#I get the benefit of going over a bit with dialogue

[what-is-it-to-be-pk-esque]

My partner finally finished BG3 but has no idea that his ending was actually bad cause he was a pro-Vlaakith githyanki who rode off with Lae'zel but got NO EPILOGUE where Withers points out y'all died im 😭😭😭

they have no idea what happened with Gale or anyone else (who was still alive) after flying away 🙃🙃🙃

[s-soulwriter]

Things Real People Do in Dialogue (For Your Next Story)

Okay, let’s be real—dialogue can make or break a scene. You want your characters to sound natural, like actual humans talking, not robots reading a script. So, how do you write dialogue that feels real without it turning into a mess of awkward pauses and “ums”? Here’s a little cheat sheet of what real people actually do when they talk (and you can totally steal these for your next story):

1. People Interrupt Each Other All the Time In real conversations, nobody waits for the perfect moment to speak. We interrupt, cut each other off, and finish each other's sentences. Throw in some overlaps or interruptions in your dialogue to make it feel more dynamic and less like a rehearsed play.

2. They Don’t Always Say What They Mean Real people are masters of dodging. They’ll say one thing but mean something totally different (hello, passive-aggressive banter). Or they’ll just avoid the question entirely. Let your characters be vague, sarcastic, or just plain evasive sometimes—it makes their conversations feel more layered.

3. People Trail Off... We don’t always finish our sentences. Sometimes we just... stop talking because we assume the other person gets what we’re trying to say. Use that in your dialogue! Let a sentence trail off into nothing. It adds realism and shows the comfort (or awkwardness) between characters.

4. Repeating Words Is Normal In real life, people repeat words when they’re excited, nervous, or trying to make a point. It’s not a sign of bad writing—it’s how we talk. Let your characters get a little repetitive now and then. It adds a rhythm to their speech that feels more genuine.

5. Fillers Are Your Friends People say "um," "uh," "like," "you know," all the time. Not every character needs to sound polished or poetic. Sprinkle in some filler words where it makes sense, especially if the character is nervous or thinking on their feet.

6. Not Everyone Speaks in Complete Sentences Sometimes, people just throw out fragments instead of complete sentences, especially when emotions are high. Short, choppy dialogue can convey tension or excitement. Instead of saying “I really think we need to talk about this,” try “We need to talk. Now.”

7. Body Language Is Part of the Conversation Real people don’t just communicate with words; they use facial expressions, gestures, and body language. When your characters are talking, think about what they’re doing—are they fidgeting? Smiling? Crossing their arms? Those little actions can add a lot of subtext to the dialogue without needing extra words.

8. Awkward Silences Are Golden People don’t talk non-stop. Sometimes, they stop mid-conversation to think, or because things just got weird. Don’t be afraid to add a beat of awkward silence, a long pause, or a meaningful look between characters. It can say more than words.

9. People Talk Over Themselves When They're Nervous When we’re anxious, we tend to talk too fast, go back to rephrase what we just said, or add unnecessary details. If your character’s nervous, let them ramble a bit or correct themselves. It’s a great way to show their internal state through dialogue.

10. Inside Jokes and Shared History Real people have history. Sometimes they reference something that happened off-page, or they share an inside joke only they get. This makes your dialogue feel lived-in and shows that your characters have a life beyond the scene. Throw in a callback to something earlier, or a joke only two characters understand.

11. No One Explains Everything People leave stuff out. We assume the person we’re talking to knows what we’re talking about, so we skip over background details. Instead of having your character explain everything for the reader’s benefit, let some things go unsaid. It’ll feel more natural—and trust your reader to keep up!

12. Characters Have Different Voices Real people don’t all talk the same way. Your characters shouldn’t either! Pay attention to their unique quirks—does one character use slang? Does another speak more formally? Maybe someone’s always cutting people off while another is super polite. Give them different voices and patterns of speech so their dialogue feels authentic to them.

13. People Change the Subject In real life, conversations don’t always stay on track. People get sidetracked, jump to random topics, or avoid certain subjects altogether. If your characters are uncomfortable or trying to dodge a question, let them awkwardly change the subject or ramble to fill the space.

14. Reactions Aren’t Always Immediate People don’t always respond right away. They pause, they think, they hesitate. Sometimes they don’t know what to say, and that delay can speak volumes. Give your characters a moment to process before they respond—it’ll make the conversation feel more natural.

Important note: Please don’t use all of these tips in one dialogue at once.

[lucyandthepen]

sweet cream, cold brew | lmh ( m )

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

alternatively: mark is shy until he isn’t.

read the second part here!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Something wrong?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You really won’t help me?”

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

“I didn’t say that.”

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

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

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

“There’s no one better than you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wait, really?”

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

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

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

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

“Oh — uh, yeah, for sure.”

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

But it just isn’t the right time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You could have sworn it looked like disappointment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You got a ride?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And you know this because?”

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

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

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

“You don’t want it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I want you to have it.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Seriously, take it.”

“Absolutely not—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Probably.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, I would.”

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

“Can’t.”

“Because?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“When?”

“Next Thursday.”

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

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

“Are you going to be here all day?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You guys seemed pretty close.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, for sure.”

“Cool. See you, _________.”

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

“Mark, wait.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He’ll live. Unfortunately.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He must really want you there.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m inviting you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The what?”

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

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

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

“How do you know this?”

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, it’s not that.”

“You think I’m only using you.”

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Respect what?”

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

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

“You were jealous.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Even when I’m jealous?”

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

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

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

It doesn’t; it tastes even better.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You don’t want to?”

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

“You seem worried.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mark, please—”

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

You shake your head, and his brow furrows.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Won’t you show me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Show me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then take me.”

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

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

“You’re not—?”

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

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

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

“You’re tighter than I thought.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do that again.”

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re all mine.”

[palskippah]

Hi!! Nimona Tangled AU my beloved 🗣️🗣️

Here's drawings of some of the stuff I can remember of the movie woo

Also under the cut are some random thoughts too c:

(Apologies on any mistakes! I tried checking in to make sure that everything was correctly written)

-Save me, PNG of a frying pan.

-By the way, I've only watched the movie (several times) in Spanish, never in English, so not only I am writing what I can actually remember of the dialogue, but also I'm translating it into English djfdk clarifying this in case it feels weird

-I think it was Ambrosius' voice actor who mentioned about the discarded idea of the queen being Ambrosius' mother, but anyways here she is his mother and Ambrosius was stolen from his crib and all that

>Invented Ambrosius a dad called King Something-Something and the guy definitely cried like Rapunzel's dad when him and his wife were getting ready to send floating the first lantern (I swear, that scene is my favorite in the whole movie, it's just so aaa hitting me right in the daddy issues, he was missing his daughter so much)

>Then Queen Valerin wipes the king's tears very tenderly while feeling very melancholic herself, but she doesn't cry because she had accepted long ago that their son was never coming back, but she knows that her husband is still hopeful about it, even if each year he gets disappointed.

-Instead of it being Queen Valerin who was sick, it was Ambrosius who was born as a sickly baby (stealing comic Nimona's lore a bit here sjdkf), and so in all the kingdom they went to look for a cure for his sickness because otherwise they were sure he wouldn't make it.

>Then they find the flower and they give it to him and from then on he becomes a very healthy, robust baby. Also he started quickly growing blond hair with the weeks and they were like ? okay, but he's healthy, so-!

>(It would've been cool to color Ambrosius' tip of his blonde hair brown like his haircolor is supposed to be but I forgor and I'm too lazy to fix it sjdfkjs)

>Anyways the Director thought that she had lost the power of the flower forever since they fed it to the prince, but then she's like :0 bc hey it seems that the powers transferred to the baby. And she's like, well, that works too, and tried to get his hair but it didn't work so she planned on kidnapping him instead.

>Maybe she kidnapped him like when he was a toddler or lil kid under four or very young so he wouldn't remember his parents or anything prince-related, that's why twenty years went by and yet Ambrosius is older than that.

-I'm yet to keep reading rosemary-frog's tangled au fic but the idea of Ballister being Lord Blackheart is really cool and then him probably admitting that his name is just Ballister pipipi when he and Ambrosius are about to drown in that lil cave.

>Maybe Nimona starts narrating the story with something like 'this is the story of how Lord Blackheart/my boss/the villain died' or something very dramatic.

>Maybe he's surname-less and the queen names or knights him Boldheart or something aaa

>Ambrosius starts calling him Ballister and then just Balli wiwiw

-The director sometimes losing her cool and blaming Ambrosius over it (in a, look what you made me do, kinda way) [LIKE THAT THING IN AMPHIBIA SJDKFSJF the king just kills Marcy and is like oh look what you made me do :( ]

>She definitely applies that when she stabs Ballister nearly to the end of the story sdfjs like, look what you caused, Ambrosius, if only you had listened to me.

-Her not naming herself his mother to keep some distance between herself and the queen's kid, so just going along with her director title, since she is still the director in the institute or something, and how is Ambrosius going to know what a director actually is, anyway.

>He tried to call him mom once and she was like (ew) no, it's director, I'm not your mother (maybe he's told his parents abandoned him or tried to use his magic for their own evil benefit, and that's why the director decided to save and protect him, taking him to the tower).

>Ambrosius hasn't known anyone beside her tho, so she allows the occasional hug or gentle treatment. He's very touch-starved.

>She feels nothing for him, he's just useful and at the second of him rebelling she tries to kill him or whatever happened in the tangled movie sjdfkds

>Actually I think Rapunzel's mom wanted to take her away for no one to find them? Maybe the director was just so desperate to not lose Ambrosius' magic that she'd leave everything behind just to get to keep it for herself idk.

>Also she definitely tells him out there are monsters and stuff bc why not, anything to keep Ambrosius fearful of the outside world and keep him in the tower.

-Nimona doesn't like Ambrosius for calling her a monster, then over finding out that he whacked her boss in the head with a frying pan several times, and then for gatekeeping the crown that they stole.

-Nimona starting the Goldie nickname, Ballister following along, and Ambrosius not finding it amusing. Maybe Ballister comments something about having a thing for blondes during the whole thing of him and Ambrosius clearly liking each other (and Ambrosius' like oh?? I am a blond! 😈).

>Later on, after the whole dying and reviving through Ambrosius' tears, Ballister says that he's crazy for brunettes actually and Ambrosius' like :D ??!! because Ballister is alive (and hey, he is a brunette! 😈)

>Btw they definitely flirt in-between their mission of going to see the lanterns, even if Ambrosius isn't all too sure about what he's doing bc he has never flirted with anyone before, he just knows that saying things to Ballister that make the man look almost coy makes his heart go faster, and also of course receiving the flirting from Ballister.

>What if he applies all the stuff he had read in his books or something sjdkfjs he had only ever flirted with the mirror and now he gets to apply it to the very attractive man that is leading him to watch the lanterns sjdfkjf

-Nimona breaks Ballister out of jail exactly like in the Nimona movie and hurts lots of guards and jumps out of the building as it explodes and stuff.

