His hands move from your chest back to your waist, and he grips you so tightly as he stares at your core, so dripping that he wants nothing more than to taste it.

Your movements are halted by his hands as he holds you in place for a moment, then he shoots his eyes up and the two of you make eye contact. “you are so good at this.” He almost whines, and all you can do is chuckle down at him.

Honestly, you’re about to grind against him again but you’re shocked when he lifts himself up and pulls you flush against his chest, trapping you there for a moment as you hear his heartbeat pounding against his chest. His hands rub down your back, slightly beneath your panties, and then he hooks them—seemingly holding onto them for dear life when he pushes himself further forward. His legs spread out, and your close in when he does this, pressing you down on your back against the mattress as he slips your panties off in one motion with ease.

Part of you wonders where he learned to do that, but another part of you genuinely doesn’t care because you’re completely bare beneath him and he is focusing his eyes directly on your folds. Literally, he’s just staring, frozen in his spot as he swallows at the sight.

You throw your arm over your face, but he notices the gesture of shyness in his peripheral and quickly swats your arm away. Not another word is said when he finally tears his eyes away from the wetness he caused for you and direct eye contact before smiling.

You already know what he’s about to do, and fuck yeah he’d better.

The breath is knocked out of you the moment he braces on hand on your thigh, the other immediately going for your clit and rubbing harsh circles, then he’s leaning down. You can barely react before his tongue is doing magical things against you, flicking and sucking against your heat as if he were trying to prove something. You already knew his mouth could do a lot more than kissing like a professional, but this?

When you moan, his thumb presses harder against your soft spot, when your hips raise up to feel his tongue slip deeper, he groans much louder than you do. You can see him his hips stutter against nothing as he laps against you, searching for the friction you’d just given him moment before—and it’s—god. It’s so hot to see him desperate for you, eating you as if you’re edging him on purpose.

He sighs, slipping his tongue into you at an impossibly frustrating angle if he’s being honest, when you grip his hair and guide his head there. What he doesn’t expect though, is the way you wrap a leg around his shoulder, stretch it out, and use your foot to press his back against the mattress, granting him some sort of friction that you must have noticed his body yearning for.

He furrows his brows in a wince when he feels his cock press against the mattress, and it was all your doing. This gives him the urge to do whatever he can to plunge his tongue into you as deep as it can go. He tucks his hands beneath your ass and angles you up slightly, tilting his head only a little so he can, essentially, tongue fuck you and leave your clit completely abandoned.

The choked-out sound you give to him at that was exactly what he wanted, his hips pressing futher into the mattress as he feels the heat of your walls clench for more. You grind against his tongue the same way he grinds against the mattress, and the wet sounds coming from between your legs has you feeling like you need to shout out how good it feels, but you don’t—you moan gently, prettily for him because he moans louder and you want to hear it. You like hearing the sounds crack in his throat and vibrate through his tongue straight against you—you could honestly say you might love it.

When he pulls back for a breath, his hips continue to tense against the mattress. You look at him, his eyes staring up between your legs in a way that makes him look as if he’s drunk. Dopey almost, and you smile at him, pressing your foot into his back again and holding him down like that. His eyes shut tightly, a shaky moan falling from his lips that you can feel against the skin of your thigh, and then you press harder.

“You really can do more with your mouth—” You stutter out to your surprise, thinking the words would sound a lot smoother than they did. “But Mark?” You ask, keeping your foot firm against his back to hold him there. “I’m getting a little jealous of the mattress.”

He can’t even respond, his cock twitching between his stomach and the firm bed beneath, enveloping his entire length in warmth and slight wetness from precum, he just moans shamelessly at your words, resting his forehead directly against your clit to catch his breath. He knows he must look pathetic right now. You’re telling him you’re jealous of the mattress—but? But—you’re holding him against it as if you’d rather watch him, quite literally, hump into euphoria?

“Lick,” You say, pulling your leg back and resting in its original position on the side of him. You lift your hips a little bit, feeling his tongue immediately resume what it had been doing before as if he were compelled to listen to your every command without a single word of response.

You watch him for a moment and you can see the eagerness he has to make you feel good, but then he stops. You can see his eyes flutter open and stare against your leg for a long moment before he completely abandons your core and bites down against the plush skin of your thigh.

Whatever you wanted from him long forgotten because apparently, he suddenly needed to blemish every spot of your body that his mouth comes in contact with. You don’t argue, brushing his hair between your fingers as you let him trail his mouth all over your inner thighs as if to lay more claim against you. It tickles, your body jolting every now and then at his teeth nipping at the softest skin on your body.

His hips pick back up against the mattress, and his breath begins to hitch more and more as he leaves small swells against any vacant skin he can find. He likes the idea of Hongjoong seeing them and knowing it didn’t come from his own mouth. He likes the idea of leaving seething reminders of what he can do to you—he likes that you’re letting him, scratching against his scalp and soothing him each time he finds a new spot to bruise up. And when he’s finally satisfied at the swatches of colors surrounding his head, he envelopes your clit with his lips and does the same thing there. The sensation almost painful in the way he attempts to make his claim on the most private, sensitive area of your body.

He stays there for much longer than the other spots, nicking the bud with his teeth as his fingers snake their way up and against your entrance. His hips never slow, and his low groans vibrate against you in a way that has you anticipating your release every two to three seconds.

But when he finally plunges his fingers into you, flicking his tongue and sucking hard against your clit in such a way that makes you moan out his name—you immediately grip his hair tightly and pull his face back so you don’t cum yet.

He looks up at you innocently when you do that, his lips red and plush, shimmering from his saliva—you look at him in awe. The orgasm threatening to come to you doesn’t leave though, because his fingers continue to rock in and out of you at a lazy pace. You can feel how long they are suddenly now that the intense sensation on your clit has come to a stop, and when he curls the pads of his fingers inside of you, your legs tense and you panic.

Yes, you want to cum. Do you want to cum now? Absolutely not.

You grip his hair tightly, pulling him up as aggressively as you can and causing him to fall over you in his attempt to follow you. His fingers slipping out of you and coming to grab at the arm you’re using to guide him. His cock sits harshly against the bruises he had left between your legs, the soreness more alluring than painful—and you keep eye contact with him.

“I-“ You try to say, but he speaks at the same time in his own little out of breath stutter.

“You’re so—”

Both of you look away with a small, shy, smile and then silence fills the room. Neither of you try to complete your sentences and instead opt to fall back into a kiss where you can taste yourself so perfectly that it’s no wonder he was enjoying himself down there. However, feeling his cock twitch directly against your core reminds you that he’s still wearing his boxers and you, cannot, for the life of you, understand why the fuck he still has him on.

“Take them off—” You groan between kisses, fumbling your hands at his waist to try and tug at the material. The small laugh he lets out has you falling into some sort of. . . fondess. Rose colored glasses fogging your mind and thoughts the moment he looks back at you with rounded and sparkling eyes, his boxers now somewhere crumpled within the bed sheets. “Use it.” Is all you can say before you’re immediately pressing your lips against every single surface of his face.

He laughs and moans at that, his arousal showing plainly on his face as he also attempts to appreciate how cute you’re acting despite the crude and aggressive demands. He feels incredibly wanted, and that’s really all he needs to grasp onto when he works up the courage to slide his length between your folds.

He doesn’t press in, instead opting to grind against you first—wanting to memorize the way your wet coats his cock so perfectly that it almost feels as though he is inside of you. Warm and wet, he does this for a bit longer than you’d prefer. Gliding against you and breaking out into little, embarrassing sobs against your lips. The head of his cock bumping into your clit every single time he grinds back up—until you press your hips down and force him to, by accident of course, slip inside of you. It was so easy to slip in that he almost didn’t even realize he did it until he’s slumping down against you with a low and guttural moan.

You’re shocked that he doesn’t pull out, and instead he immediately just starts fucking into you in a way that shows he probably couldn’t stop himself if he wanted to. His forehead is resting against your shoulder as he closes his eyes and feels the sensations of your walls clenching around him, his once neglected cock now feeling so much at once that he feels like he forgot how to fuck a woman at all.

His hips have no rhythm, nor does his breathing. All you can do is feel him inside of you, exploring in his own way until he finally lifts his head to look at you again.

Mark looks dazed, his cheeks dusted in pink and his eyes looking so innocent that you almost forgot this is the same man who talked to you so boldly before. The image of him alone right now is enough that if you were to simply put a little pressure against your clit, you could cum right now and really show him what he’s missed.

Thankfully, you don’t have to do that. Mark seems to snap out of it and realize where he is, what he’s doing, and how badly he must be doing it (in his own mind.), and you’re nearly thrown over the edge when he lifts himself up completely, hold your chin with one hand to look at him, and the other going straight to your clit.

And right there, he literally fucks you, your legs gripping around his middle as he does it. And he does it in a way that shows he knows exactly what he’s doing despite losing himself completely before. You like both versions of him. Either way, you know you’re cumming, especially when he keeps eye contact with you, his fingers rubbing your clit in the way you’d do it yourself if a man wasn’t doing his job. You stare up at him, with his lips caught between his teeth as he presses in and out of you with long, slow, but powerful drags.

His eyes light up more when your eyes begin to roll back a bit. His fingers pressing more against you, his cock holding still so he can feel your walls clench around him as you release. You’re silent in your climax, holding your breath as you feel him twitch along with you.

He wonders if this is the first time a woman has genuinely ever cum around him. He’s never felt a pussy throb like this, gripping against him in a way that you’re quite literally, jerking him off without intention. The slick sliding out as he picks up his pace again, he waits for you to look at him again.

When you do, eyes hooded and sleepy, hair a mess, lips soft and pillowy, he thrusts himself as deeply as he can go, mind hooked on the feeling of your walls clenching around him as you ride the last bit of you high.

It takes everything in him to pull out, but he does, because he always does. The loss of warmth sending his orgasm over the edge and releasing strings of milky white against the blemishes on your thighs. His hand is shaking as he milks the last bit out of himself. Not once did he open his eyes after pulling out, and not once did he see you blink in awe at how fucking good he looked when he cums.

Not only did he stay silent, much like you do during release, but you could see him release the breath he had been holding when the first wave hit him. The way his eyebrows went from furrowed to relieved, arching in a way that would look like he may start crying. His mouth fell slack, and—you’re not sure if he noticed, but his free hand gripped your legs open as far as he could so that he could cum directly against you. He missed, of course, because he kept his eyes closed, but you will admit that his slick looks good against the blemishes he had made on your skin there.

A few more moments of silence before he’s flopping down against you, head lying directly against one of the nipples he really didn’t intend to abandon—it’s just, there was a lot of your body to look at and he kind of let your chest fall into the background the moment he could get between your legs.

He doesn’t seem to mind the fact that he just laid directly into the pools of cum he left on you, you don’t mind it either. Out of breath, feeling dizzy, you run your fingers through his hair again. He hums at this, shifting his body up a little further so that he could lazily kiss against the spot under your earlobe. Sure, internally he’s claimed other parts of you now, but this is still his favorite spot.

You feel content right now, not saying a single word after the two of you practically came together. It’s the first time that’s ever happened to you. Hongjoong always either being the first to get off and the first to fall asleep, or the one to finish you off with his fingers, because let’s be real, he always finishes first.

Looking down at Mark’s body on top of yours makes you push the thought of Hongjoong to the furthest depths of your mind though, because you can’t help but feel warm, more warm than you did when you came, more warm than the first time Mark kissed you, more warm than the first time he drew your hickey.

“Mark?”

“Sh.” He hums in a soft way, nuzzling his nose against your ear as if he’s the one needing after care or something.

“Mark, we are going to get crusty—” You speak out before he can shush you this time, and he responds by wiggling his body against you a bit, smearing the pools further.

“Yep.” He confirms, refusing to pull himself off you.

The two of you laid there together for what felt like hours. He did, eventually, get up and wipe the two of you clean with, unfortunately, what appears to be your shirt—but you figure you can just wear one of his home or something.

He admires you the entire time when he laid back down beside you, unaware of how obvious it looks. You feel wanted, attractive, seen. It’s nice to watch him dart his eyes to all sorts of areas on your body. Smiling at the spots he left on you, then shifting to a very regular stretch of skin and smiling at that just as much. His jawline is sharp, eyes calm as he looks at you in pure admiration for as long as he can, then his eyes light up much like they did during the steamy session hours ago.

“You’ve seen titanic, right?” And almost immediately, you can tell he feels stupid for asking that. “What the fuck, you don’t need an example for this, jesus.” He insults himself, pulling himself away from you. “Listen—” He assures you, standing up and walking to his desk stark naked without a care in the world. “I know it’s cliché but please do not move from that spot.”

You roll your eyes in matched adoration for him in this moment, but you stay still despite the lack of warmth next to you. You assume there are pros and cons to fucking an artist that appears to be obsessed with you.

He draws you perfectly, as expected. Looking dopey and stupid as he messes his fingers with the broken charcoal block he had been using earlier in the week. “Don’t worry,” He smiles, coming back over to you with the newsprint. “I wont show anyone. It’s for me.” He admits with another dopey and stupidly adorable smile.

“You really are too pretty.” He finally says, placing the sheet of paper on his dresser and pulling you out of the bed and against him.

You really did think he was just being sweet, especially when he kissed your nose—but then he got a little cocky, not that you’re complaining. “I wish I could draw you like this too.” He whispers against your ear. You can feel his cock stir against your thigh only for a moment when he spins you around and presses you down against the mattress, his hands gripping your hips.

He was much quicker this time to take what he wanted, and you were just as quick to oblige. Mark was already spreading you open and pressing into you again with a desperate sort of stoke. You, still matching his energy if the wetness seeping out of you is anything to go by, press back against him when he does it. Only then, he realizes just how tightly he was gripping your hips, and he wonders for a moment if that alone bruised you. He can see the marks under the pads of his fingers against your skin, but it smeared when he moved his fingers away—he moans. You, in all of your glory, truly are a wonderful canvas. Not only for his mouth, but the stained charcoal against his fingers that he’s come to love so much.

Mark thinks he could probably draw you every day, adding a wrinkle here or there as they grow deeper, dimpling your cheeks from how often you had smiled for him in your life.

#mark lee smut #mark lee #mark lee fic #nct 127 #nct 127 fic #nct 127 smut #nct dream #nct #uh---#hongjoong #ateez #kim hongjoong fic #ateez fic #mine #ncteez #nct-writers #i will begin using my previous tag from this point forward //properly// and within the first 5 tags

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hanekdrawsmoomins · 3 years

Text

what if moomin characters were humans and went to a modern school?

I have a hole in my heart as I wait for Moominvalley season 3. SO. To fill said hole and somehow feed my hyperfixation, I decided to imagine moomin characters as people and throw them into this coming of age movie setting.

I present to you~

Now, a few basics of the AU.

The story takes place in the real, modern world, in a town on the south coast of England, to be precise. There’s no magic or fantasy creatures in this universe, only stupidity and teenage drama. Speaking of, this whole thing was made as my personal snufmin shipping playground, so they’re the main characters here (so surprising).

Moomin and his friends all go to college in their hometown. If you’re not familiar with education system in UK (me neither dw) college is the school where students aged 16-18 can go, before they enroll in a university.

Snufkin is the new kid in school, having just moved to the town with his (huge and feral) family, after his mom got divorced for the 50th time.

Moomin, bless his soul, finds the quiet, scruffy guy to be the embodiment of sheer coolness for some reason. They eventually become friends, thanks to his persistence.

🌼 Moomin 🌼

- 17 years old - British - the only child, living his peaceful, carefree life in the nice, huge house of his parents - not your typical “popular kid” but everyone seems to like him - soft boy™ with just the right amount of sass - moominparents are too good to raise a spoiled brat but lord, is this boy sheltered and naive - dumb at maths lol

☘️ Snufkin ☘️

- 18 years old - Swedish - you’d think the guy’s so chill and calm but on the inside he lives his life in a constant state of mild annoyance/anxiety - could have straight A’s at school but f*ck the system 🤘 - hobbies include: taking walks, playing guitar, smoking weed - just wants to live his life in peace, nobody will let him - pretentious

A little lineup of the families:

and to end it off with a doodle page of random silliness I did when I was coming up with the au idea

I know the fandom is kinda dead rn, I plan to sh*t out the content for this and keep the ask box open. should any other soul find this interesting somehow.

🌼🌼🌼

(tumblr text posts are trash so open in dashboard for better quality of the pics)

#moomin #snufkin #moomin college au #moomin modern au #moomin human au #moominvalley #moomintroll #moominmamma #moominpappa #little my #mymble #tove jansson #human au #humanization #my art #moomins #snufmin #snufkin x moomin #moomin x snufkin

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miekasa · 3 years

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speaking of college boys, what do the college au aot babies study??

Okay, okay, I think I’ve talked about this in an ask before but I can’t find it 😭😭 but it’s okay, I love college aus, so I’ll talk about it again! Plus, now I’ve got more thoughts for more characters, so here we go

Levi — neuroscience and psychology of human behavior

He started out on track to do a bachelor of arts in psychology, but when they touched on the anatomy and biological parts of it during his first year lecture, he switched to a bachelor of science.

The focus is still psychology, but through a more clinical lens. Essentially, he gets the best of both worlds this way. He’s intuitive and analytical, so clinical and mental diagnosis is easy to dissect for him. He’s also canonically good at math, so the calculus and stats parts aren’t too bad, either.

This major also leaves him with a few options post-grad, which is a nice bonus for him. He’s likely going to medical school, but that’s not the only route open to him: law school, therapy, lab work, medicine and pharmacy, even teaching are all viable options without going to grad school.

Do not talk to him about Freud unless you wanna get punted off a building.

Be careful with him, because with a single glance he’s already got scarily accurate predictions about your parental and emotional attachment styles, your behavior in social settings, and the onset (or seemingly lack thereof) of your frontal lobe development.

He thinks he’s so smart making comments like, “I see those synaptic connections aren’t working so well for you today,” like mf come here let me lobotomize you and see how well your synaptic connects are working after that🙄

Eren — general health sciences

He’s interested in science and the discovery aspects of it, but picking a specific field of focus right now feels too final. He likes it this way, because his schedule and requirements are less restrictive, and he has more room to find out what really interests him.

He does best when he’s doing something he loves, so picking a major with a bunch of reqs that he couldn’t care less about would have sucked big time for him. It also would have affected his grades. There are still some classes he has to take that he’s not fond of (see: chemistry), but that’s to be expected. Science in general is cool to him and he hopes to make his own discovery some day, even if it’s microscopic.

He also plays a lot of sports, keeping his schedule flexible is important. The sports end up helping him excel academically, which is a nice bonus. Honestly, Eren uses his time at university to learn more about himself than anything, so having control and freedom to do what he likes the majority of the time was important to him.

He uses his elective credits to take philosophy or history courses of his interest, or maybe even a course that you’re in just to spend time with you. He also uses you as a live model for his homework bye, congrats on being patient number one to him.

Armin — astronomy and physics

He’s still interested in marine biology, but unless he attended a school near a coast, or with a specialized integrated program for that, it’s unlikely he’d major in it during undergrad.

Space and ocean exploration aren’t all that different. Both are vast, largely unexplored domains that reel-in Armin’s interest for discovery. So, while studying astronomy, he still gets to study evolution and make his own predictions about what could be out there because there’s so much to know.

Physics comes with the territory of learning about planetary science, and he’s mathematically inclined, so it works out for him. Learning about the different physical properties of other planets and space masses is honestly pretty sick to him. Because math isn’t a struggle, he actually considered aeronautical engineering, but he didn’t want to be a part of the college to military pipeline; that is, he didn’t want any potential design of his to be weaponized.

He still gets to study animal biology through his elective courses, and might even find a few focused on marine animals to satiate him. Plant and cell biology are also of interest to him, and are just further applications of his primary study anyway, so he’s got plenty of room to work with.

This boy is interning at NASA and still, with his whole chest out is like, “I don’t need to discover a new planet, you’re my whole world.” Armin, go check on the Mars rover or something please.

Mikasa — anthropology + minor in japanese language studies

Anthropology is virtually interdisciplinary in nature, and Mikasa is a pretty well rounded student, so she’s able to excel in a program like this. She gets to study history, science, cultural studies, and even a bit of art all at once.

She’s still debating between going to law school vs med school, so anthro this is a good in-betweener. She gets a taste of science through her anatomy and kin courses; and lots of practice with reading and dissecting texts through the historical and cultural lectures. So, when the time comes to decide, she’ll have some experience with both.

Don’t know whether it’s confirmed that she’s (part) Japanese or not, but either way I headcanon that she speaks/spoke some second language at home. She wanted to delve more into it, and courses were offered at the university so why not?

Cultural studies courses end up being her favorite. She likes learning about the history of people and their cultures, and it encourages her to learn more about her own family history and culture. It also propels her to apply for a study abroad opportunity, so she spends at least one semester doing an exchange program and absolutely loves it.

She would also encourage you to apply and go, too. You guys might not be in the same program, but if there’s an applicable program in the same country she’s going to, then she’d definitely want you to apply. Spending the semester away with you would be a dream come true.

Hange — bioengineering + minor in political philosophy and law

It’s almost self-sabotage to be in an engineering program and have a minor; the coursework for engineering alone is backbreaking, and bioengineering has the added weight of human intricacies, but of course Hange makes it possible.

They’re nothing short of a genius, so of course they have time to work a completely unrelated minor into their schedule. It doesn’t surprise anyone that they go on to complete an MD-PhD after undergrad. Insane.

Bioengineering is essentially the synthesis of chemical engineering and health sciences; Hange spends their time exploring biological sciences and applies the engineering aspects of their coursework to their understanding of (and interest in creating) medicine. Truly a one of a kind mind.

They also have an interest in philosophy and justice, so when they found out they only needed a measly nine or ten courses to minor in, they went for it, of course. In honesty, they don’t find the studies all that opposing: both law making and medicine making both have some kind of philosophy or method to them in their eyes.

Hange has... little to no free time pls. They don’t mind it, because they love their coursework, but this means you are essentially ducking into their labs or scrambling to find them in-between their classes during your time in undergrad. They appreciate every second spent with you tho, and will gladly rope you into long discussions about their work.

Jean — biochemistry + minor in art sustainability

He was undeclared his first year, and took a little bit of everything: art, science, history, anthropology, english. Basically, anything that fit into his schedule. It was hard for him to pick one thing—he liked the science and lab applications of STEM courses, but not the math; and the obvious painting and creativity of art, but hated the pretentious air about art history.

What he wants to do is make a difference, which is how he ends up knowing that he wants to go to med school after, so he picks a science-heavy major, but uses his elective spaces to take art courses. When he mixes the two, he ends up on sustainability—and the complexities about it that are applicable to both science and art are what really reels him in.

Interdisciplinary studies end up being his forte. He can approach sustainability from a science perspective which impacts his art style and materials; and tuning into his creative side allows him to think about science not just from a purely clinical perspective, but from a human one, too—patients are people after all.

He believes that everything is connected somehow, even things as seemingly opposite as art and biochemistry. And he works towards finding the unique intersection where everything overlaps. His studies are pretty cool, and he’s very passionate about them, so ask him about it 😌

The art he makes is pretty sick, too, and often commentary about science; he’s proving they’re not so opposite. You also heavily influence his studies in both areas: caring about you so much inspires him to take the healthcare focus seriously, and your very nature is inspiration to his art.

Sasha — nursing

She’s friendly and good at working with people, so nursing was an easy choice for her. She accredits most of her motivation to being around her younger family members, and learns that she finds a simple kind of joy in helping to take care of others.

She struggles a bit her first year when it’s mostly all grades and standardized testing, but when she starts getting clinical experience and working in the hospital on campus, things round out for her.

Patient care is her strongest point. A lot of people often forget that knowing everything isn’t everything; if you don’t know how to calm or even just talk to your patient, you’re not that great of a healthcare professional.

Pretty certain that she wants to work with kids in the future, but she’s open to public health and even being a travel nurse if she finds opportunity there!

Of course, she’s pretty doting when it comes to you and all her friends. She might want to go into pediatrics, but the basics of nursing and health care extend to everyone, so you’re guaranteed to be well taken care of with Sasha around. You might even have to switch roles and take care of her sometimes, because her coursework can get pretty out of hand.

Connie — computer engineering with a focus on game design

He might not look it, but Connie has a brain under that shaved head of his. Computer engineering is cool to him because he basically learns about how simple things he uses every day (ie: phone, computer, microwave) works.

Systems and coding are actually the easy part for him, especially when they get into the application of it and aren’t just stuck looking at examples. That’s how he gets into game design.

The part about math and electricity and magnetic fields… well let’s just say he needed to make friends with someone who likes math and hardware his first year to get through it. But the struggle was worth it, because by his junior year he’s found a professor willing to mentor/supervise him as he works on his game and other projects, so life is good.

His school work is definitely hard, which is why the lives by the mantra of “work hard, party harder.” It’s only fair.

He makes you a little avatar so you can test out his games for him <33 best boyfriend things <33 He’d also… build a game about your relationship. Every level is a different date you guys went on, and he definitely includes something cheesy, like “There are unlimited lives because I love you forever babe <3”

Porco — kinesiology + maybe mechanical engineering

He’s pretty into athletics and working out, but didn’t wanna go down the sports psychology route; he wanted something that left him with a few more options, so he ended up in kinesiology.

He was surprisingly pretty good at biology in high school, so something stem-oriented works out in his favor, and it turns out he’s pretty damn good at anatomy, too. He’ll probably end up in physical therapy after graduation.

He’s also got a knack for cars, which is where the engineering comes in, but he doesn’t care so much for the math part of it (he doesn’t care for it at all actually, fuck that); he just wants the hands on experience of building/fixing things and working with his hands. So, if he can get a minor in it and not struggle through 4 years of math, then he’d do that. If not, he’d take a few workshop-like classes.

Because he wants to go into physical therapy, you are essentially his practice patient. Your back hurts? Not a problem, he’s basically a professional masseuse. Muscle aches? He’s got a remedy and understanding of why it’s happening. Don’t let him catch you hunting over your desk grinding away at your homework, because he will poke your neck and correct your posture (he’ll also massage your shoulders, but after the scolding).

Pieck — classics + minor in philosophy

Ancient studies interest her, but more than that, the language of ancient Greek and Roman culture fascinates her, so classics is the way to go.

Because her focus within Classics ends up being Greek and Latin language studies, she is essentially learning both languages at the same time. She gets farther with Latin that she does with Greek. For whatever reason, the former comes almost naturally to her, so her written and translated work is more complex in Latin.

However, she finds cultural studies relation to Greece more interesting than that of Rome, so it’s a give and take with both; better at languages for Roman studies, better at culture and history for Greek studies.

Her minor is a natural evolution from her primary coursework. Ancient Romans and Greeks set the foundation for a lot of modern day philosophy, so it comes up in her major classes, but she wanted to delve further into the philosophy, and not just look at it historically, so she takes more courses to fulfill the minor.

Can be found laying on a blanket in the quad on a hot day, with her books spread out all around her, highlighter in hand as she works through her reading. You’re always invited to sit with her, and more often than not, it ends up with Pieck’s head in your lap, a book in her hands, and your own schoolwork in yours as you both read in each other’s company.

Bertholdt — computer science and coding

He’s level headed, good at planning, and above all, patient, so he’s cut out for this. He doesn’t consider himself to be particularly creative, which is why he doesn’t pick a speciality with lots of design; but he’s good at streamlining and ideas to life.

The patience really comes in when his code doesn’t run. It’s frustrating to scroll for two hours just to find out that the issue is a missing semi-colon in line 273 that he overlooked, but Berty will sit there until he finds it.

He’s also good at fixing issues. That’s not limited to issues in the code itself; it can mean finding shorter ways to produce the same function or loop, or integrating new aspects into existing code.

Also, he’d just be so cute, coding away on his computer. Just imagine: Berty working on his homework in the library, he’s got his signature crewneck + collared shirt look going for him, his blue-light glasses, a cup of coffee nearly as tall as him sitting at the corner of his desk. Adorable.

He’d make little codes/programs for you, too, even if it’s silly. A simple code that helps you decide what to eat for dinner or where to go on a date, one that shuffles different reminders for you, hell he’ll even forgo the torture of design engineering just to build you a little robot that says “I love you” to you.

Reiner — english + minor in justice & political philosophy

Everyone expects Reiner, star quarterback of the university’s rugby team, to be a business student or communications student; but no, he’s an English major, and he loves it.

Just imagine a guy as huge as Reiner absolutely manhandling someone on the field, just to show up in his lectures with a tiny paperback of The Great Gatsby tucked between his fingers with his reading glasses on. It’s so precious.

He’s always running a bit late to class—either coming from the gym, or practice, or oversleeping from exhaustion—but he’s so sweet to his professors and genuinely interested in the literature that they don’t give him a hard time about it. They can tell that balancing school and sports is difficult, and they just appreciate that he takes his studies seriously.

Yeah he’s in a book club and he dog-ears his books. What about it. They’re doing poetry this month and Reiner actually likes Edgar Allen Poe. Who said jocks can’t be sentimental.

He also reads a lot outside of his classes, and has a soft spot for coming of age stories. He usually empathizes with the main character somehow. His ideal weekend plans after a week of grueling games and essays is taking a long, relaxing shower at your place, while you both share a bottle of wine, and maybe even get you to read a chapter or two of his current book out loud to him.

Annie — clinical psychology/neuroscience

Almost scarily analytical and methodic, so this major was calling her name. Localizing brain legions is… insanely intuitive to her it’s incredible. She’ll be an insanely impressive doctor someday, even if she doesn’t end up working with patients directly.

She doesn’t care too much for the more philosophical/reading heavy parts of psychology. Even experiments and research closer to the social end of the spectrum aren’t all that interesting to her; but the brain science behind it it.

Nobody should be good at cellular biology. Nobody should be able to ace cell bio and neuro and calc and work towards their thesis proposal in the same semester, but Annie proves it’s possible.

Ends up working in one of her professor’s labs by her junior year. She was offered three TA positions working with first year students, but she swiftly turned them down. Teaching isn’t her thing.

She doesn’t bring up her studies to you unprompted, but if you ask her about them she’ll explain it to you. Her notes are color coded and it’s super neat, and very cute; coloring them is somewhat relaxing for her. She usually saves the coloring part for when you guys study together; there’s extra comfort in doing it with you around.

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bettsfic · 3 years

Note

Hi betts! I hope you’re doing alright and that your semester is wrapping up smoothly. I have a question about genre, I guess? I’ll preface this with the fact that I am not a writer or lit person, but just an enthusiastic reader. But as I’ve been on Tumblr and TikTok (in this case BookTok), I’ve noticed that it’s a lot of the same kinds of books that people get obsessed over. Largely, SFF written by women and often in “new adult.” I’m thinking of V. E. Schwab, Leigh Bardugo, etc. I’ve read a number of these books and enjoyed some of them quite a lot, but they’ve never captivated me the way they do some. That’s fine, people have different tastes. But after being served yet another TikTok about this same category of book, I kinda realized that for some reason they just don’t feel that adult to me. Which is weird because they typically deal with very adult themes. Some are super sexual or violent and the like, but the way they’re written doesn’t feel mature to me. Even The Poppy Wars, which is very adult, falls into this category for me (I did enjoy this one, though). I’ve tried to interrogate this for bias, especially since I know a lot of people like them because they are written by women, (mostly) feature more diversity, and have large female audiences. But then I think about which books did feel adult, but fall in similar genres: N. K. Jesimin and Ursula Le Guin come to mind (even her youth fiction feels more adult to me). So I guess I’m curious what you feel makes a writing style more mature versus simply the content? Why is it that SFF, while often depicting adult events, doesn’t come across as mature? I guess my frustration is that it’s one of my favorite genres, but the recommendations I’m getting across many folks just...isn’t the SFF I want. How does one distinguish between these? Idk if I’ve expressed this well and I definitely am not trying to judge people. I’m just looking for a certain atmosphere in my reading that I find rarely.

i’m so excited i have an answer to this. so first i want to say, i experience this also and it’s why i struggle to get through a lot of books. it’s why i love the secret history but couldn’t get twenty pages into if we were villains, even though everyone told me they had a lot in common. even if the description of a book is compelling and the story is very much to my taste, and even if the writing is totally competent, i’ve found that sometimes there’s just something lacking that makes me set a book down and never pick it back up.

i was thrilled to find there’s term for this: the implied author.

the implied author was coined by wayne c. booth in his book the rhetoric of fiction which, while dense, is a really fantastic read (if you’ve been keeping up with my newsletter you know how feral i am for this book). as a blanket definition, the implied author is the space that exists between the narrator and the writer. when you read something, you can’t make any factual conclusions about the writer (the author is dead and all that), but the narration often tips you off to the idea that the consciousness behind the writing is wiser and knows more than the narrator.

that’s a very condensed version of booth’s definition, which takes up like 40 pages. here forward are some conclusions i’ve drawn based on it.

when the space between the narrator and implied author is narrow, some of us as readers tend to get bored pretty quickly. it’s what you’re referring to as maturity. however, when that space is wide, when it’s clear that the implied author is much, much bigger than the narration, that’s when i’m willing to sink my teeth into something. the wider that distance, the more i’m happy to ignore things like syntactical clumsiness or poor grammar. i would follow a good implied author into hell.

for example, i could write a story from the point of view of a violent abuser. if you were to read it, you wouldn’t be able to say for certain that i, the writer, was not a violent abuser also. but you would be able to tell via the implied author whether or not there is an awareness of the abuse, whether it’s being written with intentionality. not morality, mind you, but artistic purpose.

the implied author has an idiosyncratic relationship to the reader. sometimes depending on the complexity of the work and the critical reading skills of the reader, the presence of the implied author can be invisible. this is the catalyst, imo, to a significant amount of the present morality discourse. many (if not all) purity officers and antis don’t have the reading skills to be able to see the implied author, or that the moral trespasses that occur in fiction are written intentionally and for a purpose. they believe that anything depicted in fiction is advocating for or promoting that which it’s depicting.

lolita is kind of the ultimate classic example of the inability of some readers to see the implied author. nabokov even has a fictional preface from the pov of a scholar doing research, flat-out telling us that humbert is a bad guy and Do Not Trust Him. and yet, lolita has been misinterpreted and vilified for decades now.

in that same vein, the implied author is the reason that some stories put a bad taste in our mouths. it’s how we reach the conclusion that a story is racist or sexist or homophobic outside the literal depictions of racism, sexism, and homophobia. how can you witness racism taking place in a story and know that it’s speaking to the experience of racism and not advocating for racism? that’s the presence of the implied author. sometimes, though, you can’t tell. sometimes a writer tries to speak to the experience of something and fails at making clear their own awareness. or sometimes, they’re just not aware at all.

in fanfiction, the implied author takes place, in part, in the tags. i remember stumbling upon a fic written by a purity officer which depicted an extremely unhealthy, non-negotiated power dynamic. and none of it was tagged. i had no evidence the author was aware that they were even writing something “problematic.” obviously i support their right to depict whatever kind of relationship they want for whatever reason they want, but i did find it a bit off-putting, that this person who was a known harasser in fandom had no seeming understanding that they were writing the very kind of fic they were rallying against.

but, you know, my hands aren’t clean either. until the MFA, i was a very poor reader. for example, in 2010 i read the hunger games for the first time. in 2020 i re-read the series on my kindle, where all my annotations from 2010 had been saved, and so i got to see all my glaring misinterpretations of the text. every time katniss has to get dolled up in the capitol and made beautiful, i left a note like “ugh,” because i thought all depictions of performative femininity were Bad. even though thg is a YA book and i was an honors student in college, i was still unable to see that katniss’s beautifying was commentary on consumerism. i was oblivious to collins’ implied author, the presence in the book that is shaking you by the shoulders and going, THIS IS WHAT’S WRONG WITH SOCIETY.

but sometimes, like in your case, the opposite situation occurs: you the reader are wider than the implied author, and so some books have little to offer you in terms of depth or insight into the human experience. i don’t mean that to sound pretentious or anything; what i mean is, we all read at different skill levels and for different reasons, and we all get different things out of the stories we read. we’re all at different places in our reading lives, and we all have room to grow.

i hope i explained this clearly enough! hopefully one day i’ll be able to write a formal essay on this, because booth wrote about it in the 60s and a lot has happened in fiction since then.

#implied author #writing advice #Anonymous

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wincore · 3 years

Text

atlas | kim dongyoung

pairing: doyoung x reader

words: 15.4k

summary: kim doyoung has a lot of titles. student body president, music club president, favourite student of every professor who’s blessed enough to have him. in other words, he’s not your type and never will be. at least he’s a good kisser.

or, you feel the weight of the world on your shoulders and you do not know how to hold things as delicate as glass.

genre: college au, fwb au, hurt/comfort, angst, some fluff

warnings: very suggestive content, making out, language, smoking, alcohol, mentions of sex under influence, me being pretentious,,

prompt: anonymous said: slippery + doyoung + "you can rely on me, you know." from the first dialogue link! LOVE YOU ❤️

song rec(s): playlist here !

a/n: yes it’s me experimenting out of my comfort zone again. yes you are required by law to listen to keshi while reading this hahahaha anyway writing this was painful. <3 (aka today i tried writing very complex human emotions and failed again. classic.)

In the beginning, there was no beginning. Ergo, this isn’t really a thing.

You shouldn’t be thinking of summer in Introduction to Latin. You are a good (perhaps great, if your ego allows) student after all. Here you are, though, listening to the ticking of the clock and wondering if you sigh loud enough, you won’t have to construct another sentence with the word for ‘death’. You pause to tell yourself that you shouldn’t be thinking of summer out of class either. Unremarkable; that's what it was and you don’t like unremarkable things.

When two people end up alone together, there’s not much to make of.

“You know,” he had said, locking eyes. “We should get out of here.”