-Since Nimona is sort of using Maximus' place in the movie (and any animal, like Pascal and also that bunny that Rapunzel gets scared of), let's say that the overly competent guard/knight here will have to be Todd and his team sjdkf

>They're after Ballister and Nimona, but since Ambrosius' there too they also chase him (running away from the law as a family, amarite)

-When they're in the lil' cave about to drown, both Nimona and Ballister have to pull Ambrosius out of the water when he keeps trying to push the rocks away, in desperation because how is he going to die this way.

>Nimona's like, Goldie stop! It's useless. Because she tried pounding the rocks in the biggest forms she could use and had to resist turning into a much bigger form in fear of squashing both men. And her smallest forms did nothing because they were completely sealed in, yet she was aware that both men were about to die and she wouldn't. Then Ambrosius turns to Ballister who just gently shakes his head, because it is a lost cause.

>Both Nimona and Ballister see him crying in guilt and stuff and Ballister says his actual name when Ambrosius says, I'm sorry, Nimona, Lord Blackheart-. Ballister admits that he isn't a Lord nor Blackheart, and that he actually has no last name. He's just Ballister.

>I'm not sure what Nimona would admit, like the being lonely thing, the pushing people away, or something to do with their powers? (but I doubt that one), maybe she just watches the other two share their small moment of truths.

>Ambrosius reveals that his hair glows when he sings. And so he does when he realizes that they could use that, and once there's a very small crack revealed by the light where his hair is trying to get out, Nimona puts her whole into using that and she finally manages to push all the stuff away.

-Ballister is like, his hair glows?! and Nimona's like, yeah and I change forms, so what?! a bit offendedly and Ballister's like, oh right.

>(Nimona getting offended on Ambrosius' behalf over Ballister freaking out about his powers/magic, reminding her a bit of when they first met and Ballister freaked out too. But Ambrosius couldn't care less about the guy freaking out, he's way too happy about being alive)

>Then he heals his right hand where he had a cut and all that and the whole talk of stuff.

-Imagine that same night that they have to spend resting, that Nimona and Ballister easily fall into a sleeping position that works to brace them (especially Ballister) against the cold of the night, and Ambrosius just staring with like a smile because isn't it great that those two get to have each other and be so familiar between each other to just do that?

>Then he prepares to lay on his own side to sleep, but Nimona just rolls her eyes and roughly pulls him into their pile, leaving him wrapped on her arms too. And there's Ambrosius and Ballister back-to-back, and Ballister just says 'goodnight' to him and Ambrosius mutters the same back, feeling something like a lump in his throat as he accommodates his head on Nimona's arm like a pillow.

>And Ballister throws Nimona a knowing look, because despite her not liking the blond much, she still felt some clear sympathy for him, both over him admitting that he had never left the tower, and the fact that they were similar somewhat, both had pretty cool powers that confused people.

>And the fact that Ambrosius getting locked into a tower so no one could use his powers was a bit similar to Nimona's situation in a way (if we're going with the comic lore for her)

>(maybe it was Nimona who muttered the 'you've never left the tower' in realization after Ambrosius said almost shyly the 'that's why I've never been out and...' and then he sighed defeatedly and then said the next stuff all resigned, and all that)

-When the whole dancing bit happens in the Kingdom, Ambrosius tries to keep Ballister as close as he can but apparently the dance meant to change partner every once in a while. In the end he forgets about holding his hand and finds that holding anyone's hand while dancing and moving around to the music is just as thrilling.

>But then they end chest to chest anyways and smiling at eachother wiwiw (like the art in this post by unironicallyresurrected waaa)

-Maybe something and something and Ballister loses his arm when the director tried to kill him, some way. Ambrosius' tears only fixed the injury and blood lose but it was already almost completely detached from Ballister's body, so it just laid there jsdfk

>How did he manage to cut Ambrosius' hair I have no idea, don't ask me 😭 maybe Nimona made act of presence at some point, I have no idea where to put her here, I doubt she'd be down after a smack from the Director in the same way it happened to Pascal sdfkj

>(But anyways wouldn't it be cool if she jumped to defend Ambrosius? pipipi is like Eugene and Maximus teaming up but it's Ambrosius and Nimona sdjfks)

-When Ballister and Nimona take Ambrosius with the king and queen, they step back and watch the whole family reunion go by and they're like :) bc hey look at the guy, he's crying his eyes out and hugging like his life depends on it to the queen, but he's happy wouu 🗣️🗣️

>Anyways, the queen's hug is the warmest hug Ambrosius' had ever received (aside from Ballister's), and it's nothing like the Director's and he can't believe he has never been hugged like this in his life.

>Then Queen Valerin pulls Ballister into the hug and encourages Nimona to get in there too but she just shifts into a bigger animal and squeezes them all into a hug.

-Ambrosius gets a better haircut maybe, or maybe he keeps the bob cut I don't know 😭 dfjkj but his hair never grows longer bc the flower's power affected it or something like with Rapunzel.

-I think Ballister would be knighted or something, and then there's Nimona who's just doing her thing of being a little menace and being Ballister's sidekick, and Ambrosius is a good prince and is very happy of finally being outside and getting to know so many people yippiee

>And the director is dust in the air wouu

-Btw the last part in the movie is like this, because I think Ambrosius would say yes the second Ballister asked him to marry him unlike my pal Rapunzel, so- 🤨 also Nimona is the main narrator like in the Nimona movie sjdkf

Nimona (narrating): And so, after years and years of begging and begging and even going to his knees by his feet... Ambrosius: I finally said yes 😌 Ballister: Hey- Ambrosius: Fine, it was me who begged 🧍 Ballister (amused): And so they all lived... Nimona and Ambrosius: Happily ever after. [Happily ever after music and celebration]

>And then there's a drunk guy blowing a kiss to the audience or something 🧍

That's it, thanks if you read till here!

[bonus-links]

Hello! Could we have a director’s commentary on Ruins pt.11 please?? It drives me insane 🥺🥺

YEAHHH this is gonna be a long one. link to the update

this is also one of my favorite updates (and 100% my favorite dialogue in all of ch.1, possibly the whole comic so far) but I'm glad I waited to do a commentary bc I think this is actually really relevant to the latest update

cause like the conversation Loft has with botw Zelda here is very similar to the one he has with Ganondorf, though he's much less snippy during it

I wanted to give Zelda a chance to be bitter and share her grievances with the gods. Her entire story in BOTW is largely about how the legends and the expectations put upon her by them fail not only her personally but the entire kingdom. And yet she's made to feel like it's all her fault.

A lot of his comic focuses on the legacy of the Hero, but I don't want to leave Zelda (or Ganondorf) out of the conversation. The cycle makes victims of all three of them in various ways, and while I can't do everything at once, it's still my goal to explore that. The Zeldas in particular are all in interesting positions as members of the Royal Family, because they're at once always thrown in peril by it with little agency, and expected to be the facilitators of its success as the people with the closest proximity to the gods. Much to think about.

on that note BOTW Zelda is my favorite Zelda. she is my babygirl. she is my everything. I will die a BOTW Zelda defender. we haven't seen the last of her in this comic i promise :-)

okay on to actually analyzing the comic. This top panel is framed like a diptych, two paintings hinged together. these are often (though not always) associated with religious paintings and are often altarpieces. I use a triptych format in the newest update :D sidenote I think it's very cute that some of the Hylia statues in BOTW have been decorated, so i gave her a little flower crown

I imagine praying starts to feel a little strange when you are dating ur god. yeah. Also I think it's interesting that Skyloft seems to mainly worship Hylia, with the other gods being more distant. It makes sense given the whole "she personally raised us up into the sky to save us all" thing. Even though Loft is the very first hero sent on a personal religious quest directly by his goddess, I've always imagined him as kind of,,,,casually devout? In that way that it's all you've ever known. Like obviously his beliefs are deeply ingrained, but he's not as into the formality of it all as other Links we might meet later.

I think about Zelda in that freezing pool on Mt. Lanayru all the time. RAHHHHHHH

I've posted this before but close up of Slate running their errands, the errand being talking to the Great Fairies about if they've noticed anything weird going on lol. I actually wanted to make it a whole update on its own, but I cut it for time and also because. I don't think the Great Fairies really have any information that was necessary other than "no I don't know what's going on". So u get this panel.

I like this shot of that little statue towering over the both of them, and I mimic it a little bit in the new update here. something something about why we build monuments and what they stand for.

negative sim interaction

Loft still has to believe that Zelda and Slate's negative experiences had to have been some sort of misunderstanding. If Hylia could have helped, she would have. Knowing and loving your goddess on a human level also makes you want to give her the benefit of the doubt.

I actually really love that in BOTW Zelda resents Link for having some sort of access to the divine that she just can't reach. She has her arc about it in the game, but especially now she's come to understand that having the gods' favor is a double-edged sword. Also, that's not really meant to be Peony, but I like the idea that Champion also had an affinity for fairies. :-( Intentionally the same pose as Slate at the fairy fountain, though Slate is so tiny I probably didn't need to bother lol

that was a lot of rambling lol but i have. so many thoughts abt the subject matter of this update. this is the shit about LOZ that makes me froth at the mouth tbh

[railingsofsorrow]

Game of Pretend

[Spencer Reid x Reader]

summary: In which friends with benefits go undercover as a married couple and they ended up playing the part almost too good.

pairing: spencer reid x f!bau!reader

w.c: 2.7K

warnings/content: criminal minds case related stuff; suggestive content (no smut!); graphic descriptions of violence and wounds; idiots in love/friends with benefits trope; their love language is touch, you'll notice that; just a little bit of angst.

A/N: and I'm back. again. this challenge motivated me to write cause I was really going through it. but anyways. this is my entry for @imagining-in-the-margins “Undercover Challenge” with the prompt “Characters go undercover as a married couple” and the dialogue prompt “I'm just acting.” “Oh, so you can make your heart race on command?”

navi

masterpost

criminal minds masterlist

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“He’s looking over here.”

You looked at your partner, taking a sip of your non-alcoholic beverage slowly as you slightly inclined your neck to watch the UnSub having a drink in the other end of the bar counter.

“Let’s start the show then.” You winked at Spencer, earning a scowl that he quickly masked into a loving smile towards you.

Such an in love husband.

“He’s staring at her.”

JJ’s voice boomed into your ear as a warning as you reached for Spencer's hand, intertwining your fingers.

“My mom wants us to visit her first thing after the honeymoon.” You said, playing with the straw of your cup. “We should extend it.” That got a laugh out of him and you felt his curls tickling your temple as he leaned closer.

“We can do whatever you want.”

“Whatever I want?”

“Yeah, baby.” You didn't know why the nickname surprised you but it did.

Spencer watched as your eyes traveled across this face in contemplation, wonder. He's just playing his part.

“Whatever I want huh?” You hummed softly, cheek leaning on your hand. Spencer knew that expression. He has lived with it these past months whenever you were going to do something you knew would piss him off. Often to tease him.

God he hated that look. Your teasing was relentless.

He pulled a strand of your hair behind your ear, his hand lingering near your cheek. His touch was warm and in spite of not really being a fan of physical touch, you'd always find yourself leaning closer to Spencer at certain moments. He represented some type of safety to you, you never really read too much into it, but you also never denied yourself to be close to him when you wanted to.

The way his eyes briefly shifted from behind you to you again told you the UnSub was closer this time.

“We could maybe do that thing in bed we were thinking of trying…”

The way Spencer choked on his own spit — he had a drink but he didn't even touch it — made you grin so big your mouth could split open. What he did with touches you were able to do with words.

“Kinky.”

You heard through your earpiece and Emily's voice almost got you to crack. You didn't.

He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper, “Well, I have a few ideas I’ve been wanting to try but yeah, it's not like we have all the time in the world now.” You bit your cheek, hating the fact that he paid with the same coin. You, on the other hand, felt your neck heating up. His honey brown eyes stared you down and you saw the edge of his lips quivering in amusement. Caught you. You could read his thoughts.

“Oh, shit! I'm so sorry, miss.”

And you needed the UnSub to act to get out of your staring contest, you didn't know if that was good or bad.

First move — to accidentally bump into his victims with his drink ✓

Perfectly done.

Second move — the victim goes into the women's bathroom to clean herself up.

Now, it's your move.

Spencer heavily glared at the man as he insisted to buy you another drink, but you squeezed his arm and brought his attention back to you. Your voice was calm and calculated, a pointed gaze sent his way. I'm going to the bathroom, watch out for his partner. I got him.

“I’ll come with you.”

You halted, practically feeling the guy's gaze on your back. He had walked away after apologizing a thousand times but he was the one to watch the woman enter the bathroom while his partner stayed outside with the car, ready to take off.

They had fallen for the bait, it had been a simple stakeout. The whole reason the women were caught without any commotion was because they went into the bathroom alone. So why the fuck did Spencer want to come in with you? It wasn't part of the plan.

“Honey, it's the women's restroom.” You laughed as if that was the most funny thing in the world. Hotch’s deep angry voice resonated through the earpiece, telling Spencer off. You didn't have time to dwell on it because you were already moving away from your husband's pouty figure.

Flashforward and you were sitting in the back of an ambulance with an EMT tending to your superficial wounds. Nothing serious happened, a minor physical conflict when the man noticed you were about to fight back. He got a punch in your eye. You knocked him out with a swing of your leg. That was it. Still, Spencer was fretting.

“You need a head CT.”

“You need to calm down.” You told him with a sigh after pulling him away from the EMT so he would stop bugging them about your health. “Jesus Christ, I've been through worse. Relax.”

“He had a syringe to your neck—” He started and you interrupted him with a bored tone.

“Didn’t even graze my neck, Spencer.”

“It could've!”

Your voice was resigned because you were tired. All you needed was your bed and sleep twenty-four hours straight. That fucking duo of bastards had you and your team chasing them for a week. “Okay, honey, drop the overprotective husband act. We're off the stage. I'm fine.”

Spencer seemed to get the point and left you alone. After Hotch congratulated you for a good undercover job, he let you know you were not going back tonight because the jet would only be ready in the morning. So yeah, no warm bed with your soft mattress and your fairy lights tonight. Just the old musty bedding in your motel bedroom. At least it was a room for one, you didn't have to share with anyone else neither would you have patience to do it.

Emily and JJ followed you on your way to your room. You noticed their exchange of looks right away.

“Spit it out.”

JJ blinked innocently at you. “What?”

Pressing your thumb against the bridge of your nose, you tiredly said, “You two are either flirting shamelessly right in front of me or silently discussing something about me. I believe is the second option so spit.it.out.”

Emily wasn't one to beat around the bush when it was something she wanted information on.

“You and Reid at the bar.”

“You mean where we served as bait to catch the UnSub?”

“That kinky talk all of a sudden, I mean.” Emily smirked as JJ chuckled beside her.

The only thing you could do was offer her a blank expression. You also knew how to play dumb like JJ just did a few seconds ago.

“Oh, please. He didn't even bat an eye at you!” She carried on, raising a brow. “Something’s going on, right?”

You narrowed your eyes at them.

“What is this, fifth grade?”

Emily let out a groan that echoed the hallway just as you reached your door. Their respective rooms were a few doors down.

“Told you she wouldn't reveal anything.”

“I had hope.”

You rolled your eyes before pressing your key in the keyhole and opening your door. “Goodnight, girls.”

You liked certainty.

It was so much easier when people would be straight forward and simply put the cards on the table to avoid misunderstandings.

You've had that trouble in relationships throughout your life. The experience of navigating a situationship on eggshells. Am I giving too much expectations? Am I having too many expectations? Is this even worth my time? Sometimes you just wanted to take the edge off. Simple and effective. No strings attached.

Somehow, you never had that issue with Spencer. That doubt.

“Serendipity,” he said one night. Your limbs were tangled under the sheets and he just blurted out the word as if you were supposed to know what it meant without any context.

You looked up at him, your lashes barely letting you open your eyes since your latest activities had tired you out. “What?” You were used to Spencer’s random bursts of smart comments.

“It means when you…” He paused to kiss the back of your neck, causing you to squirm away only briefly, a smile growing in your lips. “... find something good accidentally…” another kiss, his hands wrap around your waist slowly. “without meaning to.”

“Oh.” You turned around as his arms caged you in, supporting your torso against his chest. You liked how his eyes seemed relaxed after you spent a night together. Ever since you met Spencer, he never had a healthy night sleep. Either because of a good book or worry. He never really rested. You had that in common. That was probably why you two clicked immediately in more ways than one. “You’re saying i’m that something good you found, Doc? Careful, I'll start thinking you’re getting attached.”

Certainty was in your agreement when you decided to turn friends with benefits. Things were pretty clear for the two of you since the beginning. Both wanted to just… forget about your jobs for a little while. And that's what you did.

That agreement was none of everyone's concern but yours. So you didn't tell anyone. It was your own thing, which was going well so far.

Too well.

You were too good at ignoring signs. All your life, you've been so focused on not getting attached that it usually worked well in your favor. But you realized you fucked up when after a bad day the only person you wanted around was him. And sex wasn't what you had in mind. Spencer’s presence was inviting and all you desired after being (barely) beaten up was to tangle your limbs with his and call it a night.

That's bad. Your brain warned. Very bad. Cut it off before it gets worse.

You stood in front of his door, staring at the wood as if it would knock on its own. Why were you even there? Maybe you should apologize because you felt like you did something wrong when he looked pissed moments before he left the crime scene. But then you remembered that he left. How dare he?

He answered your harsh knocks with a confused frown. His glasses were perched up on the tip of his nose, probably had slipped down while he tried to sprint to answer the inconvenient person at the door in the middle of the night.

“Is everything okay?” You entered without an invite and crossed your arms, waiting patiently until he closed the door. You were mad. You didn't have any reason to be mad.

“You left.”

He placed the book you only now noticed was on his hand on the nightstand. His nose scrunching up in confusion. “Left what?”

“You left the crime scene.” You left me — you wish you had say but you would've sound like a jealous girlfriend. Which you were none. “Didn’t wait for anyone.”

He didn't reply right away, his eyes accessing you carefully. He wasn't mad anymore. He wasn't even mad before. Just frustrated. You were just doing your part of the job and he let emotion go in the middle. It happens. Though the absolute terror he felt right before he got into the restroom was another thing. He never felt that before, it didn't just happen.

“I was tired, just wanted to… get some rest.” His eyes then softened which contributed to you feeling like a fool. “I’m sorry I didn't wait for you.”

“That’s not the point.”

He nodded, approaching you with careful steps. He wanted to redeem himself. You sighed in exasperation, running a hand over your face but you flinched when you touched your wounded brow.

With a gentle touch to your chin, he tilted your head upwards to check on your wound. Your eyes followed him every move. You felt like you could melt into a puddle. His touch was exactly what you needed.

“Does it hurt too bad?”

“No.”

“It may still be sore.” He observed, brushing your hair away from your forehead. Your eyes fell shut, you couldn't help it, your body had its own mind. “I’m sorry I reacted that way. It wasn't professional.” He mumbled after a long pause between the two of you. You had already given up on your tough act, resting your cheek against his chest as his fingers worked through your hair.

“Fuck professional.” You said, nuzzling against his neck while your arms wrapped around his shoulders. You fit perfectly and that would always amaze you. Spencer never rejected your touch and it made you wonder, for a moment, if you were being unbearable. That thought was quickly shut down by him pressing you closer.

“Your heart is racing.” He pointed out, both of his arms tightening around you as if that was supposed to make it better.

“I’m just acting.” You whispered, enjoying the sound of his laughter after you said it.

Spencer leaned back, quirking up an eyebrow looking down at you “Oh, so you can make your heart race on command huh?”

“I bet you got a scientific fact just on the tip of your tongue.”

“When you exercise, your heart rate increases,” he started slowly and you felt his fingers draw up your shirt slightly. You liked where that was going. His raised his hand until it was right by your chest, so he pressed his open palm right by your heart. You ignored the shivering. “It is actually very easy to raise it. When you take the stairs… When you're running on a treadmill…” He lowered his lips to your neck. “But when you're not doing any hard work with your body, let's say, it's even easier. Like now.”

The way he pressed kisses down your neck made your eyes flutter shut.

“If you're experiencing strong emotions like excitement or… stress? Which I know isn't the case right now, is it?”

“Oh, shut up.”

He chuckled, kissing the corner of your mouth. Before he could move to your lips, you drew back, but not so much.

“I came here to talk to you about something.” He withdrew his hands from your waist, his fingers traveled up your arms and he squeezed them reassuringly, urging you to go on. “So… this. Between us. It's cool, right?” Suddenly, you weren't good at communication at all. You barely remembered your own name.

“Yes?” His brows furrowed slowly. “Why? Do you want to stop?”

Your brows shot up. “No! No. That's not— it's not about that.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, I mean…” You place a hand on his chest, taking a deep breath so you could gather your thoughts. “It’s not that it's wrong. But. Have you ever considered…”

Spencer tilted his head so he would catch your gaze. “Considered…?”

“Becoming serious. Exclusive. Like a—you know.”

You would've pushed him back annoyed because of how his face was scrunching while he tried to prevent a laugh. He was laughing at you. He held you back, hand crawling up your back to keep you in place. You felt like a fool.

“Yes.” He whispered, cupping your cheeks to make you look at him despite your annoyance. “Yes, I do want to be a couple. Exclusive. Whatever you want to call it. I want you to be my girlfriend.”

“Don’t sound too excited.”