“And then what?”

“Fuck.”

So here’s the thing: this isn’t and won’t be a thing.

Doyoung has never been subtle when drunk, you found out, and he’s not as gentle as he looks. You flip the page of your notebook absentmindedly. You don’t like where your thoughts are going; the clinking of ice against glass rings in your ears again. It’s been far too long (one whole month) and you’re craving a bit of fun. You may forget yourself but you’re reaching your fingertips a little too far to call him again. More excuses pop up. See, in your world of perfection, there’s a hierarchy of things; men rank rather low.

(Fun doesn’t.)

Here’s another thing: you forget yourself quite often. You know very well that you’re the one who continued this not-thing and now you’re daydreaming of Kim Doyoung in class hours.

And under grey bed sheets with a tired smile, Doyoung is hard to forget.

It was a party, it always is. That time, however, was the first party of the year Doyoung and you happened to be attending at the same time. You can’t remember who hosted it—the frat probably—but it was at a bar called the ‘The Meeting Place’ which had too many people you didn’t care about. Doyoung was there, in his laid-back glory, and you were drawn in far too easily. Being single did not help your case—and the alcohol certainly didn’t. You’re not sure if it was the gentle touches against your wrist or quick words that left his mouth or the attractive all-black get-up. All you know is that it was your mouth against his by the end of the night in a small booth, hot and impatient. Once, twice, thrice and you didn’t even need parties anymore.

It’s not like you weren’t aware of what you were doing; it’s just that you were quick to give in—like you didn’t want to resist in the first place. And now, summer smells like Doyoung’s perfume.

The first night had given Mr. Student Body President a near-stroke. You weren’t the type to sleep with strange (semi-acquainted) men at parties either so the morning had been full of awkward explanations to each other till you’d kissed him to shut him up (much like in a disgusting romantic comedy, minus the feelings) and somehow, it worked. He didn’t refuse and if you recall, he’d eventually pulled you closer by the waist.

You huff, twirling your pen. He’d never admit it.

You didn’t kiss so sloppily after that, unless it was to make out against a wall or while fumbling with the keys to your apartment. The lack of alcohol can bring wonders. You were a little surprised that he’d agreed—he is the Doyoung you’ve known since freshman year after all; blunt, rude, cares more for his grades than he’d ever for you. How laughable. He’s almost the same as you.

Here’s one last thing: Kim Doyoung is not and cannot be your type.

You had the same part-time job in your second semester at a local fast food joint, and to summarize, your interactions were less than friendly. You can’t possibly count the number of times he yelled at you for trivial mistakes, and the number of times you sent angry, clipped sentences his way. So, yes, neither of you have told anyone—just acting friendly got you enough eyebrow raises. If there’s anything worse than contradicting yourself almost directly, it’s having to explain that to your friends. So, you kept it a secret and so did he, for his own reasons.

You massage your forehead. If you think any more of this during class hours, you’re going to have to classify this as a terrible, terrible problem; like you don’t have enough already. You tune in to the lecture again, hoping it drowns out the rest of your thoughts.

You tap your pen against the desk till you’re asked to stop by the professor. There goes your last resort. It isn’t the first time, but you breathe a sigh of relief at the hands of the clock. Casual means casual—you know it better than anyone. Maybe it would be easier if you could be more open about it. But you can’t. Your own problems aside, Doyoung would kill you if his reputation went down, even a nick. Men like that are so difficult, you curse to yourself.

You run into Ten in the hallways, brightening at his absurdly wide grin. In fact, you haven’t seen him remotely upset since freshman year, when he couldn’t join the dance club, not because he failed the audition but because he mixed up the dates and missed it entirely. (It’s okay; he got in the next year.)

“Guess what!” he yells before you’re even in conversation range.

“What?” you yell back.

“No, guess,” he says, when you’re close enough.

You roll your eyes. “You scored a date?”

Ten deadpans. “No. I don’t even want one.”

“Loser.”

“No, you.”

“How clever.”

Ten flicks your forehead with no provocation whatsoever, making you yelp in pain. After a minute of cursing on your part, he squishes your cheeks to bring you back to reality—like he wasn’t the cause. You bite your lip to keep yourself from scowling. His hair is still light brown from the bleach, and you fix his bangs out of habit; your dumb friends are all you have at the end of the day. You sigh. They all lean on you unwittingly.

“Anyway, the news? I’m not guessing anything else,” you warn, taking a sip of your coffee.

“Well,” he draws out the syllable. “I heard- know you’re into the smart type. You know, student council kinda guys? So…”

You choke, the coffee leaving your mouth just as quick as it entered.

“Who told you that?” The laugh that leaves your mouth is forced and certainly fake but it’s the best you can do.

Ten rolls her eyes, still smiling. “I was thinking if you would be interested in a certain Park Hyungmin.”

Oh. Student body vice-president. He’s most definitely your type, with a gifted body and equally strong academic prowess—not to mention perfectly maintained tan skin and the most radiant smile you’ve ever seen in your life.

“Oh, yeah, he’s hot,” you nod in agreement. “What do you want me to do with him?”

“He likes you. Like, totally has the hots for you. And I owe him so please help me out here.”

You furrow your brows, heaving a deep sigh.

“You...want me to go on a date with him?” you ask.

You can oblige. Park Hyungmin is the hottest dude on campus (probably). It’s a win-win situation—in fact, it’s even better. A certain bitter taste finds itself in your mouth. It must be the coffee. You swallow it.

“Yeah.”

And the deal’s done.

It was casual commitment, like most things you do for fun. You don’t think much of it, and the thought takes its final bow when you run into Doyoung himself.

Well, sort of.

You turn heel when he appears in your line of sight, pretending to fix your hair against a damn wall. You aren’t quite ready to face him yet, considering the coffee hasn’t kicked in—it’s not healthy how much you depend on it. Dependence is different, however, from consciously drowning yourself in it.

See, Doyoung is anything but tolerable without a few shots of vodka. Or after sex. Or when he’s mumbling in his sleep. And you can’t erase any of those scenes. This is you trying to save yourself (and Doyoung) from embarrassment and a whole lot of explanation.

His coat looks expensive and you’d rather he had it on instead of on his arm. The tucked-in sweater and pants combo accentuates the line of his waist and the colour—you wonder where he found a teal so fitting—looks serene in the crowd. He’s wearing his glasses though, looking a little less put together than usual. Still, no one seems to notice and he continues to explain something to his group of friends.

God forbid you find Doyoung attractive during daytime.

His lips are chapped but pink as ever, the hair messed up by either the wind or his friends—you should stop staring by now. You give in. You’ll text him to book a hotel room tonight.

Sometimes you wonder how he has that large a friend circle, and always, the question answers itself. Eloquence, wit and regrettably, good looks—what does he lack? Maybe if he lost the habit to nag people around fifty-six times a day, he’d be the perfect man.

An arm slings over your shoulder, punting the soul right out of your body.

“Fuck, Johnny, don’t do that,” you hiss, placing your hand over your chest involuntarily.

The head of the photography club apparently spends his time terrorizing everyone he remotely knows. You make a foul expression but iIt’s not like he ever minds your scowling. He says he’s had enough practice from teasing Doyoung (and you’ll admit, it’s the only time you feel sorry for him). You were certain Doyoung would have filed him for harassment sometime in sophomore year.

“What are you even looking at?” Johnny asks, raising an eyebrow at the plain offwhite expanse of the wall in front of you.

You feel hot at the neck. “I was fixing my hair.”

“In front of a wall?”

You click your tongue. “Do you not have class?”

“Oh, don’t be so quick to send me off.” He places a hand over his chest in mock hurt, fingers stretched delicately.

To your dismay, the rest of his friends gather around giving you happy greetings—greetings only carefree college boys are capable of delivering. To your further dismay, Kim Doyoung arches an eyebrow at you, the same way he does on nights you’re doing things less than appropriate to think of in broad daylight.

“Hey, Doyoung, don’t you have anything to say? Or were you too drunk to remember?”

You bite down on your lip a little too hard. Doyoung, on the other hand, looks like he’s just seen God, stammering out a “what?” nevertheless.

“Weren’t you supposed to buy (name) a drink for driving you home that night?”

“Right,” he says, clearing his throat.

Oh, he’s bought you a drink enough times. Summer has waned but whatever thread you tied around your wrists hasn’t. Right now, your guess is that Doyoung has been ensnared in the common ritual for college boys to walk around campus and declare their friend is single just to embarrass him (or by some miracle, score him a date).

Everything, apart from the way you look at Doyoung, feels like a charade. You shake your head with a quick laugh, smacking Johnny in the arm and pay your condolences to Doyoung—keep it light. You’re good at it, or pretending you’re good at it, at the very least.

Doyoung’s gaze on you lingers for a moment and then you breathe. You’re going to be late for class—you offer the classic excuse and you’re out of there. In a way, it’s exciting. You’ve always wanted to have a secret relationship, even if this isn’t a real one.

Doyoung is like the summer breeze, and you’d like for him to stay that way.

The next time you grace each other’s presence is when Doyoung’s tongue is in your mouth and his hands are running up under your shirt.

He’s quite a pretty sight—messy hair, red lips and rosy cheeks. He moans into the kiss as he has quite a few times now and there’s the lovers’ high running through either of your minds. When he presses his lips to your neck, a soft restrained sound escapes you, not quite prepared for the sting of electricity through your skin. He moves to your collarbone and shoulders and then even lower, hands gripping your waist tight. The walls do not have ears here; these hotels are cheap but they’re built for privacy and maybe you’ll let yourself believe for once that you can belong to someone.

“Why did you text me in the middle of the goddamn night?” he mutters against the base of your neck.

“You want reasons now?” you whisper, hands running through his hair.

Doyoung has pretty fingers, pressing at the right places and prettier eyes that look at you with something akin to, dare you say it, love. He kisses you like he hasn’t had enough; and it makes you feel important.

He’s even better when he’s annoyed.

You wake up at around five in the morning. Propping yourself up on one arm, you take a moment to look at your partner. It’s easy to make out the line of his nose against the pillow, and if you focus, you can see his lashes against his cheek and his dark mop of hair clinging to his forehead. However gentle the moonlight is, it is kindest on a lover.

Funny.

Too tired to sneak out, you go back to sleep.

“All I’m saying is that you have too much coffee,” Doyoung complains, slipping on his loose black sweatshirt. “It can’t be good for your health.”

You shake your head, scrolling through your phone as you lay on your belly. You’ve seen this view enough times—his back to you and sitting at the opposite edge of the bed, his incessant complaints and opinions about something that happened recently, running his hand through his hair when he sighs. You press on the calendar app and type in a note labeled ‘x’. Keeping tabs isn’t a bad thing; especially if you like order. Spending too many nights with someone is going to land you in trouble. That said, if you could trap love in a bottle, you would.

“You taste like coffee,” Doyoung adds with reddening ears.

Sometimes, it’s easy to ignore what he says if you listen to the sound of his voice instead. You sit up, scooting closer as Doyoung shoots you an alarmed look. He’s so cute like this; something about all the painted fences he puts up around him makes you want to lean in closer.

“So,” you poke his side. “How many relationships have you been in? Proper ones.”

“Three,” he answers, to your surprise.

Your eyebrows shoot up. “That’s more than I’ve been in!”

Doyoung furrows his. “How many have you been in?”

“One.”

He seems equally surprised but doesn’t probe further. After all, the price sticker that spells ‘youth’ clings to his forehead just as it clings to yours.

“How many people have you fucked?” you ask suddenly, enjoying the visible flush across his neck.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” he notes, flicking your forehead.

“Ow!” You place your palm against your forehead. “Okay, I get it, you have nothing to brag about.”

He shakes his head, an exasperated sigh leaving him. “I just don’t think you have to know. I like privacy.”

“Wait.” You gasp. “Don’t tell me- That night- don’t tell me you were a virgin—”

Doyoung squishes your cheeks between his thumb and forefinger, a laugh erupting from your mouth.

“Who’s a virgin?”

Nothing about this, you find yourself realizing, is complicated. It’s easy, gentle, natural, like a breath of fresh air—everything but complicated. Even under dim lights and within the depths of night, Doyoung is warm and uncomplicated. His chest, his hands, his lips—they are warm, as are his words.

But Doyoung is a fucking fairytale.

Even after these few months, all you know about him, in the definitive format, is that he plays the keys for more hours than he sleeps. What he does for fun, what his classes are, how he became student body president—you could play guessing games all night.

“Do your friends know where you spend your nights?” you ask, leaning back against the pillows.

“They know what I’m doing, not who I’m with,” he responds, running his fingers through his hair.

You purse your lips. It’s nothing hurtful but you don’t like the hush-hush in his tone.

“Why not?”

“Because this is a secret,” he responds as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Do you want them to know?”

He’s right.

“Ah, whatever,” you mutter, a stream of curses following when your elbow collides hard with the edge of the bedside table.

“Your mouth is filthy.” He looks away to his phone. “I don’t swear as much.”

“Well, of course it is. I had your—”

Doyoung presses his palm against your lips with a tired sigh. “Please. Don’t speak. For the sake of my sanity.”

You smile under his hand and he returns it; and the November morning warms up.

“Where were you last night?”

You were expecting the question. Areum is the worst possible candidate for a roommate if you want some privacy. You don’t think she ever sleeps; sometimes, you wonder if she even showers because all she does is stare at her laptop screen and adjust her designs. Her lips are always chapped and her hair is always in a simple low ponytail but somehow still messy. You’ve never met someone so exhausted yet so full of life at the same time.

“Who were you with last night?” Eunji yells from the bathroom, before the two of them laugh.

You knew you shouldn’t have stayed the morning. You have the nosiest roommates anyone could (not) ask for. But they’re still your friends, you tell yourself begrudgingly. You would tell them about Doyoung if it weren’t for Eunji’s big mouth and Areum’s lack of common sense. And if it weren’t for the inherent comfort of privacy.

(Some part of you wants to keep him to yourself. You don’t care about student council president Doyoung or his friend group’s everything-regulator Doyoung or always-has-his-shit-together Doyoung. The one in your bed is the most loving.)

Areum adjusts her glasses, narrowing her eyes at you. “So? Any answer?”

You break out of your daydream at her voice, feeling a flush creep up your neck.

“I don’t have to explain anything,” you retort, snatching the coffee she brewed from the tabletop. “It was a Friday night and the two of you like Netflix more than me.”

“That’s mine,” Areum mumbles out a weak complaint.

“But don’t go out alone,” Eunji whines. “It can’t be safe.”

You laugh. “You know me. I don’t do anything too dangerous. Besides, you guys have that tracker app.”

They shrug, offering you a thin smile. A part of you is happy that they trust you but another part wonders what it would be like to be worried over. Maybe getting nagged isn’t so bad.

You take a sip of Areum’s coffee and almost spit it out right back.

“Did you add salt?” you ask, wiping at your mouth and hoping the taste disappears.

“Uh.” A reply so intelligent, you wonder if she ever pays attention to anything she's doing.

You take a moment (a few), sigh (several times) and make your way to the shelves. Grumbling, you make her a proper cup of coffee before you leave.

Classes don’t wait for you (even if you think they should) and the world doesn’t wait for you (again, you think it should wait for people) so you’ve made it a point to understand the whole deal about rules. If everyone followed the rules, it would be quite a pretty scene; messing up is only valid if it’s done prettily. You laugh at the thought. That’s near impossible. The bus ride to the campus consists of music and thoughts of bleak tomorrows—an average commute for college kids, you think. You sure hope you aren’t alone in this.

Doyoung smiles at you in the hallway today, and despite your best efforts, it makes your day smell a little fresher.

Your day: classes, coffee break, classes, complaining with Ten, assignments, ‘me’ time. For someone who pretends to be laid back, you use your planner as though for survival. There’s no sticky notes or colourful sketches (except on occasion); just good old fashioned to-do lists and a calendar marked with time you’ve spent on productivity. Every day is a list to be completed. If people call routine a man-made cage, instinct is the biological cage. You’d rather be in control of the cage you’re in. You’d rather be in control of yourself. It’s scary otherwise.

So you know how to get the job done—it’s ingrained into you the same way you would place your hands over your ears at loud sounds, or the way you would run to your bed in the dark after switching off the lights.

It never occurs to you that the reason your world is so perfect is a sad one.

Sometime next month, it’s going to snow. Not yet though, and it’s still too cold.

The inside of the cafe helps the slightest, the heaters situated far back from where you sit. Christmas decorations are up already and the combination of red and green meshes delightfully into the form of an aching headache. The wood paneling on the walls are worn at the corners, the garlands hardly covering them, and the barista behind the counter seems as gloomy as the decorations are bright. You wouldn’t be noticing all of this if you weren’t stuck in one position.

You lean your cheek further into your palm and sigh, only this time Ten asks you to, quote, ‘shut the fuck up’.

He pulls up his sleeve and reaches for another pencil. His cryptic process continues, as it has been for the past half an hour and you feel yourself getting impatient, trying to not bounce your leg and get another bout of quibbling from your half-mad artist friend. You don’t usually run low on patience; but Ten has a special pass to test drive it.

“How much lon—”

“Shh!” He hushes you quickly. You can’t remember why you agreed to being his portrait study subject but you sure as hell regret it.

Around fifteen minutes later, you take a (permitted) breath. You have neither the energy nor the neck strength to glare at Ten but you make sure to show your displeasure by snatching the cookies from the table with a particularly sour look. He gets up and pushes you to the side of the small worn-out couch offered by the equally small booth.

“God, that chair was uncomfortable. My butt is frozen solid,” he lets you know, and you roll your eyes.

“You know, if we weren’t friends in high school, I would never be friends with you,” you state.

Ten tilts his head to the side, a mocking pout over his lips. “I would die without you, (name). Really.”

You smack his arm and he yelps, smacking your arm right back. The sound attracts some attention and giggles, and you make a gagging gesture to let them know you are in way or form in a relationship. The low-volume music changes to something with a more distinguishable beat, the sound of doors opening and closing almost every two minutes accompanying. Arriving on time is an accomplishment, especially arriving before rush hour on Fridays at the only decent cafe on campus, but both of your classes end early and there is no way you aren’t taking advantage of that. Leaving, however, is mostly done when you’re being glared at by the waiters and waitresses.

“Doyoung asked about you,” Ten says, all of a sudden. “Kim Doyoung.”

You try to not show concern, but raise an eyebrow. “What? So? He’s not my type or anything.”

You bite your tongue. That was too quick a response, too obvious. Your cheeks grow hot. Ten doesn't say anything, however, and for a moment, you think you’re in safe waters.

“Are you guys… into each other or not?”

You cough, trying to show your surprise at something so outrageous. “Why would you think that? Does he look like someone who dates around?”

“Actually, he’s been on quite a few dates.”

“No way.”

You know that. He’s told you about it before, in vague references, but you know about them nonetheless.

“Isn’t one student council guy enough?” you mumble. “Why are we talking about Doyoung?”

He shrugs, a familiar feline smile on his face. “Just asking. He talks about you sometimes. Actually, we forced it out of him but whatever.”