“But I am excited.” Spencer emphasized, pulling your face closer which made you smile a little. “I was waiting for the right time, I didn't want to pressure you. I thought you would cut me out of your life and I'd rather just… stay with our deal instead of that being the case.”

“I’d never cut you out of my life, Spencer.” You said with your shoulders slumping in disappointment that he even thought that.

He nodded, resting his forehead on yours and silence took over both of you for a moment. Just your breathing balancing together.

“Stay the night?” His request was useless because you were about to do that anyway.

“Mhm, yeah, I'll stay.”

“Good.” He kissed you, his warm hands wrapping around your waist. “Girlfriend, right?”

You let out a loud groan. “Shut up.”

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[jjlotz]

Wicked Games

PB x reader

WC: 4.5k

CW: angst (i guess), cussing, smut (at the end), alcohol consumption

men dni, mdni

description: when you fall in love with paige bueckers, you try to downplay it. you know, to protect the casual situationship you two have going on. but when you can no longer deny your feelings, things get a bit chaotic.

authors note: hey guys… so this was mostly based on wicked games up until the end! and then i got carried away 😛 anyway this is lowkey lacking detail and dialogue but its ok. enjoy 🙏

the truth is, you could never say no to paige. 

you had met her when you ran into her at a bar. you were drunk, and randomly decided to go up to her since you had recognized the basketball player from your school. she took you home that night, gave you her number. how could you resist her? she was hot, and not to mention she was uconn’s golden girl.

after that night, the two of you got to know each other better. but not well enough to be considered “talking.” she told you she wanted to keep it casual. nothing too serious, seeing as to how she was a famous wbb player and she wasn’t quite ready for a relationship. you were fine with that. after all, you didn’t want anything serious either. 

but did it stay casual when you started falling in love?

you tried to ignore it, you really did. it all started when she would let you stay the night without hooking up. you would talk, eat, hang out, and do whatever else kept you two busy. you became friends. friends with benefits. slowly but surely, you found yourself growing closer to her. emotionally and physically. she didn’t notice. she thought it was truly casual. she was fine with you being with others, because it never made her jealous. after all, she didn’t have feelings for you. she just thought you were attractive, and she could benefit from keeping you close.

close, but not close enough to make anything serious. 

currently, you were next to her, awake. she was sleeping, breathing softly as the sun reflected off of her blonde hair. she was beautiful. you watched her silently before you slid out of the bed. you left the room quietly, avoiding waking her up as you walked to the kitchen. you made a glass of water, letting the cool liquid run down your throat to fully wake yourself up. this is how you began your average morning routine. things have been going like this with paige lately. you wake up early, shower, and you most likely make her food. then when she wakes up, you greet her before slipping out of her dorm. 

after that, you spent the day withering away, thinking about why you felt so empty. 

paige doesn’t know what you’ve been going through. 

you’ve stopped seeing everyone else. now, you only see paige. she doesn’t know this. she doesn’t even know that you have any type of feelings for her. as far as she’s concerned, you’re living your best life. your friends say you’re seeing other people, going to parties, and living free. she sees your instagram posts. you in those dresses, drinking and having fun. but those posts were only half true. 

you were drinking. not to have fun, but to drown out the feelings burrowed deep inside of you. you lied to your friends, and you lied to paige. you had to end this. you had to move on and get over her. all situationships end the same, and you should have known that this “casual” thing going with paige wouldn’t have been any different. so, you decided that from now on you would have to avoid her. you didn’t text her, and to your surprise, she didn’t text you. that made you feel better. you knew that if she ever did show up, you wouldn’t be able to resist her. so being alone was exactly what you needed. it felt nice knowing you didn’t have to wait by your phone assuming a text would come in. but you still missed her, and you silently wished she would reach out.

for the next few weeks, you cried, drank, and ignored paige. neither of you talked. she hadn’t texted you, and you hadn’t messaged her either. but it wasn’t the no contact that made you hurt worse. it was the small things that happened around campus. you would see her in the hallways, catching eyes with her for a brief second before she looked away and resumed her daily routines. you figured you meant nothing to her. and that made you think you were over dramatic with the way you were feeling. 

it didn’t seem reasonable. getting drunk over a dumb crush. but it wasn’t a dumb crush. you were in love. and drinking was how you solved most of your issues before they went away.

you lived mostly the same for the next few months. you tried to work on your schoolwork to distract yourself, even though it didn’t help. you have no idea how paige is doing. you don’t know her thoughts. god, you wish you did. but you don’t. and you’re forced to deal with it. 

paige figured you had gotten tired of her, and that was why you became distant. she was upset, of course. she thought you two were close, and she thought she could trust you. but after you disappeared, she decided to give up. it wasn’t worth chasing you if you didn’t want her. paige went on anyway. she saw her other flings. yet every single time, she had this nagging feeling in the back of her mind that none of them were you. that none of them could do it like you did. she ignored it, telling herself that it was just her getting over you. telling herself the feeling was just filling the space you had left in her life. you weren’t that important. it was just a casual friendship. 

if it was so casual, why does she feel like she can’t go without you? 

she can. she knows she can. but she wants to see you again. she wants you in the palm of her hand, for her to control. she hates not feeling in control, not feeling like she knows whats going to happen before it actually occurs. because that takes away her power. it takes away her ability to predict things.  you were becoming unpredictable. disappearing and ghosting her? it was unlike you, and she hated that. she decided that she needed things to go back to normal. no, she wasn’t ready for a relationship. but she wanted to feel stable. and you used to be the most stable thing in her life besides basketball. she commonly saw you and you two would hang out. for months this went on. she needed you back, even if you were tired of her and hated her. she knew you couldn’t resist her because you never have been able to. she was going to get you back.

luckily for her, it’s a small town.

you went to a local bar. mainly because you were invited, but also because it gave you a chance to focus on something other than paige and the stress of school. you were sitting at the bar, waiting for another shot as you talked and laughed with a few friends. for once, you felt good about yourself. you weren’t thinking about paige and the stress of your school work had now lightened. you were just having some light hearted fun, away from the outside world. however, the universe seemed to hate you. just when you were letting loose, you spotted a few uconn wbb players by the entrance. your smile slowly faded after you spotted a certain blonde.

this cannot be happening.

you looked away, deciding to just ignore her. even though you could feel her burning stare crawl up your spine. you kept talking with your friends, drinking more and more as the night went on. 

it wasn’t long before you ended up drunk. 

you stumbled around the bar, ending up outside as you sat on the steps. you needed a break from the chaos. but as soon as the door opened, you realized the chaos had followed you. the blonde walked slowly towards you before lowering herself on the steps next to you. she glanced at you, before looking up at the stars. she was also clearly tipsy. not as drunk as you were, but it still gave her more motive.

“so…” you heard her speak. she was trying to start up a conversation. why? you ghosted her. why would she want to keep talking to you? obviously she didn’t get the memo. 

“what do you want, paige? you didn’t say it rudely. it sounded as if you genuinely wanted to know why she approached you. and you did.

you heard her sigh, and then she glanced at you.

“i wanted to talk to you. you know, we haven’t done much talking in the past few months.”

you feel bad for ghosting her. but it was what you had to do. you couldn’t let go of your feelings for her. they ran deep. too deep. after all, why would you get blackout drunk often trying to drown out your thoughts if it was a small crush? no. it wasn’t just a crush. you were in love with her. and you knew you had to get away before she broke your heart.

“im sorry.” was all you could make out. you weren’t going to bring it up. however, if she asked, you figured you would just be honest. if it went badly you could just pass it by as drunken words. 

paige watched the parking lot, examining the few people littered around. 

“why? i mean its fine. you can do what you want. but at least tell me why.” she seemed genuine, like she was curious to know why you had disappeared. and it was reasonable. she deserved to know.

“because paige. i had to get away from you. you said you wanted things to be casual without feelings, so im doing you a favor by not complicating things.” 

it was almost like she put her guard up at your words. why was she getting defensive? it shouldn’t matter to her. 

her body tensed and her eyes flickered with a hint of anger.

“not complicating things? you complicated things by just disappearing. we were fine, and we would’ve been fine if you didn’t leave. god you just— you don’t make any sense.” she looked at you while she spoke. as always, when she’s trying to state her case, she speaks with her hands. she’s always done that. in basketball and in her day to day life.

“paige, i have feelings for you.” you muster up the courage to say it, and your drunken state causes it to slip out a bit unexpected. you can basically hear her freeze, and of course she didn’t respond. taking in her silence, you start to pour your feelings out. it’s been too long without an explanation. being drunk and emotionally confused is not a good mix. you start to talk again before she can even open her mouth.

“you’re so confusing! you know that right? this is all your fault. you look at me like you love me, and you hold me like im the only thing that matters to you. and then you just dump it all away, pretending like it meant nothing. maybe it didn’t mean anything to you paige. but it means everything to me. its your fault i fell in love. at least be happy im distancing myself. please, don’t make this any harder for me and just leave me alone.”

paige basically gawked at you. you didn’t look at her, afraid you might break if you did. she turned away, slowly standing up and walking back inside.

wow.

no. you told her to leave, you can’t be angry.

that’s what you told yourself. and yet you were still so pissed that she left. now you know how she really feels. although its obvious she doesn’t care about you, she’s really just scared of the truth. she’s complicated, and when things get too hard for her, she runs. thats why she likes stability and casual flings. 

she didn’t care about you, is what she told herself. but if she really didn’t, it wouldn’t hurt this bad. 

paige waddled back inside, baffled. part of her was glad you told her. and then another part of her felt broken. upset. why did it hurt so bad to leave you? its too late now, you want nothing to do with her. she respects you for telling her and distancing yourself mainly to protect her wishes. she should be happy, and yet she’s not. she’s undeniably discouraged. as the night went on, she couldn’t enjoy herself. she needed a distraction, so she went to the bar to find some pretty girl to start something up with. 

this is what paige did when she didn’t know what else to do. she found another girl. after all, she could have however many she wanted. she’s paige bueckers. 

despite how many women she’s spoken to over the past few months, she can’t help but compare them to you. none of them could beat you even if they gave all they could. she didn’t understand why you were so good. she didn’t understand why you knew exactly what to say, or why you always made her feel so loved and important.

but it makes sense now. you love her. of course you’d treat her like that. what’s even worse is that she retaliated against those actions with actions very similar. but she didn’t love you, right? no. she didn’t. she was just confused. she’s tipsy, and she needs to distract herself for a little bit to calm down. then she can really figure her shit out.

surprisingly, things weren’t so bad after that night. you were still getting over it, but at least you weren’t behind on school work or getting drunk almost every day. you were stable, and you felt like you might finally be able to heal. however, emotions were still raw.

every time you pass one of her teammates in the hallway, they looked at you almost with pity. like they know things about the situation that you don’t. but they never spoke up, so you just ignored it. you were in a good place. you didn’t want anything to mess up your progress, and you believed nothing would.

that was until you saw the name light your phone screen up. 

paige.

what does she want? you had settled things. at least for the most part. you considered not answering. but that little sliver of hope inside of you made you pick up the phone. to you, it was worth it. even if she ended up hurting you, the fact that there was hope made it worth the risk. 

you were sitting on the couch in your dorm, relaxing before you pulled the phone to you ear.