You shake your head. “You’re all terrible.”

“You seem to like him though.”

“Who said that?”

Ten sighs, ignoring your question. “If you guys are dating—”

“We’re not.”

“—or fucking—”

“Ten.”

“—you should learn a thing or two about him. The guy’s not as annoying as he looks. Or stuck-up. He’s really nice but don’t tell him I said that.”

“I know that,” you snap, feeling warm at the neck all of a sudden. “I know him.”

“Oh, you do? Tell me what his hobbies are then. Or his major. Or the clubs he’s in, apart from the student council.”

“He- He likes to sing and he’s- he’s—god, what is this? An interrogation? I’m not going to meet his mom for dinner.”

Ten gives you an ‘I knew it’ look before leaning his elbow onto the table. “You’re sleeping with a guy you don’t know anything about. Serial killers would love you.”

You massage your forehead. “Look, I know he’s a good guy, okay? And he’s sweet- and- and—wait a minute. Oh my god, you tricked me.”

Ten lets out a snort. “Hey. Okay, look, the other guys might be dumb as shit but I have, you know, a working set of eyes. I can tell. It’s not that hard.”

You grumble but the cat’s out of the bag anyway. You should’ve known Ten would figure it out—he’s a nosy little shit, and he’s been that way since high school.

“Whatever. As long as Doyoung doesn’t start panicking about his tarnished reputation or whatever.”

“Oh, I think he’s desperate to let everyone know.”

“To you, Ten, everything seems obvious. It’s annoying.” You mess up his hair.

“No, I mean, I thought you were dating.”

“Well, we’re not.”

Ten shrugs.

“And I don’t like him,” you add. “I like the- the thing that’s going on because there’s no feelings attached.”

He looks somewhat pained, eyebrows furrowed and lips pursed, but doesn’t respond to your explanation. “Can I ask for a favour?”

“No.”

Ten sighs. “Come on. You didn’t even hear me out.”

“You’re going to say something stupid. Or insulting.”

“It’s neither, promise.”

You run your hand through your hair, breathing shallow. “Fine. I don’t have to agree though.”

Ten purses his lips. “It’d be better if you did.”

You hum in response, biting into the cookie and trying to ignore the glare from the nearby waitress. It’s about time you left anyway.

“Get to know him, dude. Don’t break his heart.”

“What?”

“Just kidding. There’s a party tonight. Hosted by yours truly. Finally moved out of that stinky dorm room. Bring over some friends but not more than three. And lend me some money for a juicebox.”

“That’s a lot,” you mutter. “You ask for a lot of favours.”

“Oh, speaking of which, Hyungmin—”

“He already asked me out on a date. Am I supposed to say no? You never mentioned he has such an attractive voice.”

“Oh, I’m not telling you to not go on that date. You have to, actually. I’m going to be in a lot of trouble otherwise.”

“That sounds good to me.”

“Shut up. I’m not done speaking.”

You roll your eyes.

“But if you didn’t, I could draw some conclusions.”

“What am I, your chemistry experiment now?”

“Well, you and Doyoung seem to be—”

“Don’t complete that sentence.”

“I was going to say something funny.”

Ten flashes you a blinding smile and you sigh. By now, you’re about to get kicked out of here so you stand up discreetly while he packs up his stuff. You hug your jacket close to you as soon as you leave, shivering at the evening breeze. The sky is inky, but with a faint sort of ink—deep blue and light, all at once. From the crowd, you can tell classes just got over for quite a few people, eclectic chatter filling up the street.

“Fine. I’ll bring Eunji,” you tell Ten after some contemplation. “And whoever else responds to my text first. Areum never leaves the room. You know that.”

“Thanks, (name)!” he messes up your hair. “I would give you a kiss but someone will end up punching my pretty face.”

You furrow your brows. “Well, you’re not my type anyway.”

“I’m too good for you,” he responds in a sing-song manner, waving at you before running off and disappearing into the university crowd.

There’s always a sort of buzz in the air you can’t quite describe at college parties.

Even if this is a relatively small one, you feel an oncoming headache the moment you enter Ten’s new apartment, which you’re sure had a ‘no parties’ rule in the rental contract. You spot Kun, Ten’s roommate from the dorms and he flashes you a quick smile in greeting before he’s swept up by a doting crowd. Apparently, a cute guy in animal sciences is rare and it makes him rather popular.

Eunji disappears from your side the moment she spots Johnny, and the number of eye rolls you’ve given her haven’t warned her off him yet. You suppose it takes heartbreak to change a person. Sighing, you make your way to the kitchen only to be greeted with the strange sight of Yuta trying to balance Jaehyun on his back so they can imitate some anime formation and back out immediately. Living room, it is, despite its populous space. (You don’t really want to think of bedrooms right now.)

The apartment is quite big for what Ten told you the rent was. The hallway to the two bedrooms is narrow but you suppose something has to be sacrificed for space. You furrow your eyebrows at the two bedroom doors. Ten never said he was getting a roommate. You shrug it off, sitting down on the rather stiff couch. The lack of furniture, apart from the couch and a coffee table, makes the place look even larger and people sparse. You like the beige walls; Ten’s always loved warmer colours but something makes you think he’s going to be ruining them in a few days with garish green paint before he comes crying about that to you.

“Hey.”

You look up to the familiar voice, heart rising to your throat.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Doyoung remarks before sitting down beside you and offering you a cup of god-knows-what.

“I don’t take drinks from strange men,” you say, biting down your smile and crossing your arms.

“If you didn’t take drinks from strange men, we wouldn’t be fu—”

“Doyoung!” you hiss before looking at him with careful suspicion. “Are you drunk?”

“No. A little bit. Not enough.”

You sigh. “How will you get home now?”

“I live here, idiot.”

“You’re- You’re Ten’s roommate?” you sputter.

“Yeah. New one,” he responds. “He used to live across our room in the dorms, I can’t believe I actually agreed to this.”

“I can’t believe it either. I’ve seen cats and dogs friendlier with each other than the two of you.”

Doyoung laughs. “He’s surprisingly one of the better people to room with. I’d rather eat my own blanket than room with Yuta again.”

You laugh at his irked expression, eyebrows furrowed so cutely. The line of his brow bone to nose to lips, it seems a little too perfect to belong to someone. He relaxes his shoulders a little, leaning back on the couch as he looks somewhat lost in thought. (“You think too much,” you’d told him once. “And you think too little.”) If only that were true, you smile to yourself.

“Are you sure you can hold parties here?” you as when the music suddenly rises in volume.

“Well, it said student-friendly,” Doyoung responds, looking visibly disturbed. “Not sure if I want to test the limits of that so early.”

There’s a pause, filled in with loud pop music. You don’t think Ten, your dear introvert, would have agreed to such a party but there’s a chance Johnny or Jaehyun had something to do with this. You don’t know who to suspect when it comes to their group of friends.

“I still can’t believe you’re rooming with Ten.” You look at Doyoung.

“Well, that makes, what, eleven of us, I guess?”

You laugh, feeling conscious all of sudden. Maybe you should listen to Ten’s advice.

“Doyoung,” you call, looking at the cup in your hands a little too passionately. “What’s your major?”

He looks at you with eyes widened ever so slightly, and a pause over his lips.

“Linguistics,” he answers.

“Oh. You said something about it once,” you mumble, recalling something vague about an assignment of his. “You know mine?”

“Yeah,” he answers, eyes cast on his watch.

“Well, that makes me feel a little guilty,” you mumble as softly as you can.

“You should be,” he says. “You never listen to anything I say.”

You scoff. “You just complain most of the time.”

“Really now?”

“Yes,” you snap, looking away.

You look back again when you hear the sound of Doyoung’s laugh, a distinct brightness in it. Sometimes, you wonder if you really are as awful as you’ve made yourself be.

“You’re cute,” he says. “No wonder everyone is so in love with you.”

For a moment, you think he’s going to kiss you.

“Everyone?” you laugh. You don’t care about everyone. It’s burdensome.

“Everyone. They hate you too, by the way.” He smiles to himself. “Heard you’re going on a date with that dimwit. Hyungmin.”

You feel a sudden discomfort in your being. Taking a sip of the drink, you try to shake it off as best as you can.

“Yeah, I- I don’t think I’ll go,” you say, waving it off.

Why are you lying? You left it hanging on a maybe. Part of you wants to tell Doyoung; he is your friend after all and you tell friends stuff like this. The other part tells you this is cheating; lying and pretending everything is okay—it feels like cheating.

“Oh.” He looks lost before he focuses on you. “Why not?”

“Why do you care?” you ask, trying desperately to calm the uprising in your chest.

He stays quiet for a few seconds and then shrugs, looking away from you. It makes you feel a little guilty to dismiss the situation so quickly, another item to add to your troubles. You sigh.

“Sorry,” you say. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“No, it’s okay. You’re right.” You can see his Adam's apple bob up and down.

“I’m not,” you say. “I’m wrong. I really didn’t mean it.”

He looks at you all at once, his gaze so gentle that it makes you think he wants to kiss you, or do something equally affectionate. Instead he sighs, downing whatever’s left of his drink before a wash of sudden looseness does away with the tension in his body.

“You have any more questions for me?” he asks, smiling. “What's it like to be student body president—or, or what instruments can I play? My favourite animal? Colour?”

You smile back. “What is your favourite animal?”

“I don’t have one. Don’t like them. Unless it’s a soft toy.”

“No way. You’re lying.”

“Now, I answer your questions and you call me a liar? Makes me a little hesitant to answer the next.”

You roll your eyes. “Okay, next then. Why didn’t you join the frat? All your friends are in it.”

“Hurts my ego.”

You laugh. He’s still probably an honorary member. There is no way he’s apart from friends for too long with all those feelings of fraternity he has, no matter what he says. It’s the same as you. Affection leads nowhere though; just to short-lived moments of comfort.

You realize, through the course of the night, that you never asked. How he got into the student council, what his classes are, what he does for fun—you never asked. It’s almost like you didn’t want to know.

How sad, you muse to yourself, to be this way. To be so wrapped up in your own problems that you fail to see people around you. Pity, however, isn’t something to feel at a party. You talk with Doyoung for the rest of the night till the sound of his voice makes you feel certain ghosts of butterflies, and till you have to take Eunji home before she does something she regrets. This is what it really means to have the price tag of ‘youth’ strung across you perhaps—when you feel old and immature all at once, and in between, when you feel nothing at all.

Doyoung is too old to mistake love. Or too young.

Labels don’t define anything, especially when it comes to relationships—so even if he calls it love, whispers it to himself at midnight when he’s sitting alone on his bed while his friends are passed out drunk on the floor, it is empty. And then there’s you. The heat of your skin, the curse of your smile and that cheeky laugh you do to get on his nerves. He wants all of it and he’s not ashamed—but he’d be a liar to say he can shout it to the whole world. He’s not that kind of man, and what is his can remain his without the rest of the world prying its damn fingers in. The first night, no, the second—third? He can’t remember which night it was but something pent up in him exploded and he didn’t try to control it for once.

“Ow,” he mutters.

His throat burns from the whiskey. He hates drinking alone but you’re either asleep or with friends and he can’t think of anyone else but you. He tugs at the turtleneck collar, getting uncomfortable by the minute, and then proceeds to take off his coat.

For a moment, he considers getting back to the living room. There were more than enough people with lingering touches against his shoulder and longing gazes—they’re not you. He leans back onto his bed. Another hour and everyone will be gone; why did he even let them hold a party in the first place? Parties just remind him of you—he takes a whiff and smells summer and lemon vodka all of a sudden. A deep sigh leaves his lips.

You might not seem to find yourself especially sad, but Doyoung finds something oddly touching about you. Maybe it’s the way you say his name, he muses, like you’re desperately trying to fill the gaps. But it can’t be him in particular, of course—it’s a lover, any lover.

He hates long nights, just as he hates winter but lately, they haven’t been feeling too cold. Isn’t it ridiculous the way he’s running after you? Doyoung was never meant for this. It’s fucking pathetic and it makes him want to tear all his hair out but there he is, still and quiet in the same place. A certain agony makes its way through him. His hands are freezing and yet his insides are burning—nothing makes sense and right now, he doesn’t want it to. He presses his cold hands to the warmth of his cheeks and a laugh erupts from his mouth.

He must be going crazy to laugh like this in an empty room. The car lights from the window travel slowly from wall to ceiling, the only thing moving in the stagnant of his room.

Inevitably, he thinks of the end. It should come quick; in fact, he’s never been one to do this. He’s always been someone to get attached to people. He doesn’t know how the end will come because this shouldn’t have begun in the first place.

Doyoung’s out of breath.

“Crazy bastard,” he mumbles to himself, followed by a groan when he lifts his head up. As if on cue, the door opens and shuts with a bang. Ten walks in looking drowsy, running his hand through his hair with a disgruntled face.

“I hate to say this,” he slurs. “But you’re right. We can’t have extra furniture and parties. Gotta choose one.”

Ten lays down flat on the bed. “I vote out that ugly ass clock you bought. Why do we need it? We have phones and laptops.”

“It was a gift,” Doyoung mutters.

“Oh. Uh. Actually, someone already, uh—”

“Leave it. We’ll talk about that in the morning.”

Doyoung massages his forehead, groaning at the pain when Ten suddenly decides he’s all up for cuddling.

“Ew,” he says, scooting away from Ten. “Get away from me.”

“You don’t mean that,” Ten whines, trying very hard to pull Doyoung into a hug. Of course, his attempts are blocked by Doyoung’s palm against his forehead.

After a few more seconds of trying, Ten huffs and turns away, crossing his arms. “I don’t like you anyway.”

“I know,” Doyoung mutters.

Ten erupts into laughter, sounding more like a psychopath than a close friend of his.

“You do that every time you like someone?” he asks in between fits.

Doyoung raises an eyebrow. “I just said—okay, yeah. Whatever.”

There’s a much needed silence and Doyoung wonders if he can just fall asleep without kicking Ten out.

“You should tell (name),” Ten says all of a sudden, Doyoung’s heart stopping at your name.

“What?” he whispers.

Ten looks at him as though he’s talking to a particularly stupid child. It makes Doyoung scowl but there’s too much alcohol in his system to know if he really means it.

“You don’t- you’re- everyone in this goddamn building knows,” Ten explains, exasperated. “Jaehyun knows, and he’s the densest kid I’ve ever met. God, if you like (name), go for it.”

Doyoung blushes so deep, he considers pressing his palms to his cheeks again. He thinks for the next few moments. Ah well, if they had to find out, he’s glad he didn’t have to declare it himself.

“Whatever, just ask (name) out. It can’t be that complicated.”

Except it is. You don’t have to spell it out for him—he knows the way you feel. The two of you only ever wanted one thing out of this. But if there’s something Doyoung isn’t good at, it’s keeping his mouth shut. He wonders how many times he let it slip, wonders if you even care enough to notice. God, it’s starting to sound pitiful for him.

“Ten. How much did you drink?” Doyoung asks, raising his head.

“Nothing. None. I’m not drunk.” Ten shrugs. “Just sleepy.”

A ‘wow’ is all Doyoung can respond with. He still isn’t quite finished figuring out what sort of horrific planet Ten stumbled from. A notification ding distracts him from kicking Ten off his bed and he has half a mind to toss it onto the bedside table but it’s still half. He softens almost immediately.

It’s a text from you: a ‘u’ followed by a smiley face and then a meme he can’t quite read through hazy eyes. He finds himself smiling anyway and sends a barrage of emojis, whatever he finds because he likes the way you get annoyed at them. Sighing, he decides that’s enough. He’s not in the right state of mind for conversation.

Doyoung shuts his phone off, attempts to push Ten off the bed one last time before closing his eyes and dozing off.

Not every day is meant to be fun—you know that in your twenties—but it’s still somewhat disappointing to have bad days. Like youth is meant to give you some sort of happiness daily. That’s what they make it sound like.

You groan, rubbing at your back. Sitting at your study desk for so long does not have good long term effects. At least, your temporary, meaningless assignments are done. You scowl at the text on your laptop screen; the more you look at it, the more you hate it and so, you shut it off. It’s not like your pissy professor is going to be impressed by anything you do. However, you like the orderly certainty of schoolwork.

Break time consists of guilt and sugary snacks. You’re done with most everything and you suppose leaving the final review of things to a later date can’t hurt. In fact, it sounds rather appeasing. A few more moments pass in making a decision.

You get dressed. The apartment feels eerie all alone, and you’re sure as hell not going to spend the rest of your evening here. You shiver, quickly striding out the front door and locking it before taking out your phone.

People misunderstand winter. Winter is only the end of things; and sometimes, the beginning. It isn’t cruel or crushing, it’s just taking its course. However, you have a tendency to blame seasons for all that happen in it. For instance, you shouldn’t be missing summer when you really miss the first night with Doyoung.

He picks up after calling thrice. You wonder what he’s even up to, if Saturday evenings are also booked full for such a guy.

“Why do you take so long to pick up?” you complain. “Do you not get days off?”

“I’m busy,” he hisses.

Something’s wrong.

You pause, unsure what to do. It’s not his voice but the one in the background that catches your attention.

Inviting him somewhere.

Rather sensually.

Your ears feel hot and you drop the call. Of course. Of fucking course. You’re the idiot thinking it was a thing. This whole thing is casual—feeling sorry wasn’t in the contract. Fucking around was.

It’s not like you’ll be heartbroken by something like this. Of course not. Of course. Doyoung and you never had a beginning so there isn’t an end, really. It’s fine. It’s fine. You take a deep breath and browse through your phone. With the onset of Christmas holidays, you have around three options left. Ten (yikes), Jaehyun (no way) or the latest addition, Hyungmin.

Well, you’re dressed. You have to go somewhere. And your statement about Hyungmin being the hottest guy on campus still stands.

You send two texts to the boy before deciding that’s apparently enough time waiting. He picks up after a few rings, voice groggy from what you assume to be a late afternoon nap.

“You up for a drink?” You cut to the point.

“Uh? Oh, uh, now? I am, of course- I just need—”

“Twenty minutes. I’ll text you the address.”

Nothing cheers you up like your favourite bar. Or friends. Or people who respond to calls.

Hongdae is as busy as ever. You knew the bar would be packed but not this packed. Still, you managed to grab a seat at the bar table. With the oncoming night, the smell is just going to get worse—so there’s nothing wrong with treating yourself to some lemon vodka (and its refreshing scent).

Hyungmin arrives exactly four minutes early, and the mussed up hair makes you think he must have been in a hurry. For what, you can’t be sure.

You can still see the inklings of Hongdae nightlights on his hair right before he enters, and in the fallacy of that moment, you think it’s going to be Doyoung. You sigh. This isn’t the time for that.

“Sorry,” you say, gesturing to the bar table. “All the tables were booked.”

“No, no,” he responds quickly. “I actually prefer it here.”

He’s tall, not that it’s the first time you’re noticing, but even when he’s sitting, he’s at least two heads taller than you are. His shoulders are accentuated by the mocha coat, no doubt part of the latest trend this winter. As a fashion student, he hits the mark and more.