“paige?”

you heard her lightly breathing on the other side of the phone. she waited a second to talk. when she finally did, her voice was shaky. it almost sounded as if she had been crying. 

“i’m sorry. can we talk? we need to talk.”

you were worried. she sounded upset. and it had to be important if she came to you about it. 

“paige? talk to me. i’m literally on the phone with you.” you waited for her to keep speaking. there was a long pause before her words started flowing out.

“look, i should have never went back inside that night. i’m sorry. I’ve felt like shit recently. i’ve been playing like shit too. we lost our last game and it’s all because of me. all because i can’t stop fucking thinking about you. i know i didn’t say anything that night so i’m going to say it now. even if it changes things, and even if you’re mad at me. i think i have some feelings for you. i honestly don’t know. i try to act normal and act like you not being with me doesn’t bother me. but it does. it bothers me so much and i hate it. i can’t see another girl without thinking about you.” 

she took a breath, and just when you were about to speak she cut you off.

“i dont know why its so serious for me, its not like i’ve felt this way before. because i haven’t. nobody makes me feel the way i do when i’m with you. and i didn’t realize how much you meant to me until you were gone. it was all good until you left.” she paused, continuing—

“tell me it isn’t too late. tell me i can be with you.”

she stops talking finally, and you can feel your eyes burning. can you trust her? what the hell is going on.

this was so random. you haven’t spoken since that night at the bar, and now she just randomly decides to call you and confess? 

“paige.. are you serious? this is so odd. you’ve always said you wanted something casual and what-not. neither of us are ready for relationships and you know it. so why?” 

you hated to face the truth, but you knew what was going to end up happening.

“baby i know we aren’t ready. but we can still try, right? things will be rocky, but we’ll be with each other. please. i love you.” the pet name and those three words at the end make your chest tighten. tears slowly fall from your eyes, and you wipe them up. you don’t sniffle, you just stay silent. was it worth a try? could you guys really figure this out? you decided you wanted to see if she meant it.

“okay.” you say quietly over the phone. you were willing to try.

“okay? okay. yeah.” she speaks almost relieved. you were glad she came to you with this, even if it wasn’t in person. 

“so what now?” you ask, not really knowing what else to say.

“im on my way to your dorm.” she said, clearly moving around. she didn’t give you a chance to reply, she just hung up. you sat up quickly. if she’s really on her way then she should be here in like five minutes. 

or less, because just a bit later you already heard knocking on your door. you swallowed a gulp in your throat, before you stood and slowly walked to the door. you opened it, and paige stood there. wide eyed and panting, she looked at you.

“paige, what are you doing here.” you tried to sound firm but the words came out as weak anyway. you couldn’t help it. something about this entire situation made you vulnerable. it made her vulnerable. and emotions were raw. she stepped inside, closing the door behind her. then, she faced you and placed her hands on your cheeks.

“please.. i need you. im tired of acting like i don’t.”

with that, she pulled your face in. the first kiss was sweet, but it definitely felt like she was holding back. it was more like a trial peck to see what she could get away with. and then she packed on the next one. it was deep and hungry, her hands sinking into your hair while you gripped at her shirt. she groaned into your mouth, giving you an opening to slide your tongue in. your cheeks flushed as she tugged softly at your hair. it was almost like you two were fighting for dominance. but when she bit your bottom lip and then swiped her tongue over the dent, you knew you were in for it. she pulled away, a string of saliva attached to your lips while the two of you caught your breath. 

“paige. it’s too soon, we should give it a little bit so we can talk and calm down.” you spoke out of breath, silently hoping she would turn you down. even though the reasonable resolution would be to stop and talk.

“fuck, i can’t. i’ve missed you too much. we can talk later.” she sounded like she knew it was wrong. like she knew you should stop, and that you should talk to each other before indulging in something further.

but you know neither of you were going to stop. it was so sudden, and you had missed each other for so long that you just felt like you needed it.

she let go of your hair, grabbing your wrist and tugging you to your room. you’re lucky your roommate is out for the night. she closes the bedroom door behind you, immediately pulling her hoodie off along with her shirt. you bit your lip, seeing her in just a black sports bra and low hanging sweats. she moved towards you again, pushing you softly down onto the bed and having you back up to the headboard. she took her sweatpants off, following you and hovering above you. in a flash, she had maneuvered you to sit on top of her. you were whipped around, trying to balance yourself. you straddled her, your hands resting on her chest. her hands gripped your thighs hard as she watched how they formed underneath her hands. she silently admired you for just a moment before beginning to strip you.

you loved the way she looked at you. 

before, it felt meaningless. like it was just a look in her eyes.

but now, it made sense. you felt appreciated, and somewhat loved. exactly the way you made her feel. 

and you were eating it up.

she pushes your shirt up, licking her lips as you pull it off and throw it along with the rest of the clothes along the floor.

“i missed you…” she spoke quietly while panting. she slightly sat up so she could be closer to you. you rested your arms on her shoulders, leaning in close.

“i missed you too.” you spoke against her lips, before pressing another slow kiss on them. she tugged at your shorts through the kiss, and you moved around a bit to help her get them off. she ripped off your underwear with them, too lazy to take it off separately. when everything was gone and thrown around the room, you were left in your bra. she broke the kiss, her hands roaming around your body.

“fuck, you’re so pretty.” her hands reached around to your back, unclipping the bra and throwing it away. her hands immediately came up to grope your tits, squeezing and massaging them. her hands were large, completely covering them. your head threw back slightly. you let out a few whimpers, and her mouth came down to attach to the hardened peaks in the middle. you let out a soft moan, your nails digging into her shoulders. you brought your head up, connecting eyes with her. her eyes were glossy, and she looked needy.

god, you could stare at her for hours. you couldn’t say just how many times you’ve imagined her like this.

her right hand sunk down to your core, circling your clit slowly. you whined, your forehead now resting on her left shoulder.

“soaked for me, huh?” you nodded quickly, pressing quick kisses against her neck. you sucked, leaving marks solely to distract yourself. her left hand squeezed your ass, and you heard her let out a soft whine due to your mouth on her neck.

you felt her fingers sliding through your slit. gasping, you grind yourself onto her hands. 

you were tired of waiting. 

after all, you haven’t seen anybody else ever since you started avoiding paige. and touching yourself was never the same. nobody could do it like her anyway. you knew nobody could fuck you the way she did.

and paige felt the same way. every girl she saw, even the ones she actually had sex with; none of them were like you. she tried to resist it, but after a while, she couldn’t take it anymore. she had to have you. even if it would change your “friendship” completely. even if it would complicate things and confuse the both of you emotionally. she was willing to try for you. 

she sunk two fingers into your cunt, and you squeezed around her. you relaxed into her touch, moaning out her name. 

it’s been so long. maybe too long.

“baby you’re tight. nobody fucked you since me?” she spoke in a low tone, smirking like she knew exactly what she was doing to you. and she did.

you shook your head, blabbering your words out while she pumped into you.

“no… no paige. nobody does it like you.” you whined almost pathetically, biting your lip. moving your hips against her hand, you let out borderline pornographic moans when her fingers curled. she hit that spot inside of you easily, just like how she used to. 

she kept increasing her pace, and you brought your head up to rest your forehead against hers. you moaned and gasped right in front of her, making sure she heard every noise. making sure she heard the way she made you feel. 

your slick was basically dripping off of her hand at this point. and god, she loved it. every once in a while she would glance down just to watch her glistening fingers disappear between your legs over and over again. 

she began to allow the palm of her hand hit your clit, even rubbing small circles on it when she curled her fingers relentlessly. she kept going, not giving up despite the cramp that rose in her forearm. she was focused on your face twisted in pleasure, and her name that seemed to leave your mouth multiple times. 

eventually, the familiar but yet missed coil in your stomach began to form. she took her left hand and pressed on your lower stomach, causing you to let out a guttural moan. she knew when you were close. she could always tell.

“paige… fuck. gonna cum, please don’t stop” you whined and blabbered, shutting your eyes tightly while you chased your orgasm. your moans continuously got higher pitched as you neared the edge. she smirked, looking up at you as you shook against her hand.

“yeah? go on baby. wanna feel you on my fingers.” 

immediately at her words you found yourself releasing, clutching her wrist with one hand and digging marks into her shoulder with the other. you felt the pleasure rock you from your core and up your spine. you let out loud moans, her name slipping out in between as a gasp. she slowed her pace, but she didn’t stop until you were pulling yourself up off of her lap. 

her face was smug, and she was definitely proud of herself.

you plopped down next to her, your body clad with sweat and your thighs wet with your slick. she didn’t bother wiping off her fingers, instead she brought them up to her mouth and licked them right clean. 

after you slowly came down and came back to reality, all of the emotions came rushing in. 

you were confused, happy, horny, and yet still somehow upset. 

things were still fresh. she had just up and confessed her love, and here you were.

the two of you still had a lot of things to figure out. but for now, you let her clean you up and pamper you with make-up kisses.

[smooth-operator-55]

Carlos with dialogues n°2 situations n°10 and places n°4 pls 🙏🙏🙏🙏

Say my name | CS55

In which you accidentally moan an ex's name while being intimate with fwb!Carlos, in his car.

Warnings: friends with benefits, smut, piv (protected), tiniest bit of angst if you squint (but not really), english not being my first language

Word count: 2,6k

A/N: Thank you for the patience, other one-shots will be posted shortly as well! Hope you like it :)

The night flowed easily, just like the drinks in the club you were at with your friends. A night out was much needed by everyone, just being together and having fun. It was getting quite late, which was visible on some of the small group you were out with. After multiple glasses of shots, cocktails and beers being downed by everyone, some could still dance but some were already half asleep in the booth.

You were on the verge of the latter when you felt a hand on your shoulder, making you jump a tad. Looking up, you saw Carlos standing over you. His lips moved but his voice blended in perfectly with the loud music and bass vibrating through the walls and your lungs – though your tipsy state didn't help either.

Carlos bent down and his warm hand immediately wrapped around your wrist gently. He repeated himself with his lips right next to your ear.

"Come dance with me!"

Feeling the effect of the night and the drinks you'd had, you thought it was better not to, even if you wanted to. When he saw you shaking your head, Carlos just stared nodding his as he tried to pull you to stand, making you shake yours even more.

"Do you feel sick?" His lips traced the shell of your ear once again. You shook your head again in response.

"I'm tired." You shouted over the music.

He sat down next to you, his side right up against you without any space left between your bodies.

"Do you want to go home?" His eyes scanned your face for any signs of discomfort, letting them linger on your lips for just a little too long.