For a moment, you feel bad for knowing his major. Ten let it slip about him and yet still, you feel guilty for remembering it. You’re not supposed to go into unnecessary detail about people that don’t matter. Does he matter?

“Surprised you could make it,” you joke half-heartedly. “Aren’t you lot always busy with something?”

He laughs. “The student council? Oh, we’re busy alright.”

Busy. Right.

“What about you? Aren’t you part of like three different clubs?”

“So what kind of busy?” you ask, ignoring his question. You’re part of two, now that you left the music club last semester. It’s not like small talk matters though.

“Uh,” he hesitates. “You know- attend meetings and events, coordinate committee work, supervise stuff, etcetera etcetera. So busy, yeah.”

“Busy on Saturdays too?” you ask, before thanking the bartender for the drinks.

“Yeah, I guess. Doyoung has it worse than me honestly. Even now, he has to take care of stuff because of me. Hah…”

You gulp down your drink making Hyungmin raise an eyebrow in concern. “Stuff? Because of you?”

“Yeah.” Hyungmin scratches the back of his head. “He’s with the girls.”

“Girls?” you ask, playing with the glass. You’re starting to feel annoyed, red lining your vision.

“Yeah.” He makes no notion of clarifying his statement.

“Must be quite the president,” you say, resting your cheek against your palm.

“Oh, he’s a nightmare.” Hyungmin laughs. “He has to control everything.”

You try to mask your scoff. You know what he can be like when you’re working beside him.

“Oh, and the guy has no sense of humour,” Hyungmin laughs, the sound easy on the ears.

You blink.

“I think he’s funny,” you say quickly. You swear you have no idea why you sound so defensive.

He hums in response and you consider biting your tongue, telling him you’re only here for one thing and forgetting the uncomfortable churning of feelings inside your chest.

“Forget I- I’m a little confused today.”

Is that an acceptable explanation? You can’t think straight enough to decide. The silence on Hyungmin’s part, however, worries you. The crowd around you fills in for the next few moments as your companion seems to debate something with himself.

“Look, I know you and Doyoung are… I don’t know, something.”

You huff in irked amusement. “God, does everyone seem to know?”

“Not until late actually.” Hyungmin takes a gulp. “He’s been acting weird. Doyoung.”

You look away, breathing shallow. You don’t like it, the way things seem to be getting out of hand. All this time, the world seemed to be in the palm of your hand and now, it’s spilling everywhere; the sand in the hourglass is already up to your knees and you don’t know what happens when it fills.

“Do you actually like him?” he asks, leaning back just a little. You know where this is going. “Are you guys dating?”

“No,” you respond, checking your watch.

“Oh.”

There’s a moment’s hesitation in him but you’ve seen that look before. You know that look.

“Then we can- uh- we can—”

“Fuck?” you ask.

He gulps. “I mean, you can say no any time—”

You pull him by the collar and kiss him, hard enough to melt away your hovering thoughts. He kisses like you expect him to, not how you want him to. You know this sort, and somehow, that makes you feel comfortable. Knowing what you’re getting into is easing but it doesn’t lessen the weight of it.

It’s sickening. The way you’re pretending it’s Doyoung.

Hyungmin pulls apart, panting heavily. “Oh, okay.”

“Tell me you drove here.”

He holds up his car keys in response.

You’re not the type to sleep with strange (semi-acquainted) men, but it’s better than falling in love with them.

So you follow a lover to a hotel room and try to feel something. Some time, when he’s kissing you against the hotel room walls, he pulls apart and asks, “You’re thinking of someone else, aren’t you?”

You know the answer; it just won’t leave your lips.

“It’s okay,” he says with a weak smile, “Let’s just have fun.”

And every time his mouth was on yours, every time you saw stars, you felt the ghost of Doyoung and his haunting touches. It was strange and unfair and unlike you—or at least, unlike the you that you built over the past few years. You feel as though you’ve misplaced something—like something was supposed to be there when you reached out but instead, it was empty space.

The night ends as it should and you leave right before dawn with an apology text you couldn’t put half your heart into.

Most winter nights, you wake up with pain so profound, it’s seeping into your bones.

It never made sense. You never tried to make sense of it. So you let the aches push you down by the shoulders, lodge itself into your neck and back; and you tell yourself, it must be what you deserve. It’s cold and you’re walking barefoot on frozen ground.

You gasp. The weight of who you are and who you have to be—it has its knee on the back of your neck, shoving you into the damp earth. There’s no particular reason to it; it makes it seem as though it’s insignificant. Unimportant. Irrelevant. But that’s the problem—the weight of the world on your shoulders makes no sense. Whose world are you even carrying? Whose approval are you trying to win? You scramble to get up, messing up your bedsheets in the process, and pull your blanket around you. Your own warmth surrounds you and it makes no difference. You frown.

You remember your phone call with your mom, and your lips tremble. You shouldn’t have told her about how crappy your finals went but it slipped. You tried to explain that you did work for them, that you gave it your best but sometimes things don’t work out. She didn’t have to say it out loud for you to hear her thoughts.

You’re disappointing.

You wipe at your eyes, feeling annoyed at the emotion. If you could let the ground swallow you whole, you would. In a heartbeat. You don’t even know what you’re doing most of the days despite that pretty planner of yours.

You get out of bed, pull on your cardigan beside the bed and grab your lighter and pack. The tiny balcony makes for a great smoking spot and while you would scold any of your friends for committing to this, you do it yourself. Hypocrite.

For all you try to shove into yourself—hobbies, student clubs, actual clubbing, friends—the more you feel less than enough, as if everything just vanishes into thin air inside you. As if you aren’t enough and never will be. You play by the rules and you lose, you break the rules and you lose.

Maybe it’s because you let yourself be filled by the intricacies of other people that they like you. And thus, you cannot stop for fear of loneliness.

Just as you’re feeling crushed again, you picture Doyoung against your back, placing his nose in the crook of your neck—something he has never done—and you wonder why it helps.

Sucking in air too fast, you cough. You shouldn’t have let it go on for so long.

It was fun—harmless fun. You shouldn’t even be thinking of taking a step in some other direction. You’re friends, barely, but you like where you are. If Doyoung was that important, you wouldn’t be going about this all backwards. You sigh, though it comes out jagged. The room is quiet and that’s the way it should be at four a.m, of course, but you crave music all of a sudden. Doyoung and you are just a temporary fix; and you let that thought relax you.

When you think of his chin on your shoulder, however, it feels feather light.

“Why are we doing this?” you ask.

The atmosphere is warm and toasty, just like you expect it to be in a bakery with light pink doors and a collection of plastic potted plants on display. The decorations aren’t an eyesore here and somehow, it makes you feel better. It’s a little far but you decide it’s worth it.

Doyoung shrugs, sipping his hot chocolate. “It’s Christmas, and we’re both here.”

Your eyes follow the hanging lights over the counter, wrapped in pine tree stickers and eventually to the neat display of a ‘Season’s Greetings’ menu, the contents of which are currently at your table. A Christmas song by some singer who’s been popular lately plays, tunes light and dancing. You hate the end of the year solely because of the extra pressure January brings. Nothing you can’t handle, of course. Nothing you can’t handle.

You sigh. It’s been a little difficult lately.

“Doyoung, really, why are we doing this?” you ask, genuinely curious.

“Are you- uh- are you not enjoying this? I could—”

“No! No, it’s not that. I feel better, actually.” You bite your tongue almost immediately after. It’s not like he’s supposed to know the sort of hell week you’re having. A poorly received term paper, finals that weren’t up to your expectations, crippling loneliness without friends and, oh, the self-doubt—you are at the lowest you can be in college. The only sweetener right now is in the hot chocolate and the way Doyoung’s looking at you.

You feel something close to guilt.

“Good.” He smiles. “You seemed… You seemed a little down.”

The sliver of warmth between your ribs makes you think this is unreal. It feels uneasy to be so affected by someone but you let it slide, turning back to your hot chocolate.

“Why didn’t you go home this time?” you ask, sipping your drink.

“Oh, I didn't really want to face my parents,” he says before leaning. “Didn’t do too well this semester. And my brother’s going to be there with all his achievements.”

You chuckle in disbelief. “You don’t like your brother?”

“I love him to bits. Just can’t stand my mom’s nagging when he’s around.”

“That’s rich coming from you.” You cross your arms, smiling triumphantly. You feel like children squabbling but it’s so lighthearted, you want to laugh.

Doyoung raises a pointed finger, about to retort but nothing comes out. He puts his hand down.

“I guess you’re right.”

You shake your head. “I’m sure she’s proud of you too.”

“I know that,” he says, laughing. “Of course she is. I don’t keep myself busy for nothing.”

You gulp, a sudden sourness rising at the base of your tongue.

“Busy, huh? Didn’t know spending saturday evenings with girls also counted as busy,” you mutter against the cup, half-hoping he doesn’t hear you.

“What?” There’s a perplexed look across his face.

You wave your hand in dismissal. “Oh don’t mind me.”

“Are you talking about me giving a tour to the fresher girls?” Doyoung leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. “Hyungmin does that usually but Mr Man was sore from soccer practice and Friday fucking.”

You blink. “Fresher… girls?”

“What, did you think I was at a brothel?” Doyoung laughs in amusement.

You feel your cheeks heat up in embarrassment. “No! No, of course not.”

You wave your hands about for a few more seconds, trying to come up with an explanation. This makes things rather embarrassing.

“Sorry,” you say finally. “I jumped to conclusions.”

Doyoung laughs, rather deep and heartily, and you wonder if your apology really did sound as stupid to him as it did to you.

“You do that a lot,” he notes.

“Thanks,” you quip, cutting the pastry with your fork a little too forcefully. His laugh follows. (You hate it so much. It sounds like pure adoration.)

The next few moments consist of scrolling through your phones (because Doyoung says his ‘mouth hurts from talking to you’) and you would’ve been in a better state of mind if everyone wasn’t posting pre-Christmas photos with their families.

“You know they’re opening that park. What’s it called- Winter Wonderland or something. You said you wanted to visit.”

You look up at Doyoung amused.

“Let’s be honest. You want to be in bed, Doyoung,” you say. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I care,” he answers, looking at you with his doe eyes. “About you. You sulk when you’re upset.”

“I don’t sulk,” you reply but your smile is obvious when you exit the cafe.

It’s like a date. The more you think of it that way, the more it makes you smile.

The evening is perfect—orange and pink and loving and happy. Doyoung trails behind you as you tread over the sidewalk with cheeky remarks about his speed.

“I’m in the track club, you know?” he huffs, finally tired of your jabs.

“As what, the start point?”

A fake, sarcastic laugh leaves him. “I wouldn’t get to see you if I walked ahead.”

You feel warmth creep up your face. You mumble, “that’s cheesy.” It’s too weak though, and it goes unheard.

For the first time, you notice his eyes are a little like yours in what they reflect. You love them.

So this is where the crowd went. The amusement park, or whatever you call it, is buzzing with a faint sort of excitement, mostly in the children that didn’t get to go on a vacation elsewhere. It’s quite the wonderland though so you can’t see them complaining.

“Do you think they’ll kick us out if we make out on the Ferris wheel?” you ask, smiling at Doyoung.

“I’m not making out with you on the Ferris wheel,” he replies, making a face.

You do end up making out on the Ferris wheel, and you get butterflies from it. It’s like a teenage dream but Doyoung looks even better. You pass on the cotton candy because frankly, you’ve had enough of sweet things. You sit at the frozen wooden seat, hoping it warms up while Doyoung brings the two of you some fries.

Your phone buzzes with a notification. Your eyes light up at the mail from your professor. You had turned in the term paper three days ago, weeks ahead of schedule and were particularly proud of the way it turned out.

You look at the email and zero in on the word ‘redo’.

Your shoulders sag immediately. You spent four weeks on that—and it’s not good enough? You search frantically for how it could have gone wrong and come up with none. That’s not supposed to happen. Something’s wrong. Something’s very wrong. The week’s exhaustion swallows you up again.

When Doyoung returns, he looks at you concerned before quickly setting the fries on the table.

“(name). Is something wrong?”

“Huh?” Your voice sounds so weak and squeaky, you feel embarrassed. It’s embarrassing that after all these years, you still don’t know how to handle failure.

Because it’s not supposed to happen. You tell yourself that over and over and it makes things worse.

You feel dirty, underneath all that dust and crumbled rock dangling in your hair. Whatever rests on your shoulders is cracking and collapsing, and you’re pushing in the wrong direction to make sure it all stays up.

He reaches out his hand but you avoid it.

“No,” you mutter, weakly shaking your head.

You rub at your nose and eyes, hoping you can hide behind your forearms. Doyoung shouldn’t be seeing you like this, he doesn’t deserve to see you like this. You turn away from him, your palm gently pushing against the soft material of his shirt.

Doyoung doesn’t move. Instead, he gently tugs on your wrist so you have no choice but to face him with your red-rimmed eyes. You’re not sure if it’s embarrassment or pity, but the concern in his eyes makes you cry harder.

“You don’t have to do that,” he whispers. “You don’t have to find a place to cry.”

For the first time in adulthood, you learn what it’s like to lean your forehead against someone’s chest this way. Doyoung wraps his arms around you and the sound of his breathing soothes your near-erratic heart.

“I worked really hard on it, you know?” you mumble against his chest. “My term paper.”

“I know,” he whispers.

Doyoung strokes your head delicately, fingers running through your hair with airy touches. Eventually, you let go of a final sigh and look up to his lips.

He seems surprised at the kiss but it’s all you can think of now. It’s gentler than usual and Doyoung moves cautiously though he seems to like it all the same. His arms feel comfortable around you. When he pulls apart, he looks at you yet still with careful concern.

“We can- we should stop if you want,” he says, and he means it.

You shake your head. Night is creeping in overhead, deep and quiet and slow.

“I like you, Doyoung,” you say finally. “I really, really like you.”

Doyoung’s eyes widen, as though a rabbit wary of the traps it might set foot on but he eases into your touch almost immediately.

“I like… I like you too.” His lips waver but he looks away and takes a deep breath. “I like you so much.”

You smile and think that maybe everything is set right now, with his chin against your shoulder and your arms around him.

Doyoung discards the jacket once you’re in your apartment, kissing you fuller now. Every other thought leaves you; you beg him to make you forget the rest of the world. The walls are comforting now that he’s here, and it’s warmer, hotter.

“Can we- Can we go a little slower?” you mumble, his arms still gentle when they wrap around your waist. He parts his lips from your neck to look at you momentarily before nodding.

You suddenly understand why he always makes you feel so good. There’s a certain fondness to his touch and warmth to his kisses. There’s no one quite like him, really.

“I love digging graves, especially if it’s my own,” you mutter against the pillow.

Doyoung laughs. “What did you do this time?”

“This time? Excuse me? Do you think I’m some sort of trouble child?”

“Hm. Let’s see. Yes.”

You pause. Why do you hesitate to tell him you slept with Hyungmin? It’s not like you were cheating—you weren’t dating Doyoung. Besides, that night with Hyungmin didn’t mean anything. A horrid feeling snakes around your throat, heavy and piercing. You resort to changing the topic.

“I’m… I took another course beyond my understanding.”

“That’s it?” he asks.

You nod.

No, no, no; it’s all backwards now and you don’t know how to reverse it.

Doyoung takes your hand in his, delicately and yet firm. His chest is against your back, bare and warm. When he presses his lips against your knuckles, the warmth that flushes through you makes you want to believe in something else entirely. You feel weak.

A part of you argues that you feel honest—in a moment of clarity you don’t think you deserve. Neither vodka nor whiskey can make you this clear in the head; you struggle to breathe straight. How awful it is to feel warmth and not believe in it at the same time.

“You can rely on me, you know?” he whispers.

The knot in your chest makes you want to cry.

You feel lonely and the opposite of it all at once. Doyoung is too much for you—too kind, too pretty and too true. He makes you realize too many things at once.

There are a few things in the world that can stifle loneliness. Like the notes Doyoung plays on the piano, like the songs he hums in the morning till you place open-mouthed kisses against his neck.

You realize, all of a sudden, that Doyoung really is your dearest friend.

And yet, you don’t think you deserve it. You’ve never loved, you believe, but you have. You don’t remember it well enough. The lovers’ touches you kept searching for led to this. Hypocrite. You wanted a lover’s touch and you rejected the love that came with it. What a complicated bundle of emotions. You weren’t always this way.

You loved your first cat when you were six, all the way till it died a warm death in your bed. You loved your mother even when she yelled at you for skipping your chores. You loved your middle school friends when you talked about comics and movies you saw for the first time.

It’s hard to love the same way now.

You suppose sympathy needs a little backstory. Nothing is unconditional.

It had all started when your heart had broken into two clean pieces. You put a bandaid on it and called it a day. No one taught you to ask for help.

Your friends know someone broke your heart; you tell them everything. Friends, friends—you wanted them so bad and yet, you keep them as far from you as you can. You pretend to be paper-thin and so shallow, sometimes you wonder if that’s all there is to you. But for all they know, they know next to nothing. It wasn’t just the aftermath of reckless puppy love.

The first time your heart broke, it was watching your mother cry in the living room for a reason you didn’t understand. You wondered who committed the crime, who should be charged—and you found no one. A loveless marriage is cruel, yes, but you cannot point fingers. It isn’t just cruel; it’s infuriating.

The second time, the two pieces of your heart broke into a few more. It was a boy with an inviting smile and flags whose colour you couldn’t quite discern. They must have been red, but everything else was too—hearts, cheeks, lips, and the threads around your wrists. And eventually, he guided you to the conclusion that you are undeserving, unworthy, unloved.

You were strong, however. It was easy to collapse on the bed and feel the weight of the world settling in, but you stood up again on shaking knees and you told yourself to have fun; you can have fun without feelings. You know better than to attach meaning to fun—you might hate insignificant things but it’s only fun if it’s pointless. You’re not letting go of this place you’ve worked so hard to arrive at, with all the shattered pieces in your hands.

It’s better to offer nothing at all than offer broken pieces.

“Can we stay like this?” Doyoung’s arms tighten around your waist, his breath shallow against your shoulder. “Just for a little bit.”

His voice is beautiful as always, but for a moment, it strikes you as sad.

Everything’s twisting up into knots and you are frantically running your fingers over them to straighten it all out. You know what it’s like to let things rot; and you are tired of it. Why can’t everything disappear for one moment? Why can’t you just let it be the two of you?

You sigh in response, nodding.

“I might not know what’s happening in there,” he starts, drawing circles on your chest with his finger, touch comfortably light. “But…”

I’m here and I get it.

Is that what he wants to say? You don’t think you’ll get to know. You’re not exactly voicing yourself either.

Stay the night. You want to say it but your lips are frozen.

Instead, you rub your thumb over the back of his hand, fitting into each other as perfect as a lie. You would tell him, you try to convince yourself, if you could say it with enough conviction. There’s no point to saying things that are half-meant, that are true but only just enough. You’re a coward.

And now, this has gotten complicated.

An end.

Tapping his pen against the desk, Doyoung grows increasingly annoyed. The council's next meeting agenda isn’t going to finish writing itself but he can’t bring himself to either. Besides, Ten’s pacing outside his room is starting to get on his nerves.

“Ten!” he yells. “Can you quit it? You’re making too much noise.”

His disapproval is met with silence. For a moment, he spaces out and reflexively thinks of you, only to feel a confusing sort of emotion. It’s normal, he tells himself, and that it’ll sort itself out.

Doyoung feels like a glass box more often than not. If he breaks, who picks up the pieces? Who gets cuts all over their fingers?

‘Whoever breaks him’ should be the answer. But that’s wishful thinking. It’s not that simple.

He’s so see-through that it’s painful. He used to tell Taeyong he’s wrong but he’s never been able to prove it. He is easy. It’s embarrassing.

But then again, part of him likes it when it comes to you. He likes it when you kiss him after a particularly heated disagreement, he likes when you get on his nerves just so he’d fuck you and most of all, he loves the push and pull. Fun is just that. He doesn’t know what he’d do if that heart of his he placed so gingerly into your palms falls and shatters.

The line between hate and love is thin; and he’s enjoying walking it too much.

He has nothing to offer but himself. He laughs at the thought and shakes his head. It’s somewhat dirty, and not just in the sexual sense.

“Ten!” he yells again. “Stop pacing!”

Getting up from his seat, he strides over to his door, swings it open and finds Ten scratching his head and glancing at his phone in repeated action.

“Ten?”

He’s so in a trance that he hasn’t noticed Doyoung. He is the lovable sort of idiot if he ever chooses to be so. Most of the time though, he’s just a smartass.

“Oh, oh no, I’m a bad friend,” Ten mutters to himself, his pacing growing more restless. He scratches the back of his head, eyebrows furrowed and too inside his head to notice Doyoung. He wants to ask but something tells him he shouldn’t.

Turns out, his apprehension isn’t strong enough these days.

“Whose date did you crash?” Doyoung asks, more than annoyed already.

When Ten looks at him, Doyoung feels rather shriveled and freezes on the spot. Call it instinct but Doyoung respects fear and pain. Ten has a mixture of the two, amplified when he looks at Doyoung.

“Doyoung. Hey,” he says, trying to tone down the distress in his voice.

Doyoung still hasn’t recovered from the initial surprise of Ten looking that way.

“Did you fuck up? Did someone fuck up? Why do you look like that?”

Ten sits down on the small couch. “Long story… I guess. Too many details, you- you know? Just—”

“What the fuck happened?”

Ten still can’t look him in the eye. “The group chat’s a little…”

“Ten,” Doyoung snaps. “Cut the crap.”

“No, that’s- that’s what I’m- You’re going to be upset.”

Doyoung straightens, furrowing his brows. “I think I can fucking handle it.”

“You know that date I set up for (name) and Hyungmin?”

“You set that up?”

“(name) slept with Hyungmin.”

Doyoung quietens. The silence seems to make Ten uncomfortable as he shifts in his seat, getting up when Doyoung speaks.

“So?”

Ten blinks. “You’re not upset?”

“Just what kind of loser do you think I am?” Doyoung mutters.

Glass shatters just that easily. Maybe he wanted you to shatter him. Maybe he was already cracking at the edges.

“Doyoung, you don’t have to—”

“Stop,” he exclaims a little louder than he intended. “Stop looking at me like that. I’m a grown man, I can handle shit like this.”

It still hurts though. You lied to him and he let you in. You lied to him. Doyoung sighs, returning to his room with a realization he should have had long ago. His night ends with more deleted drafts than he’s supposed to have and eventually, with increased discomfort, he delegates the job to Park Hyungmin himself with the excuse of sickness.

Doyoung does feel sick. He felt this way once, in highschool, but it had turned to red, hot anger ready to lash at anyone and everyone, spilling from his lips as easy as it was to breathe. And Doyoung can never feel that way towards you. He was different back then too, of course, but you—you’re unlike anyone he’s ever met. He loves the comfort of you, and something like that is hard to come by.

He feels like laughing again but instead he finds tears on his cheeks. Silly boy, he can hear his mother tell him. You don’t give your heart to heartbreakers.

So Doyoung falls asleep to the sound of upbeat music in his earphones, music he hates even just to pass the night. Morning will come and he will have to become stronger. Comfort is fleeting, after all.

With everything said and done, you know very well that if you were to tell someone you love them—genuinely, truly, from the heart—it would be Doyoung. It’s not a sudden realization, like the sky falling apart or a tidal wave crashing against the shore and sweeping away the city. It is like the gentle lapping of water, though, or the way the clouds change shape—natural and anything but alarming. You want to stare at it forever, and you want to believe that’s how it will be forever.

“You told everyone we had sex?” Your voice is boiled to a shout.

Hyungmin looks torn, lips moving but no explanation making its way out. “I- I told my friends, not everyone.”

“And you forgot that your friends talk? Everybody talks, Hyungmin, what were you thinking?”

He sighs before taking a step towards you. “Why are you so angry about it? As far as I remember, you had no trouble talking about whose pants you got into.”

You scoff. “With friends, not the whole campus.”

“That’s exactly what I did!”

You cross your arms, feeling so upset you might cry and unsure as to why. You’re usually good at dealing with stuff like this, keeping things in the right place.

“It’s because of Doyoung, isn’t it?”

You snap your head to Hyungmin. There’s a serene sort of look to him despite his unkempt appearance, and a look of understanding.

“I’m sorry. Really. But if you were so into him, you shouldn’t have called me that evening. It might not matter to me but…”

You broke his heart. All that devotion he had towards you led to this.

“You’re right.” You choke on your words, leaning against the wall. “Fuck… Fucking…”

You turn around, making your way out of the hallway and hope the tears on your cheeks dry faster if you run.

You can’t remember the last time you ran. Your world didn’t need running from, it was right in the palm of your hands. Now that you look back, the world was always on your shoulders and heavy as it can be. Maybe you liked it—the weight. You could’ve shrugged it off any time; you didn’t need all those caging schedules or careful, elegant steps.

No. Atlas couldn’t shrug because his punishment was his existence. To have weight is to have meaning; and that is how you intended to live out your life.

Doyoung makes you see it differently. To love so fully even if it seems cautious—you, who has never loved at all, couldn’t comprehend it. And because he makes you see it differently, the box is now open and all hell is loose.

For once, you don’t want to live in the world you crafted. You want more love, more hurt and you want to open the doors. You don’t mind hell if it’s for him.

You ring the bell to Doyoung and Ten’s apartment and pray the news hasn’t reached him yet. He said he was busy this weekend; maybe he was detached enough from his phone for once. You just want to be the person to tell him. It’s not a perfect apology otherwise.

Doyoung opens the door with pursed lips and cold eyes. There’s a sense of ease over his shoulders and arms but he won’t look at you and panic rises to your throat.

“We’re not fucking tonight, (name),” he says.

“That’s not- That’s not why I’m here.” Your voice is so meek, you wonder what happened.

Doyoung steps back, crossing his arms. He’s still looking at his feet and you feel the urge to reach for his face.

“I wanted to tell you- I… I just—”

“That you’re fucking other people?”

“God, Doyoung, stop with the fucking. I don’t care about that right now.”

“Really?” His voice is so sharp, it digs into your skin. “You were just in it for that. That’s the fun part in your stupid life, isn’t it?”

You feel a sharp pain in your nose and forehead. “You’re- Now that’s- Doyoung. I’m sorry. That’s what I wanted to say.”

“After—” His voice chokes up. “After everything is done? Stop with the excuses and face it for fuck’s sake. You aren’t made to fall in love. That’s why you dance around it all the time.”

Although he says that, he doesn’t sound angry. He sounds defeated.

“It’s not like you aren’t cautious,” you retort, throat feeling heavy. “You said it yourself- you don’t want to care too much.”

“I was wrong,” he says, voice hoarse. “I care about everything more than I’d like to admit. I care about you more than I’d like to admit.”

“The Hyungmin thing didn’t mean anything, okay? You were busy and—”

“So why did you lie?” He strains to not raise his voice. “Of course I knew our little thing didn’t mean shit to you. Why did you pretend it did? Last week, you said- you said—”

“Doyoung, last week- last week I- I wasn’t pretending, I swear.”

“You could’ve just saved yourself the trouble and the dignity.” A short, humorless laugh leaves him.

You feel your lips tremble, the explanation not quite made its way out yet. He looks so innocent like this, rabbit-like eyes watery and full of pain, pure the way they have always been. This is your mistake, isn’t it?

“Doyoung, please,” you manage to say. “That was wrong. I couldn’t clear up my head. Please don’t—”

“No. I was an idiot. Or you see me as one.” He frowns deeper, lips trembling. “I shouldn’t- I shouldn’t have. We shouldn’t have been at the same fucking party and I shouldn’t have drank so much. You’re- I’m not that kind of person.”

You bite down your lip. “What kind?”

Doyoung laughs, the sound raspy and empty. “The kind to not fall in love with you.”

It damn near breaks your heart to look at him. You have to say something, it shouldn’t end like this. You’re desperate and all you think is that you don’t want it to end at all.

“Please, I thought of you as a friend, that’s why—”

“And this is what you call being a friend?” he cuts you off.

You feel the sting in your eyes and nose, making you turn sharply to the side. You wish he’d just make you cry. It makes you feel the rancid guilt all the more.

“Make Hyungmin your friend for all I care. Let’s stop this.”

You stare at your feet, unable to respond.

“You can have every boy in the world, (name). Don’t come to me.”

“Can you just stop talking about everyone else?” you yell, desperate. “Do I talk about your exes? Seungjae or- or what’s-her-name—”

“That’s different!” He looks distraught, breathing heavily and with a painful red flush over his nose and cheeks. He runs his hand through his hair, tousling it further. “You lied to me, (name). You lied.”

Your cheeks are wet and the look that flashes over Doyoung makes you think he wants to step right out to you. He stays frozen in place, however, looking away to the side.

“Did you notice?” he asks softly. “Even once? How much I cared?”

You can’t answer, letting the tears drip down your face. It’s getting colder and colder.

Doyoung bites down his lip before parting them. “All we did was have sex anyway. So please just- just leave.”

You take a long few moments but nod, hugging your coat closer and stepping out of his apartment. You think you hear Ten’s footsteps but it’s followed by the bang of a door—this is how it ends then.

The line between hate and love is thin; and you are deserving of neither.

You perfect your next semester’s academics, and the next. It still feels empty. You go out to drink with friends and return to a messy bed you sleep in alone. You smile as always and you laugh as always. No one asks you how you are as always. You never needed anyone to ask you how you are.

Ten tries but you push him away. You don’t need to drag in other people into a mess you made. He feels sorry for the whole thing but you tell him it was you that spilled the paint, Ten just handed a dash of it to you.

You were right. You don’t deserve Doyoung. At least, you made it so that you don’t deserve him.

‘It’s better to have loved and lost than to not have loved at all’—it still hurts.

Every day is part of a list again. You doodled in some of the pages, when you thought you were starting to fall in love. There’s only a skeleton of it left now. Soon, you’ll let it crumble to dust too.

You tear apart the planner sometime after graduation and cry and curse at yourself for doing that. No one’s good at parting with things they care about. You’re no exception.

It’s December again.

This place is a little strange to visit right after graduating, especially with the memories flashing you by. Johnny said he booked one of the private booths (“A senior’s treat!”) but you feel your steps growing hesitant when you reach the neon signs by the stairs. It spells ‘The Meeting Place’ and smells of cigarettes just like it did the first time.

You stop midway up the stairs. For a moment, you think of Doyoung sitting there and wonder if you’ll ever be able to talk to him again. If you had the chance now, would you take it?

Of course, you wouldn’t. There’s too much to be set right and you can’t do it.

There’s supposed to be the six of you. Johnny mentioned Ten and you know Eunji’s invited too. You saw Jaehyun on the way here, still a student. You sigh. It must be him, the one they failed to mention to you. Kim Doyoung. There’s no one quite like him.

You spot him first. Looking a little forlorn as he gazes absentmindedly to the side, he faces away from you and you get the inevitable urge to run away. It’s a funny feeling.

Your stomach is churning. You don’t want him to see you. Ten babbles on about something to Johnny, smiling like he found candy while clearing his drawers. Eunji looks tired, leaning against Johnny’s shoulder and you wonder if she already drank more than enough shots.

“(name).”

You jump at Jaehyun’s voice from behind you.

“Hey,” you respond, giving him a wide smile.

He hesitates. “Are you okay? Not that you don’t look okay- you look really good actually. I mean, are you and… you know okay?”

“I don’t think so, Jaehyun,” you say and make your way to the booth.

It’s a little cramped for the six of you and Doyoung gets up before you can even greet him. It’s not like you deserve it anyway but it tugs at the wound.

“I’m going to go take a drag,” he mutters.

“You don’t smoke,” you say, looking up.

He stares at you momentarily and you look away. You think Ten and Johnny glance at you with pity but you don’t really care.

“Can I come with you?” you ask, barely a whisper.

“Sure,” he says, to your surprise.

The smoking area is so small, you’re surprised it’s even there. A glass structure overlooking the neighbourhood, there’s barely any light within. The only thing nice is how warm it’s in there.

Doyoung lights his cigarette and then offers to light yours. It’s quiet, the music from inside numbed to the cold doors. You really can’t take it. You stub the barely consumed cigarette and throw it into the bin.

You’d rather just stay quietly in his presence.

“You’re not smoking,” he notes.

“It’s a bad habit.” You look out through the glass.

Doyoung chuckles. “You were a collection of bad habits.”

“And good ones too,” you quip. “I was a perfect student. I was perfect in most everything actually.”

Doyoung’s smile widens. “You were. You certainly were.”

A few more moments pass in silence, your eyes traveling over the outside scenery which seems to be growing duller by the second. City lights have never felt fainter.

“It was an accident, right?” You say suddenly. “The whole thing? Us?”

Doyoung hums. “Yeah. I fell in love by accident.”

You smile weakly. “Right. I never got to apologize.”

“I loved you on purpose.”

You look up at him. There’s not a lot of people who say what they mean. He looks the same as he used to under your grey blankets, with a warm blush over his cheeks and kind, wide eyes.

“You’re so damn pretty,” he murmurs, “even now.”

You scan his face for signs of lying.

“You’re drunk, aren’t you?” you ask finally.

Doyoung blinks before easing into laughter. “You- You’re- You’re the same as ever.”

You let yourself crack a smile.

“Doyoung I- I really am sorry,” you say quietly. “And I did- do care for you.”

Doyoung stubs out his cigarette and discards it before looking you in the eye. You notice he’s wearing his favourite black turtleneck in the proximity, the grey plaid coat covering most of it. You really liked that look on him.

“I’m sorry,” you say once again. “I want you to know that. I didn’t want to hurt you and I promise I won’t ever do it again.”

You mean it. You’re never going to hold glass again. He doesn’t deserve it.

“That’s a problem,” he responds, breath mingling with yours. “I want you… I want you to hurt me. If you really do love me, I’ll take it.”

“Doyoung,” you whisper, turning away despite your whole body screaming at you to give in. “I meant it. I can’t hurt you.”

Doyoung cups your cheek with one hand, glancing at your lips for a moment.

“You’re warm,” he says.

He’s warmer.

“I want to kiss you,” he says.

You want to kiss him too.

“We went about this all wrong, didn’t we?” he asks.

“We did,” you answer, voice barely above a whisper. “I did.”

Doyoung pulls back. “Then let’s start again. I’m Kim Doyoung, I majored in linguistics. I was student council president and I made a mistake.”

You smile. “We don’t have to do that.”

Doyoung raises an eyebrow. “After all the trouble I went through to make a good introduction?”

The two of you laugh, and it gets warmer.

“I’m (name),” you say. “I was a top student and I made a bigger mistake, Kim Doyoung.”

“Oh? I wonder what it was.”

“Kind of a long story.”

“I’ve got all the time for you.”

You smile and start. He responds with gentle kisses. You’re piecing your world back together again; but this time it’s feather-light and fits right in the palm of your hand.

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sangopearls · 3 years

Text

— them in a college au, part one

CW: mention of heavy kissing. mention of drugs (cigarettes).

i’m moving to college tomorrow so here’s a very self-indulgent post that’s inevitably going to encompass more characters !

characters included: childe, zhongli, albedo, xiao

(don’t see your fave here? stay tuned for an upcoming part ;))

childe ✧˖*࿐

the guy you met at a party that you couldn’t stop thinking about.

you only exchanged a few words and fits of laughs before an alcohol-induced makeout session. he was… a business major? no, no, he said he was a sports medicine major. that’s it. but, hell, who cared? he was making your head spin as his lips latched to your neck and you knew you’d be dreaming of this mystery man for the next month.

just your luck, however, it seems your history class’s new TA is this man you met that fateful night.

as soon as the bell rang, you weren’t sure whether or not to chat up the new TA. what if he didn’t recognize you? what if he did and turns out he didn’t think anything more of you than a casual fling? or what if —

“hey, [Y/N], right?” a familiar voice interrupts. you turn to see the tall redhead standing behind you.

“oh, hey!” you reply, trying to contain your visible nervousness, “yeah, that’s me… you’re… ah…” you fumble, forgetting his name. how is it that he was charming enough to sweep you off your feet yet you couldn’t recall his name?

“childe,” he finishes, smiling, “i recognized you pretty quickly and figured i’d say hi. i mean, if it’s not too awkward.”

you shake your head. “no, no, don’t worry. admittedly, i’d be a bit disappointed if you had given me the could shoulder,” you nervously laugh.

childe clearly clings onto this detail, raising his eyebrow with a hint of a shit-eating grin. “hm? and why is that?” he chuckles, and you feel your stomach turn into static, “wanted to pick up where we left off a few weeks back?”

you knew this man’s charm was going to be the death of you, but until then, how dangerous could round two be?

zhongli ✧˖*࿐

the charming student library assistant.

in order to scrape together extra spending money, zhongli helps check books in and out, move stock, etc at the school library. he has this certain aura about him that makes him seem as if he was your soulmate in a past life whenever he speaks to you.

(that didn’t make sense. at all.)

“ah, [Y/N], good to see you again,” the young man greets warmly, accepting the book you slid over to him.

“good to see you, zhongli,” you reply.

he holds the book’s barcode to the device before examining it, sporting a pensive gaze as he reads over the title and description.

“grapes of wrath?” he murmurs, “john steinbeck… his pieces are always a good read.”

“i figured i’d read it after finishing of mice and men,” you explain.

“i see,” he hums, sliding the book to you, “it’s nice to see somebody else our age who appreciates the twentieth century classics. i understand that it sounds pretentious, but i feel that the key to truly understanding the development of human culture lies within the arts.”

everything he says just sounds wise. he could tell you the weather and you’d fall at his feet.