You shrugged your shoulders in indecisiveness. You were hoping that you would come alive in a few minutes, that the tiredness would only last a little more. It's been long since you had the chance to go out with your friends and you didn't want to leave just yet.

"I just wish I wasn't tired." You leaned closer to him as he dipped his head in your direction so he could actually hear you.

As soon as he heard your words, an idea came to his mind, making a playful, teasing smirk show on his face. He was actually hoping he could get you alone sometime very soon, after watching you dance on the dancefloor. In his eyes every move of yours seemed sinful.

Feeling like this was his chance, he grabbed your hand and nodded with his head towards the back exit. You stood as he pulled your hand and started following him outside, closely behind him. The warm summer air hit you when you stepped outside, the oxygen already starting to make you feel more awake.

"Where are we going, Carlos?" You asked him when you reached his car in the parking lot. "You drank. You can't drive."

"Who said anything about driving, hermosa?" He raised his eyebrows as he reached into his pocket for his keys, unlocking the doors of his Alfa Romeo.

"Carlos..." You suddenly realised where his head was at, making your eyes widen in disbelief.

"Hm?" He opened the door and grinned when he saw your reaction. "It's not like we haven't done it before in a car."

When he saw indecisiveness taking over you again, he let go of the door handle and stepped closer to you, grabbing your face on both sides.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing, it's just so...random."

"Random?"

"I didn't think this would be your solution."

"Do you want to? It's okay if not."

"I didn't say that."

"Then get in the car before someone sees us out here."

You quickly climbed in the back with him following behind you and shutting the door.

He reached for you right away and in a second his lips were already on yours. One of his hands cupped your cheek, while the other laid on your thigh, stroking it slowly and gripping it lightly. Your hands ended up in his soft, thick hair – out of habit by this point. When his tongue was about to enter your mouth, you broke the kiss.

"What if the others start looking for us?"

"Then they'll be looking for us." He leaned in, only for you to interrupt him again.

"I'm serious, Carlos."

"Good, me too." He breathed, but continued when he'd seen the unsatisfied look on your face. "I don't think they'll look for us. They're too drunk to notice we're not there anyway."

"But what if they find us? It's risky."

"It only makes it more fun, if you ask me." He whispered and leaned in again to press kisses onto the hot skin of your neck. "Plus...we're adults...and...we can do..." he said between kisses before he looked at your face and gave your lips a quick peck, "whatever we want to do."

"Okay, but be quick." You gave in to him.

His lips were on yours again in no second as his hands grabbed your hips and pulled you into his lap. Obeying your wish, he sped things up a tad. His fingers wandered under the fabric of you dress and started to tease you through your underwear. He softly caressed you through the thin fabric, knowing the effect this had on you.

Your hands wandered from his hair to his stubble-covered face and neck. The feeling of his fingers against you made you sigh. Trying to increase the feeling, you started moving your hips against his hand and the rough material of his jeans, easily being able to feel his hardness through them. Your actions made him groan deeply, his hand now resting on your butt.

Your fingers soon started working on his belt and the button and zipper of his jeans.

This time it was him who broke the kiss. He slightly raised his hips, trying to slide his trousers further down, along with his underwear. You quickly turned around to open the centre console box, reaching for a silver package. He took it from your hand, ripped it open with his teeth and rolled it down on himself with a quick movement. He lifted his gaze to your face as he looked for any signs to stop, your eyes meeting before a quick kiss.

His finger slid your panties to the side as you lifted your hips and took him in your hand to guide him. You tapped him against your clit and grinded on him to really work him up as much as you could. He threw his head back against the headrest as a heavy moan fell from his lips.

"Hermosa, por favor."

You lined him up with yourself and slid down on him slowly, letting yourself adjust to him, moans echoing around in the small space. He leaned in to kiss you again, his tongue entering your mouth. As you started moving up and down, sighs, heavy breaths, groans and moans became more frequent. His hands wandered from your cheeks to your hips, down to your ass, a firm grip on it. You tried to pick up the pace, but it wasn't too long 'til your thighs started to get tired. Carlos sensed your struggle, so he started moving his hips as well, thrusting up into you. You broke the kiss as a mixture of a whimper and a moan fell from your lips when you felt his movements first. His hands that were resting on your ass also tried to help you with the burning sensation in your thighs, as he helped you move up and down.

You got so lost in the way he completely took control in just a matter of seconds, you could already feel your climax getting closer and closer. The scent of him mixing with sweat filled your nose as the windows started fogging up. His hips moved just the right way, especially when he placed his hand on your back and pushed you into his chest, thursting into you at a new angle, constantly hitting your sweet spot. Your face was buried in the crook of his neck and you could barely stop moaning. The new angle made you lose your mind. The alcohol in your system didn't help either, so when an unexpected moan – or more like an unexpected name – sounded from your lips, you surprised yourself. Especially the man underneath you.

"What?" His hips stopped nearly immediately as he breathed heavily.

You lifted your head to look at him when you felt him stop, your brain barely being able to function and catch up with the last few seconds.

"What?" You breathed heavily as well, as you realised what you just said – the burning sensation not in your thighs anymore, but more like in your face, from the embarrassment.

"What did you say?"

"I didn't say anything."

"Why did you say his name?" Confusion sat on his face.

"I...I didn't. I said Carlos." You denied it, trying to convince rather yourself than him.

"No, you didn't."

"Yes, I did!" You looked at him, his expression giving away the fact that he heard you loud and clear. "Look, it just slipped out, I'm sorry."

He just sighed, not knowing how to react exactly.

A few moments of sitting in silence had passed before you slowly and carefully started caressing his lower arms and leaned in to place soft pecks on his neck, trying to reignite the mood. He remained still. You looked back up at him, a moody expression sitting on his face.

"I'm sorry, Carlos."

"Why did you say his name?" He asked again.

"It's nothing...it must've been because he texted me last week and we've been talking lately."

"Again? Do you remember what happened last time?"

"Yes, I do and I don't need a lecture. As you said, I'm an adult and I can do whatever I want."

"I'm just saying. It didn't end well last time and I don't want to see you like that again."

"We're not even back together!" You raised your voice a tad in frustration. "Nothing is going to happen. Now, can I move?"

"You're thinking about another man while I'm balls deep inside you. You can't really expect me to be okay with that."

"I mean, it's just sex. So why would you ever be jealous?"

"I'm not jealous, but this wouldn't boost any man's ego."

"I didn't mean to say his name, I promise. Just please, let me move."

His grip on your hips that held you from moving loosened after a few seconds, making you lift them slowly, before sinking back down. You couldn't help but gasp at the feeling, still sensitive. The look on Carlos' face didn't really change; he was determined not to let it. He didn't make a single noise as you moved your hips, his hands didn't wander over your body either.

"You really gonna give me the silent treatment?" You slowed down again, keeping the movement minimal on his lap. Your hands sneaked under his shirt, stroking his abs before you decided to undo the buttons. After the first three buttons were undone, you pressed open-mouthed kisses on his smooth, hot chest. Your fingers moved further down until there were no buttons left.

"What can I do to make you forget that, guapo?" Your lips reached his neck.

Before you could even blink you were already laying on your back on the leather seats with Carlos between your legs, possessiveness getting the best of him.

"Block him. And never talk to him again."

His hands gripped your waist to keep you in place as he started moving his hips. Your leg that was up against the headrests was suddenly laying on his shoulder, occasionally meeting the roof of his car. His lips came close to yours, giving you the impression of wanting to kiss you, only for him to pull away when you leaned in. He kept playing this game of back and forth, before moving down to your neck, his punishment for you is not letting you kiss him.

Your hands were gripping his strong forearms, the muscles hard beneath your fingers. The delicious angle had you moaning and whimpering under him, whilst he still wasn't being as vocal as he usually would be. It took you suddenly clenching around him for him to release a deep moan, startling him and making his rhythm irregular for a moment.

"Stop that."

"Stop what?" You looked at him with innocent eyes, right as you did it again.

"I won't say it again." He snapped his hips against yours harder, making you ride up on the seats. You gasped at his action, as you felt your climax building.

"Tell me who's making you feel this good, bontia?"

"You, papi."

"Who?"

"You, Carlos!" You said when you realised what he meant.

"Say it again." He picked up the pace.

His name fell from your lips repeatedly like a prayer as you were about to fall apart. You could tell he was getting close as well, judging by his grunts, heavy moans and his rapid pace.

"Carlos-" You squeezed out to let him know what he already knew. His hand started toying with your clit, making you lose your mind immediately. You came around him with a loud moan, nails leaving red lines and marks on his arms as your back arched into him. The feel of your constant clenching around his cock was more than enough for him; he buried his head in the crook of your neck as he came, a deep moan falling from his lips. His grip on your waist and thigh loosened after a few seconds as he slowed down, eventually stopping his movements and sliding your leg down from his shoulder.

He laid on top of you for a little as you both tried to catch your breaths, your fingers playing with his hair.

"We should go back inside." You whispered after a few minutes, when your heart rate was finally back at its natural pace.

Carlos lifted himself from you and pulled out gently. He adjusted your panties and lightly slapped your sensitive clit, making you gasp at the feeling. A smug smirk sat on his face as he took off the used condom, wrapped it in a tissue and tossed it on the floor of his car at the driver's seat. You quickly pulled your dress back down while he pulled up his underwear and buttoned his jeans. He was fidgeting with his belt when he spoke.

"I meant it when I told you to block him. He's not good for you."

"We just talked. That doesn't mean anything."

"It doesn't mean anything now, but it will later. Either you block him or this was our last time. I'm not watching you getting your heart broken by him again."

Seeing the serious look on his face, you took your phone from your bag that had fallen onto the floor and did as Carlos had asked.

"There you go. Happy?"

"Sí." He looked into your eyes as he was buttoning his shirt. "You deserve much better than that dickhead."

"You missed the first button." Your eyes traced over his shirt.

"Mierda." He muttered as he started unbuttoning what he had just buttoned. You watched the entire process – quite entertained – but stopped him when he was about to start over, grabbing the wrong button again.

"No, let me." Your fingers started working as you felt his eyes staring. "I'm sorry again."

"It happens, I guess." He shrugged his shoulders.

"Still, I'm sorry. It won't happen again...I don't even understand how it did, honestly. You're much better than he could ever be." You whispered and leaned in to kiss him.

"Yeah?" He murmured into the kiss.

"Mhmm."

"Good." His hands cupped your cheeks as the kiss deepened. Your hand got lost in his hair way too easily again, tugging on it softly in the heat of the moment, which earned a moan from him. "Mmm, Isa."

You broke the kiss and swatted his arm when you realised what he was doing, making him chuckle.

"Stop it."

"I'm just kidding, hermosa. Let's go back inside before they really start looking for us."