“i’ll have to let you know what i think of it,” you promise, heat rising in your cheeks at the way his gaze hasn’t left your own, “and you seem well-read, so if you ever have a recommendation, i’ll read it.”

“that would mean a lot to me, [Y/N],” he answers, “perhaps our meetings should exceed that of our encounters at the library counter. would you like to accompany me for tea in my residence? i could lend you some of my favorite books from my personal collection at that chance.”

albedo ✧˖*࿐

the reserved yet mysteriously-enchanting artist.

albedo usually keeps to himself. all that students know about him is that he appears flawlessly intelligent and is usually seen wordlessly sketching in the grassy lawns of campus.

you never really spoke to the young blonde man you’d see in various spots around campus with a sketchbook in hand. he seemed like something out of a dark academia novel- the mysterious messy-haired man shrouded in a large coat, an in-depth knowledge of the arts, and a cigarette always pinched between his lips.

“i have to say, i’ve always wondered what you draw,” you say to him on a whim. what were you thinking? he must always be alone for a reason. when did you get so brave?

he glances up at the source of the voice, and, God, his eyes were the most dazzling azure you’d ever seen.

“just candids or landscapes,” he replies. his voice has a certain raspy lull to it that makes you a bit lovestruck, for some unknown reason. “would you like to see?”

you nod, prompting him to flip through his book, revealing pencil sketches of familiar spots on campus or rough drawings of various people. eventually, you recognize a familiar figure in a sea of sketched faces.

“is that… me?” you ask softly, careful not to sound accusatory.

“ah… hopefully you do not interpret this as the actions of a creep,” he shakes his head, “i enjoy practicing facial details by drawing a random selection of passerbys so that i get a diverse pool of looks…”

“no, no, i wasn’t worried,” you assure him, watching as he relaxes a bit, “it’s beautiful. i’m honored, really. you’re a talented artist… erm…”

“albedo,” the young man says, extending a hand to you.

“[Y/N],” you reply, taking his hand and shaking it.

“would you like to sit with me as i complete my sketch of the student hall?” he asks softly, “i usually work alone, but i find your presence refreshing. i hope you do not mind.”

xiao ✧˖*࿐

the elusive wallflower.

xiao’s goal in college is simple - attend the necessary functions to get his degree, and that’s it. he doesn’t care for social events such as parties or extracurricular activities. it’s a rare sight to see the young man outside of his dorm.

very few people knew xiao’s name. he was meticulous in his methods of keeping a low profile. you knew him, vaguely. he lived down your co-ed hall and had been known to hole up in his space to play video games, watch movies, or smoke. as far as you knew, he was happy with his life as it was. passing him as he came back from his class truly was a rare sight.

“xiao, right?” you ask him. the man only returns a half-lidded gaze and furrowed brows.

“yeah,” he replies, albeit confused as to what you need from him, “is something the matter?”

“no, sorry to worry you,” you explain, “i just recognize your name from my hall and i’d never spoken to you. i didn’t want you to perceive me as being rude.”

“oh,” xiao says, “yeah, people don’t usually make conversation with me. i don’t even believe i know my roommate’s last name.”

“oh, i’m sorry,” you reply, “i mean, i live in your hall if you ever need somebody to talk to.”

although he doesn’t show it, he seems touched by your offer.

“it’s not that i’m lonely,” he clarifies, “and i don’t mean to give you my life story. i’m content. but if you ever want to chill or have a smoke with me, just knock, i guess.”

he doesn’t give you much more time than the chance to nod before sliding his hands into his hoodie and continuing on his path. this man truly is like the school’s cryptid.

#moonlit seas #genshin #genshin impact #genshin impact hcs #genshin impact headcanons #genshin x reader #genshin x y/n #childe #childe x reader #tartaglia x reader #tartaglia #zhongli #zhongli x reader #albedo #albedo x reader #xiao #xiao x reader #genshin hcs #genshin headcanons

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maybe-your-left · 3 years

Note

ASK FRIDAY - CREATE A SCENARIO: roommates trope with Kylo

Due to some last minute room swapping and late registering Reader and Kylo end up in the same dorm but they're mad about it and hate each other (cue intense sexual tension)

Dorm room, Snowed in, evening time like 6

The heater/power has just gone out and Kylo knows a few ways to get warm...only if Readers up for it...

been working on this for FOREVER ANON.

I loved it!

Crushed

TW: NSFW, dirty talk, dom/sub vibes, exhibitionism, kinda fluff, Kylos not that nice and is an entitled man.

Oh yeah, you fuckin’ slut.

Yes-Yes-Yes!

‘M gonna cum all over your fucking tits.

You slapped the wall next to your bed, hard.

“Can you guys keep it down! It’s 1 in the morning!”

Muffled voices came through the paper-thin wall, sounding like bodies moving to the floor. Good, you thought, at least he will get rug burn from the shitty carpet, might keep him from fucking everything that moves.

A hard knock on the wall pulled you from that thought.

“Go read your fucking Bible! I’m trying to get my dick wet!”

“Please!”

“Why don’t you go get fucked!?”

Some giggled came through next, followed by more muffled whispering. You whined loudly, trying to ignore the sounds of him fucking whatever bimbo your dormmate had in his lair. Shoving your face into your pillow, muffling your tears and wails.

You turned on your TV, drowning out the final act of his performance. Fingers poised over your keyboard to file another noise complaint with the RA… not like they ever helped you. The last time they intervened they left with a black eye and broken nose, shrugging for you to sort it out yourselves.

A door slammed shut, you let out a sigh of relief.

At least he wasn’t a cuddler.

You climbed out of bed, tip-toeing to your door to take a peek of whatever slut found her way into his room this evening. The special lady was a new cinderella every fucking week, he didn’t even try to know their names. You heard him admit it once in class to his friends, saying he called them all ‘baby’ so he wouldn’t have to learn.

You peeked out the door, blinking from the harsh fluorescent lighting of your dingy dorm halls. The walls were a screaming white, yellowing from years of shoddy cleaning. You tried to clean your room when you first came to school, but it was too disgusting.

A non-smoking dorm, ha. Everyone smoked, especially your neighbor.

“Shouldn’t you be in bed creeper?”

You jumped at his voice, exhaling harshly through your nose. You steeled your features, caught red-handed looking for his latest prey. Crossing your arms defensively, not that there was anything to hide. You were in your ratty pj’s, they were on sale at Old Navy a few years ago and you never threw them away even though they barely fit anymore.

“If you’re so interested in being a cuck,” he grinned at you, flashing his crooked teeth, “I would love to have you over for an encore, I’m sure you’d love to watch me in action.”

“Buzz off, Ren.”

“Ooo, angry tonight,” he smirked, now stepping out of his door frame. You choked a little at his appearance, no shirt on, basketball shorts barely hanging off his hips. Dangerously low, seriously, if he took one wrong move they would be on the floor. His chest was covered in fresh scratch marks, no doubt from his latest victim, a sheen of sweat glistening under the lights.

Fuck, he was good-looking.

But he was terrible.

“Ahem,” he cleared his throat, daring you to stare back at him.

You gulped, caught again. You were better than that, you were just tired from being kept up since ten with his version of ‘love-making’.

“My eyes are up here cupcake,” he stepped forward. Pushing you back into your doorframe, almost inside your sanctuary. “If you ever decide you want to break your vow of chastity, I’m right next door.”

“Step away from me, Kylo.”

He cocked his brow, “I love when you’re mean, come on. Let’s see if kitty has claws.”

You bared your teeth, fists balling under your underarms, “Not even if you were the last man on Earth.”

He shrugged, backing away from you.

“Deal, bitch.”

You moved to shut your door on him, “Go away.”

“See you in class, bright and early.”

------

When you imagined leaving for college, it was different.

Saying goodbye to your parents, packing your car with whatever small valuables you owned. Determined to make a name for yourself all the way across the country, no friends or family, truly on your own. You imagined everything would be different, the dorm would be filled with new and friendly faces.

RA’s greeting you as you parked outside, giving you a tour and maybe a group lunch with all your floormates. Getting to know each other, maybe even going to some new-student orientation event they planned for the newbies.

Classes were smooth, acing all your major requirements. Professors were kind and ready to help you at any moment, letting your artistic vision flow through your body every morning with your 8 AM yoga class.

But no.

Instead, you registered late.

Your classes all at the worst times, bright and early.

Second rate dorm, COED even… smelly dudes between your single bedroom which would be better defined as a broom closet. Burping and fucking on both sides of you while you tried to study. Your major requirement classes were boring and filled with pretentious art students who thought they were the next Picasso.

Professors didn’t care if you lived or died, only focusing on the bell schedule because they couldn’t control what the freshmen did in their classes.

Your options for clubs were limited, either join a sport or a cult.

And worst of all.

Kylo Ren.

He was your neighbor, signed up late just like you. You actually arrived at the same time, he pushed you down on your ass in the lobby so he could be checked in first. Calling you a clumsy bitch, only for you both to be handed keys to the same floor. Right next to each other, sharing a flimsy wall.

On top of that, he was an art major like you.

And since he registered late, he was in almost every class.

Even yoga!

He took your mat the first day, leaving you in tears in the hallway. He apologized afterward, handing it back to you before storming off to be with his beefy upper-class friends. Any moment he could, Ren would humiliate you. Trying to push your buttons, whistling at you when you had to cross the hallway to the showers. Tripping you when you had your hands full, making fun of you for hanging out with your sparse group of friends.

And when he found out you were annoyed with him making noise, he latched onto it.

One week he decided to recite the entire Phantom of the Opera, just because you mentioned in class that you loved that play.

He did every part, even the musical scores, you could’ve sworn he did it with a megaphone on the wall, just to spite you.

Your parents told you ‘he just likes you, he’s a boy.’

No!

That’s not how people express feelings, at least not healthy people.

Your alarm clock blared on your nightstand, you didn’t sleep so it didn’t bother you. Letting out a heavy sigh of defeat, Ren ruined another night for you, a night you’d never get back. Of precious, precious sleep that you desperately deserved.

Slipping on some plum leggings and a sports bra. No one gave a fuck about your outfit in your early morning class, as long as you went with clothes on. You popped on your headphones, trying to drone out the noise of Ren’s music through the wall. He liked to blast some god-awful music every morning.

Today, it was an old Black Veil Brides album!

You made it out of the dining hall, snatching a muffin for breakfast. Smiling at some guys you knew, waving at your friend Rose as you stormed off to the gym. The cold chill of Winter biting at your nose, it was too cold to not wear a full outfit. But there was no time, with Ren keeping you up all night and classes back to back, you didn’t have time to fuck around with dressing up.

Ren ran in after you, laughing with his friends. Big nose all red from the frost, his hair looked frozen to his scalp, probably showered beforehand. You rolled out your mat, trying to stretch while he bragged about the pussy he got last night. Making a big show of your complaining, saying you were desperate to fuck him based on your whining.

You rolled your eyes when he planted next to you, “Good morning, you ran out in a hurry.”

“I didn’t want to be late,” you sneered, not giving him the time of day, still stretching your back into child's-pose.

“How are we supposed to walk together if you run away from me, cupcake?”

You scoffed, shooting him an icy glare. Despite him grinning at you like the happiest man on Earth, god, you needed to stop giving him a reaction. That would shut him up if you didn’t give him the attention he is clearly lacking from his parental figures.

“Good morning class,” your teacher greeted you calmly, “I hope you’re all doing well. As you all know, this next week is finals week, I’m offering makeup classes to those of you who need to make up some credit hours. We are also hosting some meditation if you need time to relax between classes.”

Next to you, Ren leaned towards your mat, setting his hand right behind your back. You didn’t have to open your eyes to know he was hovering. Ready to devour you like a piece of meat.

“Hey,” he chuckled.

You stayed quiet, pushing back into his arm so he would move. Ren stayed put, purring in your ear, “Did you sleep well?”

“Move off my mat, Ren.”

He smirked down at you, “You seem stressed, do you want me to help by fucking your brains out.”

You shot off your mat, effectively knocking him onto his back. Laughing loudly in a relatively silent room of students trying to center themselves. He grinned from the floor, hands up in the air in defense, “I’m just offering to help you, Jesus!”

“Just,” you pointed in his face, hair falling out of your ponytail. Everyone was staring at you, even your instructor. Shocked you were yelling, you barely spoke in class, at the scariest person in your class.

“Just, leave me alone.”

------

Ren avoided you for the rest of the week, mostly.

Still had his nightly fuck-more subdued though, you had on noise-canceling headphones to try and focus on studying. There were still so many classes to get to, and you wouldn’t be finished until the day before Winter break… you were desperate to get this over with.

You missed your family, the plane ticket itself cost you a whole month of meals.

Of course, you would do fine in your classes, it was just the motivation to get there. Every morning you glared at Ren when he greeted you in yoga, still standing next to you like a menacing shadow.

This morning was no different, only you skipped class to study in the library. Bundled up in your winter coat, long black scarf, hair in a lazy braid, and thermal leggings on. The wind had picked up last night, bringing on an ice storm that wasn’t expected until late next week. You walked on treacherous sidewalks, dodging all the other students who were seeking the warmth of the library.

You settled inside, sprawling your books and laptop on an old desk. Grabbing out a few sketch pads so you could finish up some pieces that were due in a couple hours. Most of your finals in art were ‘unconventional’ which meant the professor wanted to see what you were motivated to work on during the year.

For yours, you had decided to draw the people you saw on campus.

Studying their faces, mannerisms, languages while they were in an organic environment. It was a great piece, and one of your professors was very interested in showcasing it in a show. You were proud, it wasn’t large but it was important for you and you wanted it to be perfect before turning it in.

Your pastels were spread out, fingertips smudged and stained from charcoal, a few lines on your face and brow from forgetting about the streaks. There was this one person you couldn’t finish, it was one of your friends from last week. She was laughing and holding a drink, the expression wide and full of emotion but it was hard for you to capture without her being there.

But you steeled yourself, you weren’t leaving this spot until you finished her.

“You smudged that dude's face,” a low voice rumbled behind you. A finger pointing down at the top left corner, “Stop-don’t touch it.”

You moved to swat the hand away, not wanting some random guy to ruin your piece with their grubby fingers. Recentering yourself, he wasn’t smudged, he was just in the corner so it looked like it wasn’t finished… what did he know, anyway?

“You didn’t draw me?”

Now you stopped, why you didn’t recognize the timbre of his voice was ridiculous.

You let out a long sigh, “Please, don’t touch the canvas, Kylo. It’s not ready, yet.”

The chair that housed your backpack slid out next to you, your things tossed on the ground carelessly before Ren sat. You scooted away from him, he smelled like he just showered. Judging by his wet hair you were probably right… “What are you doing?”

He shrugged, fiddling with one of your notebooks. Flipping through pages carelessly, “I don’t know-you weren’t in yoga so.”

“So,” you gave him a weird look, “You stalked me to the library?”

“There’s no reason to go to yoga if I can’t bother you,” he flashed a smile, dropping it slightly when he saw you weren’t playing back with him.

Silence fell over you both, the only noises the heat kicking in around the scuffling of boots and shoes to face the weather again.

“I like your piece,” he gestured to your work, “For drawing, right?”

You nodded stiffly, not enjoying his friendly tone. Like he wasn’t your demon neighbor who made it his job to annoy you and had for the past four months of your life. Ren shifted again, now leaning on the table with his cheek resting on his forearm. Looking at you with wide eyes, you never took the time to look at his face.

He had very large eyes that betrayed his emotions. Swimming with flecks of auburn, gold, and some streaks of green, blinking slowly as he studied your canvas. You looked away from him, trying to ignore the urge to draw them, how his long lashes rivaled your own. How his skin was freckled with beauty marks, creases from frowning lined his forehead and nose. You could even make out his stubble, some pieces he must’ve missed the last time he shaved.

You went back to drawing, no longer focusing on it. Just trying to understand what was happening, your tormentor was a foot away from you. Breathing calmly like a cat laying in a patch of sun. Hunched over the edge, torso too long to rest like a normally proportioned human being, had he always been this big?

“Wanna get coffee before class?”

“Huh?”

You blinked slowly, not registering that he spoke to you.

Ren leaned off, letting out a big yawn and scratching the back of his neck.

Yes, definitely a cat.

“Do you want to get coffee,” he stared blankly, “Before we head to English?”

You looked down at your mess, then back up at him. Shaking your head softly, voice quiet as a mouse, “No-thank you.”

He exhaled harshly, “I’m not gonna burn you with it, it’s just coffee.”

“No, I’m fine,” you said firmer, “I wanna work on this some more.”

Ren stayed still, probably trying to think of a way to get you to agree with him. You had known him long enough to know he doesn’t like people disagreeing with him. Didn’t have to be a college graduate to see that the man had issues with control, hence terrorizing you all semester. You didn’t want to offer him an olive branch, because he was just doing it as a joke. Probably, waiting until you were calm around him to do something cruel.

You went back to drawing, listening to him get up and leave you. Mumbling something under his breath about ‘trying to be nice’ before walking out. You shook off the awkwardness, not willing to break down and let him do something nice for you, just because he didn’t ruin your final piece didn’t mean he wouldn’t do something in the future.

The day was still young.

------

Oddly enough, Ren didn’t bother you that evening.

Not even a door slam!

You almost thought he was dead, but you saw him in the hallway when you were walking to the bathroom. Wrapped in your robe, caddy in hand, he didn’t whistle or try to touch your ass like he normally did. Just a stale smile before closing himself back in his room.

Not to waste the precious quiet, you went to work packing your bags for your trip tomorrow. Deciding to do a quick load of laundry, your hall was almost empty, so no one would be down there while you waited.

Piling up your hamper, you threw your pj's and slippers on. Remembering to grab a blanket and your laptop so you could hang out down there while you waited.

Your friends back home were all excited to see you, ready to hear all about your time away. The boys you met, friends you made, classes, all that. So excited to get home and see your cat, Gremlin, he was all alone without you. Your mom sent you pictures earlier of him curled in your blankets, saying that he knew you were coming home soon.

Maybe next Fall you could get an apartment, you didn’t want to leave him for another year.

A washing machine door slammed shut next to you, causing you to jump from your perch atop your own. Faced with Ren, who was doing his laundry in his pjs, or his version of pjs. Giving you another tight-lipped smile before leaning against the far wall. Yawning loudly before sliding down the wall to sit on the floor.

You ignored him, turning back to your laptop that was playing a crime documentary. Texting some friends to keep your mind from wandering to Ren and why he was in such a mood.

“Are you leaving tomorrow?” Ren called from his wall.

You pretended to not hear him, refocusing on the documentary, there was something very interesting happening and you weren’t about to miss how they found the killer's shoe prints in the mud just because Ren was trying to talk to you.

Then something was thrown at you, and it smelled awful.

“Oh-my-god!”

You shot off the washing machine, throwing down the offending garment. Ren was laughing loudly, “Chill out! It was just an old shirt!”

“How old was it?!”

He smiled at you from the ground, propping an elbow on his kneecap. One leg stretched out on the tile, you tried to regain a sense of calm, he was just messing with you again. Just take some deep breaths… in-out-in

“Are you leaving tomorrow, after our final?”