[breakmeoff]

The Boy Next Door │ 7

pairing: bang chan x fem!reader (featuring all of skz except seungmin)

warnings: swearing, suggestive dialogue, angst, crack, fluff... think that's it?

word count: 2.7k

synopsis: chris returns to seoul and is coming to reality with how difficult being with you physically might be. prepping for the second part of the tour, he comes up with some new ideas and you surprise him with some news of your own.

note: sorry it took me a while to get this one out - was trying to figure out how to move forward. i have tons of thoughts for things further down the road, but hopefully you enjoy this one in the meantime. thx for reading :)

Masterlist

The overnight flight back to Seoul from Australia was grueling, over 13 hours of travel time door to door.  Chris had gotten used to the non-stop flight from Sydney years ago, but now with the extra hour plus flight from Melbourne at the beginning of his trip, he was starting to come to terms with the reality of their unfortunate logistical situation.

The idea of a quick, turn-around jaunt over for the weekend would be hard to manage once, let alone on a frequent basis.  Being in the middle of the tour, literally across the globe from where you were, would make it even that much more difficult.  

The only benefit Chris could come up with from the long flight home was that it gave him time to write.  Despite the luxe seating in business class and the capabilities of reclining his seat to sleep, his brain was working on overdrive.

Once his flight landed at Incheon shortly after 9am the next morning, Chris asked his driver to take him directly to the studio.  At this point, he was running purely on adrenaline and hadn’t slept since leaving your apartment almost 24 hours before.

Dropping his carry-on in the corner of the room, he fell back into one of the overstuffed chairs at the producer’s table with a heavy sigh.  Glancing to the clock on the wall out of the corner of his eye, he calculated he had about two hours before his bandmates would show up and any hope of focusing would be out the window.

Those two hours went by in the blink of an eye before Changbin and Han burst through the door, arguing over whether the receptionist's name in the front was named Ji-yoo or Ji-goo.  

“Han, seriously, who would name their child intellect and?  That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard… her name is absolutely Ji-yoo, you moron,” Changbin chided, looking at his phone as he stumbled into the space.  

Han groaned, tired of arguing with his friend but glancing over to the table he saw Chris passed out.  “Hyung,” he said quietly, grabbing Changbin by the sleeve of his shirt, giving it a soft tug before he pointed over to their leader.

Slumped over the desk, with his cheek to the notepad below him, his lips parted just slightly and the tiniest bit of drool slipping out his mouth, Chris was out. 

A few other voices became audible from the hall as I.N. and Hyunjin came in shortly after and Changbin turned to them quickly, lifting his finger to his lips to quiet them down.  

The four of them stood there by the door, looking between each other and Chris, trying to decide what to do.  His sleeping problems were widely known, and the fact that he was actually asleep right now was shocking.  

I.N. was the first to whisper, “...should we wake him up?”

Hyunjin tilted his head to the side, studying Chris.  “He looks so angelic.”

Han was next, nodding to Hyunjin’s statement.  “Like a sweet baby…”

Moments later, Lee-Know walked in and silently observed the four younger members standing frozen in the doorway.  Lifting an eyebrow, he moved to peer over their shoulders to see Chris passed out.

“HYUNG!!!”  He said loudly, gently pushing his way through the others to go over to the couch and flopped down.

Chris’ head popped up immediately, the paper momentarily sticking to his cheek as he blinked his eyes open and looked around.  “What?  What’s going on?” 

Hyunjin followed Minho to the couch and sat down on the other end, glancing over to him before speaking.  “Really?  Was that necessary?”

Lee Know merely shrugged his shoulders.  “If we have to be here to work, so does he.”  

Several hours later, the eight members slowly made their way out of the recording studio and headed back to their respective apartments.  With his carry-on bag shrugged over his shoulder, his feet shuffling below him, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and began drafting a message to you.

“Channie-hyung?”  Felix said softly, pulling Chris’ attention over to him.  “Everything ok?  You seemed off today.”

“Huh?  Oh… just tired.  I took a red-eye from Sydney last night and haven’t slept yet.  Except for on the table up there,” he pointed to the building behind him as they continued walking.  Straightening his posture, he winced, his back now sore from being bent over in the chair for an extended amount of time.

Felix winced sympathetically, gritting his teeth at the pained expression on his hyung’s face.  “Are you sure that’s all?  You didn’t really say much all day.”

Quietly, Chan shifted his eyes over to Felix’s, looking at the sincerity in his friend’s eyes and sighed heavily.  “Just… just a lot on my mind.”  Slowing down his steps, he let the other 6 members go on ahead while Felix hung back with him.

“Promise you won’t say anything to the others?”  Chris said, slowing to a stop on the sidewalk with Felix.  “Of course, promise.”  Felix confirmed, turning to face him.

“Do you remember my noona that came to one of the shows in Tokyo a few weeks ago?  Was there with her little sister?”  Chris asked, nervous to admit any of this out loud but he was dying to have someone to talk to about this.

“I think so… your old babysitter, right?”  The younger man inquired.

“Yeah, Y/n.”  Chris paused, raising a hand to rake his fingers through his messy curls. “I went to visit her in Melbourne before I came home.  I.. I’m not sure what’s going on, but, I can’t stop thinking about her.”

Pinching his eyebrows together in question, Felix spoke softly. “What do you mean visited her?”  

“I mean… I surprised her at her apartment and stayed with her on Saturday night.”  Chris said quietly, looking down to the sidewalk below before looking back to Felix’s face.

“Wait.”  Felix blinked, trying to put two and two together.  “Wait, isn’t she like… way older?  I mean,” he cleared his throat, “not that that’s a bad thing.”

“Yeah,” Chris sighed, looking around idly.  “She’s 8 years older, and she seems to think I should have a problem with it.”

“...Do you?”  The blonde asked quietly.

“No!”  Chris replied, probably a little louder than necessary.  “No, not at all.  She’s perfect,” he blushed as he spoke, shifting uncomfortably on his feet.  “I just don’t know what I’m doing and it’s driving me insane.”

Felix took a few moments before responding, trying to find the correct words.  “I’m not sure there is much you can do… she lives in Melbourne right?”  Chris just nodded his head, lifting his eyes to meet his again.

Sighing, Felix continued.  “Only you can do what you think is best, but I’d be careful.  It sounds like it could get really messy…”

Chris let the bag from his shoulder fall down his arm, catching it in his hand in defeat and exhaustion.  “Yeah.  That’s what Y/N said too…” he trailed off, looking down the road in thought.

A beat later, he laughed dryly.  “I actually started writing a song about her on the flight back.”

Felix nodded, listening to his friend.  “Go get some real sleep, see how you feel in the morning.”  

“Yeah,” Chris sighed, shifting his bag to his other shoulder.  “Thanks for letting me talk this out,” he said, smiling weakly at the younger member.

“Anytime,” Felix replied, his typical bright smile gracing his delicate features as he guided the two of them back down the street towards the apartments.

Chris did not, in fact, get much more sleep that night either.

Early the next morning, Chris sat down at his desk in his bedroom, pulled his laptop out of his bag and started playing with one of his editing tools, testing new sounds and rhythms.  Getting lost in the zone, he didn’t initially hear his cell phone buzzing beside him.  On the reminder vibration 2 minutes later, it finally caught his attention.

Shifting his eyes to the screen, he couldn’t stop the smile spreading over his lips.

You:  Good morning.  🙂 You:  Just checking to make sure you landed safe yesterday? Chris:  morning!  I did, I’m so sorry I forgot to call you Chris:  I went straight to the studio and got busy You:  No, totally ok.  Was just a little worried. Chris:  aww, you were worried about me? You:  …no. Chris:  awwww Chris:  you miss me already You:  I definitely didn’t say that Chris:  i miss you too You:  Good.

Chris leaned back in his chair, smiling like a lovesick puppy, eyes glued to the small screen.  He knew how guarded you were, and the fact that he could see you being less cautious with him gave him a little more hope.

You:  Are you getting enough sleep? Chris:  that word sounds familiar You:  Don’t make me come over there and put you to bed, young man. Chris:  that’s an option?? You:  Yeah that line never worked on you before either. Chris:  definitely wouldn’t now.  I’m warning you, don’t threaten me with a good time because I will take advantage of it. You:  Like you took advantage of me last weekend? Chris:  as I remember it correctly, you loved every second of it.  AND asked for more. You:  Hearsay. Chris:  you were the one who said you needed no break

Chris paused, thoughts forming.  Reaching into his bag again, he grabbed his notebook and pen, and jotted down a few lines.

You:  Ok Romeo, as fun as this is going down memory lane lol I have to get to work and I’m sure you do too. Chris:  unfortunately.  Can i call you tonight? You:  I’d be disappointed if you didn’t. Chris:  have a beautiful day, sweetheart You:  You too, Channie  😘

Dropping his phone back on the desk beside his laptop, grinning to himself, Chris got back to work with a renewed sense of urgency, and purpose.

A week had come and gone since Chris returned to Seoul.  The boys had spent the majority of the week working on a new arrangement for “Red Lights”, allowing each of them to have a small solo for the tour.  The responses to the duet with Hyunjin had received such a good response during the first leg of the tour that they discussed switching it up a little bit.

With the tight schedule of only having a week to perfect it before they headed to Seattle for the second part of their tour, their choreographer had put them through an intensive three day boot camp focusing solely on the newly adapted routine.  To make matters worse, they decided to throw props into the choreo which automatically made everything more difficult.

By the end of day three, the boys were wiped and were left with only one full day to themselves before their flight to North America the day after.  While the majority of the group went out for food after rehearsal, Chris went back to the apartment, anxious for his nightly phone call with you.

Less than ten minutes after he’d gotten home, he’d stripped his sweaty practice clothes, taken a quick shower, grabbed a cup of noodles from the kitchen and was back in his room.  Shoveling a forkfull of ramen into his mouth, he pressed your contact information and let his phone ring through to FaceTime call.

A few seconds later, your face popped up on the screen.  “Hey ther– wow.  That’s.  That’s quite the mouthful there,” you said with a laugh, watching Chris’ cheeks puff out, full of noodles.

He began trying to chew faster and laughed to himself, trying to get through the bite as quickly as he could.  “‘M sorry,” he mumbled with his mouth full.  Finally swallowing, he put the noodles down and wiped his mouth with a napkin.  “Sorry!  I didn’t expect you to answer so fast!”

You laughed.  “No no, g’head, finish stuffing your face.”

“No no, I’m good.  I’m good.  How was your day?”  He asked, smiling into the camera.

“It… it was good,” you started, nodding and shifting your eyes a little bit to the side in thought. Changing the subject quickly though, you returned the question.  “How about you?  Did the choreographer kill you guys again today?”

With a heavy sigh, Chris leaned back in his desk chair.  “Yes.  I think the guys are pretty pissed at me for suggesting we add in the new arrangement but once we’re on stage I think they’ll like the crowd response.”

“I’m sure,” you giggled a little.  “I mean, I know how you all absolutely hate having thousands of girls screaming for you.”