You let out your deep breath, sitting back on the washer. “Yeah,” you paused your show since mister meanie wanted to have a tea party. “I have to get to the airport right after.”

He hummed, “Same.”

The washer beeped loudly, echoing in the otherwise empty room. Ren watched you hop off, fixing your shorts which definitely rode up too much. Trying to not flash him your underwear as you bent to move your clothes to a dryer. You cursed when a sock fell from your pile, great.

“How come we’ve never fucked?”

Now all your clothes were on the floor.

Along with Ren, who was staring at you like you were an art exhibit.

You dragged your clothes back to the washer. There was no way you were finishing now that they touched the dirty floor, no one cleaned down here and just because it looked clean didn’t mean-

A whistle, “You good over there?”

“Yup.”

“Okay,” you heard him stretch, popping his joints as he lifted off the floor. You could feel his breath on the back of your neck as he closed in. Almost touching you, no escape, “As I was saying, how come you’ve never let me steal your virginity?”

You scoffed, “I am not a virgin.”

Ren pressed into you, pushing you against the washer now. Grinding his hips into your own, you squirmed, trying to dispel every fantasy flooding your brain. Every night you spent listening to him through the wall, imagining just once that it was you. If he weren’t such a monster, you would have gladly laid on your back and let him do whatever he wanted.

“Nothing?”

You took a deep breath, placing both palms on the top of the washer. Biting your lip as you silently pleaded for him to let you go, but also continue. You could smell his cologne from this close, how it complimented him so well. Mixing in with his dark aura, you wanted nothing more than to spin around and…

Soon you were doing just that, but not on your own violation.

Ren had his hands grasping your hips, thumbs slipping under the fabric of your t-shirt to caress your soft skin. Lips capturing your own, you froze in his hold. Unsure of what to do, a part of you wanted to scream and smack him, but the other part loved the smell of his toothpaste.

He relaxed when you relaxed, your lips still awkwardly locked together. Not opening and allowing for more, but not moving away either. You stared at him, startled to see him looking back at you. Pulling back slightly, you watched his face chase yours. Bringing your lips together a few more times, kissing at the seam.

You felt his tongue flick for entry, trying to pry your mouth open so he could explore. When you didn’t move he finally huffed in annoyance, “I know it’s your first kiss, but you’re supposed to open your mouth.”

You groaned, bringing both hands to cradle his cheeks. There was no way he was going to make fun of you, he initiated this so.

Ren made a muffled noise when you pressed your lips back together. Probably of shock and surprise, because, no. This was not your first kiss, not even your fourth or fifth kiss. Working your tongue skillfully into his mouth, you moaned softly at his taste. Just like you imagined… not that you put much stock into this but… it was wonderful.

Bringing your fingers to the nape of his neck, tugging on his dark brown hair. Just like you always wanted to, whenever he walked past you with it tied in a bun you dreamt of tearing through it. Ren returned your affection in kind, his left hand moving to the small of your back. Fingers dancing under the waistband of your pajama bottoms.

You heard him swear when he felt the lace underneath, nestled between your cheeks. Ren slid a hand over the globes of your ass, moving his hips in time with his tongue. Tasting every inch of your mouth, even growling in approval when you sunk your teeth into his bottom lip.

Petting and groping each other against the washing machines, the sound of you swapping spit barely heard over the rumble of your clothes. Ren had gotten sick of grinding against your hip bone, pulling away from you for a moment. Shushing your pathetic whimpers, he hooked the hand not cupping your ass behind your left knee.

Hiking it over his hip, opening your legs up. Allowing him to assault your center with his straining erection, oh you could picture it now. How easy it would be to just let him slip inside you.

Right here, in the laundry room.

*Beep*

You pulled back roughly, barely able to unsuction your lips from Rens' own. A string of spit connecting your kiss-bitten lips, he looked at you with pleading eyes. Grinding himself against you harder, pulling a few soft mewls from your throat.

“I need to switch my clothes,” you croaked.

He nodded, shakily setting your limb back on the floor and backing away. You watched through your own lust-filled state as he trembled. Walking back to his far wall, a hand cupping his cock through his sweats. Your throat clicked as you took in a much-needed breath, doing what you said you would.

Setting them in the dryer, all the more aware of his eyes watching your every move.

Not sparing him a glance when you sat back on the washer.

Turning on your laptop once again to watch your crime documentary.

Ignoring the throbbing between your legs, his deep breaths, and your shaking limbs.

------

The TV’s at the airport all said the same thing, “Record snowfall this winter, right before the holidays! Experts say that we will be lucky to keep power until it passes. Our friends on the west coast are enjoying a white Christmas, while we’re stuck in the North Pole.”

All flights have been grounded until further notice.

Stuck.

You could barely make it back to your dorm without crashing.

Bursting into tears several times when you realized you wouldn’t be home until it was over. Wouldn't be able to safely leave your dorm room until it passed, leaving you utterly alone.

You had emailed your RA letting him know your bad luck, he let the staff know you’d be there so they would have food and water running still.

But other than that, this was your holiday.

You slipped on the walk up to your room, sobbing loudly in the halls as you clutched your luggage. No going home, no seeing your friends or family, no Christmas dinner, no personal shower, no Gremlin to sleep on your face.

Collapsing on your bed, curling yourself in the multitude of pillows and blankets that adorned it. The room had shitty heating, the entire building had shitty heating. The entire month of December you’d been freezing, and no amount of personal heaters could fix this kind of cold.

You drifted off to sleep after crying for a few hours, letting your parents know what was happening. Setting alerts for earlier flights, anything you could do to get home. You were so tired in fact, that you slept through a power outage. Leaving the entire building to shut down, no backup generators.

And no heat.

It wasn’t until you felt yourself being lifted that you woke up to the commotion.

Squirming in the kidnappers' arms, limbs aching from freezing for a time in your bedroom. The window must’ve cracked open because it was much colder than when you arrived. Your attacker didn’t let you go, growling in your ear to be still.

Dragging you out of the building, towards a car you didn’t notice when you pulled in. With the snow swirling all around, it was a miracle they could see their own vehicle. You were thrown in the front seat, followed by your luggage tossed in the back. You stayed still, every time you moved it hurt, hypothermia. Common in the New England storms if you were foolish enough to be outside…

You about passed out when the driver's side door opened, Ren climbed in. Looking just as frozen as you, slamming the door shut and mumbling something as he started his car. You could’ve cried when the engine turned, heat blasting between the both of you.

“Hands,” his teeth chattered, holding his own out. He nodded for you to do the same, grasping your pink fingers between his own and blowing on them. “Power went out,” Ren took a shallow breath, “I was leaving and I saw your car. You were almost frozen to your bed, the window broke.”

“Th-thank you-u-u.”

Ren cringed at your fingers, slowly gaining back their normal color. “I tried to grab everything I could, like your backpack and luggage. But we can’t stay there, we’ll fucking freeze.”

You nodded, tugging your hands away to curl into your chest. Thankful that Ren had enough sense to grab blankets, stuffing them in your lap from the backseat. You thought about grabbing your phone, but you could barely make a fist so it would do you no good.

“My plane g-g-got ground-d-ed.”

Ren shivered, nodding sharply, “Mine too, my mom got me a hotel room not far from here to stay until the storm passes. So, I’m taking us there.”

“Okay.”

You didn’t say anything else, not wanting to distract him from the treacherous roads. Thank god he had a Jeep, or else you would’ve died. You couldn’t see more than ten feet ahead, less than that when you were on the highway out of the city.

Ren kept mumbling things like it’s okay, I’m sorry, I know it's cold, whenever you shivered and took in sharp breaths. You must’ve been out for a while, to get this bad. A quick look at the clock in his car said you’d been asleep for three hours, who knows what would’ve happened if he hadn’t noticed your car…

He helped you out, more carried you, towards the check-in desk. Too worried you would pass out in the car if he left you for too long, the front desk lady was quick and sweet. Making sure to send up extra blankets and pillows to your suite. Ren had you walk up with him, so he wouldn’t have to carry you and the luggage on separate trips.

You clutched his hand like a child, tight enough for his knuckles to turn white. But he was so warm, it’s all you could think about. All you wanted was to be warm, nodding blindly to whatever Ren said to do.

Plug your phone in, check.

Let him talk to your mom, check.

Draw a bath for you, check.

Climb in the bath with you, double-check.

It wasn’t until you were defrosted in the clawfoot tub that you realized you were naked with him.

Rens chest against your back, holding you like his life depended on it. Judging by his shaking, you both were probably suffering from acute hypothermia. You had been silent for so long your voice spooked him a little, “Thank you.”

He hummed into your hair, which was sitting on top of your head in a messy bun. “Are you okay?”

You nodded slowly, “Can we go lay down?”

“Yeah,” Ren hastily got out of the tub, draining it and wrapping you in plush towels. You were still too cold to blush from your nakedness, not how you pictured this going. You imagined you would finally give into him on some drunken party night, barely remembering his reaction to seeing you nude.

But now he had seen you half-frozen, forced to cradle you back to life.

------

You squinted from your cocoon, greeted by a dimly lit room.

One spare lamp on a dingy-looking nightstand, well it wasn’t terrible. It was better than your nightstand in your dorm room… where was your dorm room anyway?

Something vibrated behind you, followed by a heavyweight sprawling against your back.

You held your breath, you were in a hotel.

With a stranger.

“Shit,” you whispered.

Okay, you could wiggle out of here. You took a moment to study the room, there was the lamp from before, and some curtains on a metal rod in the far corner. If you managed to get out without being detected you could knock out the assailant.

“You smell so good.”

More weight settled on you, now you were trapped. This bear was closing in, who knows what happened while you were asleep! All you could remember was falling asleep at your dorm after the upsetting trip to the airport, then being dragged away.

Your fingers burning when you tried to use them, being shoved in a car…

Kylo.

“Kylo?!”

“Mhm.”

You threw your arms up, successfully throwing him off you and the covers. Your limbs screaming at the sudden movement, you were still suffering from the cold. Next to you, curled in a ball, totally catlike, was Ren.

A sleepy smile gracing his lips, hands curled under his cheek, and legs moving towards his chest, Like a child under a blanket. You gasped when you saw he was naked, “Fuck!”

You were too.

“What the fuck, Ren!?”

“Stop yelling,” you watched his hand bat his nose like an animal, “Come back, you were warm.”

You huffed, flailing off the bed in search of your bags.

Memories flooding back to you, he took you here after saving your life.

The bath.

Ugh, bad time to remember your kiss the night before.

Ren sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes and blinking slowly. You flushed red when you looked between his legs, shit. How does he walk around with that? Is that why he has bad posture? You choked on your spit when he spread his legs out.

Sprawling completely on the mattress like he wasn’t in a room with a stranger.

“Snow hasn’t stopped,” Ren yawned, snapping a hand and pointing between his legs, “Come back.”

“I’m not doing anything until you have clothes on.”

He rolled his eyes, now looking you up and down. Focusing on your bare tits, swinging around with your erratic movements. You watched him lick his lips, wagging his eyebrows, “Come on, don’t you want to sit back on the bed?”

You shook your head, crouching down to your bag. Trying to not flash him more of your goods, but that didn’t work. Not with him leaning to the side of the bed to make a show of him peeping on you.

A wolfish grin splitting his face, “You have a nice ass.”

“Can you stop,” you huffed, tugging on some sweats you found.

Ren made a pouting noise when you stood, pushing his bottom lip out while you threaded your arms through a t-shirt. You shivered a little-it was still freezing in the room. Probably from the weather, it sounded like it got worse… hopefully this place would keep power.

You looked back at the bed, Ren was still manspreading. One of his large paws crawling towards his cock, watching you with the same smirk. He let out a soft sigh when he touched himself, eyes momentarily shutting in bliss.

“Do you have to do that with me here?”

He cracked an eye open, “Do you have to be that far away?”

You scoffed, moving to the corner of the room. Shivering since you were near the window, you plopped down in the cheap armchair. Ignoring the sounds of his fist gliding along his cock, you tucked your feet under your body. Humming a tune to ignore the arousal growing between your legs, there was no way you were caving to him.

What kind of man does that with a complete stranger present!?

More importantly, why was it turning you on?

“Come here,” he whistled, you spared a glance at him. Blushing profusely at the sight, his cock was now fully erect. Standing tall and proud, tip flushed almost purple from want. You quickly looked away, trying to swallow down the drool that gathered in your mouth.

What would happen if you gave in?

Not like it would hurt you… he looked so delicious.

“If I come over there, what's gonna happen,” you whispered, determined to stay put.

With a deep breath, the mattress groaned under his weight, probably leaning back to get comfortable. He seemed to love you being there, watching him, or trying not to. Ren made a small non-committal scoff, “Whatever you want to happen, baby.”

“Don’t call me that, you know my name.”

“Meow.”

Your head snapped towards him, met with his grin. “Come on-you really want me to do this by myself?” he waved his cock, fist tight around the base. You rolled your eyes, training your eyes to focus on the least attractive part about him.

You were coming up empty, all you could stare at was his cock.

The prominent vein along the underside thrumming in time with his heartbeat. You could practically feel it along your tongue, rigid and stiff. Slowly, you stood from the chair, met with a soft whine from Ren. Eying your hungrily as you sauntered over, you planted a knee in the mattress.

Between his legs, which were spread obscenely wide, he licked his lips in anticipation.

“If I help you, are you going to be nicer to me?”

He nodded, chest taking in sharp breaths. You slowly leaned back on your heels, stripping your top off, despite him seeing you naked earlier. Surprised when he bit his bottom lip, watching you play with your tits, rolling them in the palm of your hand. Just to make him squirm a bit, “I’ll be nicer, whatever you want.”

“I’m really cold still,” you spoke softly, making sure to lean in close enough to graze his lips with your own before pulling away, “Can you help warm me up?”

“Yes,” Ren's hands shot out, kneading your flesh a few times. Debating to grasp your tits or the small of your waist, like a kid in a candy store. So many options, but you didn’t want to wait. If you were doing this, it would be about you.

“Eat me out.”

He stilled, cocking a brow, “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” you exhaled on his neck, being sure to drag your kitty claws along his chest. Briefly grazing his nipples, savoring the way he gasped. “Eat me out, if you make me cum, I’ll let you fuck me. Like the desperate slut you are.”

Ren scowled for a moment, nudging your face from his neck. Eyes dancing across your face before capturing your lips, moaning softly in your mouth, “I can make you cum so hard you’ll never want another man again.”

You placed a soft kiss, rolling onto your back dramatically. Splaying your legs wide, “If that's true, why do you fuck a different girl every week?”

He growled at you, actually growled.

Hands no longer soft in their quest to memorize your skin, instead Ren pinned your legs hard enough for them to pop. Making you squeal from the stretch, “How fast do you think I can make you cum? Hm?”

Before you could answer, he dove in.

Lips wrapping around your clit and suckling fast, tongue flicking out every few seconds. You were already bucking up to meet him, but his firm hold kept you flush. While his tongue began to lap thick stripes along the seam of your pussy. Briefly hooking the tip into your entrance, both of you moaning when he tasted your wetness.

“Shit-Kylo!”

“Mm,” his voice vibrated against your clit, continuing his assault until you choked on your spit. You buried your fingers in his hair, keeping him in that right spot. “I’m so fucking close,” you cried out, pleading his name over and over and over.

“You know,” he popped off, smacking his lips that were glistening with your cum, “I’d rather you cum on my cock.”

“Wait-”

Ren flipped you onto your chest, yanking your hips into the air. You barely had time to take a breath before he shoved his cock inside you. His breath hitched as he sank to the hilt, you groaned at the stretch. Now this, this you could get used to.

He pulled out slowly, you heard him swear under his breath. Leaving just the tip of his cock inside and ramming his hips into yours. Pulling a loud scream from your lungs, Ren chuckled at that. Pumping his cock at a rough pace, “Shh-you’re going to upset our neighbors.”

You huffed, cheap shot, angling your hips a little so his cock would rub up against your front wall. Moaning when he picked up the pace, skin slapping skin. Ren leaned over your form, planting a hand on the headboard to keep it from knocking. You weakly lifted your head, clenching at the sight of his knuckles turning white.

All you could do was sit and take it, revealing in the bliss you’d denied yourself for four months.

-------

Ren dropped you both off at the airport two days later.

You spent three days together, fucking each other's brains out.

Choking on his cock while he was brushing his teeth, eating you out while you read through your newsfeed. Bouncing on his cock while he fed you breakfast, you didn’t need to change clothes the entire vacation.

But you wanted to go home and were thankful for the storm ending so you could head home. It was a little awkward, Ren wasn’t very excited about the snow stopping. It felt like he was trying to stall you leaving but reluctantly listened to your desire to fly home.

“Got everything?” he mumbled, hitching his backpack over his shoulder. The two of you were waiting in the TSA line, about to part ways to head home. You nodded, giving him a tight smile before stepping up on your own.

Ignoring the feeling of his eyes on the back of your head.

Both of you stood awkwardly after making it through, “Well-my gates over here,” you pointed behind you. Ren hummed in acknowledgment, kicking at the ground instead of looking at you.

“Thanks for letting me crash with you,” you tried again, still nothing.

You groaned, spinning on your heel. Back to being an asshole, you were kicking yourself for thinking he would be nicer. All he wanted was some pussy, and you willingly gave into him when you should’ve remained strong.

Your parents picked you up back at home, lots of tears and laughs were shared. Thankful that you made it home without freezing, your mom was grateful for your friend who saved your life. She wanted to call him and tell him how much she appreciated it but you shrugged it off, he was just being nice. He wasn’t your boyfriend or anything, you left out the part that he was the neighbor you always complained about.

Collapsing on your bed felt surreal like you would wake up and be back in the hotel room at any moment. It was odd not sleeping next to him, you had grown accustomed to his clingy arms. Circling you in the middle of the night when he thought you were dead asleep, smelling your hair before tucking you into his naked chest.

You tossed and turned all night, groaning when you were woken by your siblings to get up the next morning. Barely sleeping a wink, you resolved to take a nap later to try and not spoil your trip back home.

At breakfast, your mom yelled at you from the kitchen.

“Hey hon, someone’s calling you!”

“Just answer it,” you groaned through a mouthful of cereal. Briefly hearing your mother answer in a typical chipper tone, stalling mid-sentence before she yelled again, “It’s someone named Kyle?”

Shit, you shot to the kitchen.

Snatching the phone and escaping to the living room where no one was hiding.

“Kylo?”

Hey, didn’t think you’d answer.

“How’d you get my number?”

Took it while you were napping the other day, I knew you wouldn’t give it to me willingly.

You rolled your eyes, “Alright creeper, what’s up?”

Just wanted to talk or whatever, felt weird not to.

Silence.

Are you gonna let me buy you coffee when we are back?

“You were being serious about that?”

A scoff.

Yeah-or we could just fuck again if that’s all you want from this.

“Coffee sounds good.”

Cool. Cool.

It’s a date.

-------

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