Sitting up straight again, he leaned into the camera and wiggled his eyebrows.  “Only one girl I’m interested in having scream for me.”

“Oh my god,” you mumbled, grabbing a couch cushion to hide your face behind, trying not to laugh.

“Move that pillow!!!  I don’t get to see you enough so don’t you dare hide that beautiful face from me!”  Chris said enthusiastically, laughing in his faux-begging/demanding way.

“Okay okay,” you laughed, bringing the pillow back down, red in the face and unable to look into the camera still.

 “Ahhhh…” Chris smiled charmingly, “there’s my pretty girl.”

“Aaaanyywaaayyy…” you said, trying to change the subject.  “What time is your flight tomorrow?”

“Early the following morning actually.  We have the day off tomorrow thankfully.  I don’t think I’ve done laundry in like, weeks.”  He said into the camera, grimacing.  

“Ew, dirty boy!”

He groaned playfully, “Baby”, he whined.  “You’re making it too easy for me to flirt with you if you keep saying shit like that!”

“Sorry, sorry!”  You smirked, then your face lit up as you remembered.  “Oh!  Remind me the dates that you’re going to be in New York?”

Chris shifted his eyes to his laptop, clicking through a few things and pulling up his calendar to rattle the dates off to you.

“Well…” you said, watching him grab his cup of noodles again to take another mouthful.  “I had a meeting with my boss earlier today and it looks like he’s sending me to a conference in a few weeks.”

“Oh?  Where?”  He asked, cheeks puffed out with ramen again.

“New York.  Conveniently the same time you guys will be there.”

Nearly choking on his food, he put it back down and his eyes widened, looking right into the camera as he tried to finish chewing and swallowing quickly.  “Really??  We get there on a Wednesday I think?  Staying through til Sunday?”

Smiling brightly at his enthusiasm, you nodded.  “The conference starts Tuesday and ends Friday, but I want to extend my trip through the weekend so I can stay for your shows.”

“Yes!!!!”  He said loudly, holding onto the arm rests of his office chair and rocking himself back and forth excitedly.  “Oh my god, that’s the best news I’ve heard all week!”

“Calm down there, don’t hurt yourself!”  You said, laughing at his zealous reaction.  

“Don’t tell me to calm down, Lady!  I was afraid it would be months before I’d get to see you again.”

“Well,” your smile softened, tucking your knees to your chest as you watched him.  “I’m glad you’re so happy.”

Just then, Chris’ attention was taken by a loud clanging noise coming from the living room, and a muffled SHIBAL.  Dropping his head exaggeratedly, he groaned and looked back to you in the camera.  “I think the children are back and someone either just broke something or themselves…”

You couldn’t help but laugh.  “Better go check on them.”

From outside Chris’ room he heard stifled voices, a long pause, and then a desperate HYYUUUUUNNGGGGGG.  “Why meee?”  Chris said, squinting his eyes shut in faux pain to you.  With a heavy sigh, he looked back at the camera.  “Yeah.  Text me before you go to sleep?”

With a smirk, you nodded once.  “Promise.  Good luck, Handsome.”

“Thanks Sweetheart,” he said, winking at you before ending the call.

As soon as the two of you disconnected, Chris sat there for a few moments, chewing his lower lip.  Finally, he swiped his screen awake again and sent off a new text to his manager before going to handle the kids in the living room.

Chris:  Ji-han, sorry it’s so late.  Can you schedule a last minute meeting with the tour's sound engineer for tomorrow please?  I want to update the set list. Chris: I have a new song I want to debut.

tag list: @angel-writes-skz-here @idkimobsessed @queenofdumbfuckery @mfcherry @downingmorphine @pixie-felix @d3kstar @lveegsoi @ebnabi @nebugalaxy @babystay724 @mmarusa @imagine-all-the-imagines @erisuna @beabidoobee @hanniesbubuwife @bbykaixx @riri53 @jinniesgirl @alx-wyjsr

let me know if you'd like to be added!

Masterlist

[frothingatthemaw]

> puzzling

summary: vessel and reader do some puzzling. pairing: vessel x gn!reader warnings/tags: softbf!vessel, clingy!vessel, mentions of guilt, reader has autistic/adhd traits, use of petnames (love, darling), slightly suggestive (if you want to view it that way), bad dialogue. word count: 1.2k a/n: i was compelled by thoughts about this while watching a puzzling youtube video, this was supposed to be a very small thing but turned into this. also my first sleep token fanfic so please be nice to me. this hasn’t been proofread either, apologies for typos or something of the such.

ao3 link

You had decided to take up the challenge of completing a puzzle. This was something you hadn’t done since childhood, a hobby that would take up some hours of your time at Christmas, as your family seemed to like gifting you puzzles. You didn’t mind though, even as a child you enjoyed sticking the pieces together. This struck your love for them at all.

By this time, you had been going at this specific puzzle for just over a few hours. It was 1,000 pieces; you knew what you signed up for. It had taken over every bit of your attention, completely engulfed in the task at hand. If there was one thing about you, it was that you never left something half finished, so you’d be damned if you left the dining table with the puzzle yet to be completed. 

Still yet, this was taking longer than you remembered it took you when you were young, too, which was frustrating. You tried not to think about it, tried to not blame yourself too badly for being slow at this. You brushed it off on your child mind being much sharper than these days, and also the time it had been since you puzzled last. Benefit of the doubt. 

It had been so long you'd been at this, in fact, that your boyfriend had started to feel abandoned to the point of waddling his way into the dining section of the kitchen in your shared apartment. You didn’t quite catch the blanket he had wrapped around his shoulders and draped over his head, he was only a blur in your peripheral vision, and you had vaguely heard his footsteps. You’re thankful you heard him because you can feel that you would’ve jumped out of your skin at his touch on your shoulders if you hadn’t. You let out a small gasp despite this. 

“Still going at it, love?” Vessel asks you, hands slipping over your shoulders more. 

You hum back to him absentmindedly. Your eyes were darting across the pieces laid out across the table, furrow in your brow. It was becoming a little infuriating that you couldn’t find this specific piece and your brain wouldn’t allow you to move onto the next until you found this one. A huff comes from you. At this, Vessel starts to massage your shoulders. 

“Do you need help?” He speaks again. You notice that his voice sounds tired. It makes you feel a twinge of guilt that you can’t dwell on. 

He leans down, hands still on your shoulders, leaning his face against yours. He places kisses along your jaw, up to your check, back down to your neck. He missed you.

“Can you see this piece?” You point at an empty space in the already assembled other pieces. “I can’t fucking find it and I’ve been looking for ages,” you sigh. You finally allow yourself to feel some of his touch.

Vessel angles his head to get a better look at the puzzle sprawled on the table. He’s still close to you, enough where you can hear his breathing. You feel the blanket around him, falling further back into the chair to try your best to be closer to him. Something about Ves being like this makes your core melt. You adored when he was all soft and cuddly. Especially for you.

His fingers brush through the small pieces of printed cardboard, eyeing them with the same intensity you had been before. He sucks in a breath while he picks one up, then places it into the spot you’re trying to fill. It slips into place perfectly. You almost want to curse him for it. 

Instead, you opt for saying, “Maybe I should’ve recruited you to help me earlier.” Your tone sounds tired, even you can hear that now. 

A dry laugh comes from him, you stare at the smile on his face. He looks proud. You want to bite into him. “I think you need to take a break, darling.” 

Okay, yeah, you did need to take a break because a headache bursts through you at full force. You’re not going to tell him that. 

You’re reluctant to reply, but you eventually settle with, “I really want to get it finished first though.” You pout at him, sinking a bit down the chair. 

Vessel’s hand squeezes at your shoulder, planting a kiss to your neck in unison. “Let me help you then.” 

“Do you really want to?”

“I miss you,” he says. Your heart aches a little. Maybe a lot. 

“Sorry,” you mumble. You didn’t mean to get so focused on this that you blocked everything out, including him. 

He leans backwards, standing straighter. He takes your chin into his hand to make you look up at him. “No sorries, yeah?” 

You nod. 

“Good.” He leans down to kiss you, lingering there, he savors it. He tastes you, slowly. It was a hunger in his stomach that had been building for the last few hours, and he was taking his time to satisfy it. If the puzzling hadn’t melted your brain, his lips and tongue finished that for you. 

When he pulls away, the way he looks at you only amplifies the puddle you’ve become. Vessel had this way of his eyes saying how much he simply adored you. It was identifiable, instantly, and it never failed to do its job. 

“Wanna get up so I can help you?” 

Your brain didn’t understand at all what he was implying under the fog he placed upon you. It wasn’t until he took your hand, pulled you up, sat down in your place, and tugged you back down to sit on his lap that it clicked. All of it seemed like a blur to you. You were having trouble processing things. 

This feeling dissolved when Vessel started questioning you about what you were planning on looking for next, asking about your sorting arrangement as well. The questions were grounding. Ves also had a way of doing that, placing you atop clouds and bringing you back to Earth in the same breath. 

And so, the next while was spent with you on his lap, the two of you finding it much easier to finish the puzzle together rather than you on your own. This didn’t mean that he didn’t get distracted a few times by kissing your neck, saying that he’s proud of you, and reiterating how he had missed you. 

After the puzzle had officially been approved by you as accomplished, Vessel had dragged you to bed with him. Here took place of many sleepily shared kisses. 

“No idea how much I needed this,” he told you between the kisses. 

You wanted to tell him that you couldn’t tell him either, that this melting of your chemical compounds was needed in a form of saturation. The shaking of his hand as it came up to hold your face almost broke your skull in half. He licked into your mouth with more hunger than in the dining room, believe it or not. 

The act of this had lasted until neither of you could not go any longer, jaws almost sore. And the exhaustion was an honorable mention too. You couldn’t have even guessed how much time had passed. Though, it didn’t take any time at all for Vessel to put both of you to sleep through his whispered praises to you. Even in a state of deliriousness, he couldn’t help but to utter how much he yearns for you.

[luckyarchivist]

TOUCHSTARVED 2.0: Them Changes (spoiler warning!)

Hello, all! Below is a HUGE (~3K words) post about all the changes I noticed in the Touchstarved 2.0 prologue/demo. It's as much for my benefit as for yours, and I'll hopefully be incorporating some of these notes into my loresheets in the next couple of weeks.

Long story short: There’s been a lot of changes. I thought that even before I skipped through Fulgur’s full TOUCHSTARVED playthrough as reference and discovered even more changes I'd forgotten about. The sheer amount of sentence rewriting and reorganizing, as well as minor dialogue additions, is too much for me to cover: I have to commend the writers on the RSS team for their hard work.

Luckily, a lot of the rewriting is ultimately inconsequential (thank GOD). But I do want to highlight some changes I felt were important to characterization and story, as well as anything that just really stood out to me as someone who played the 1.0 demo, like, twice or three times with the intention of looking for clues and shit.

NOTE: These notes cover ONLY the main prologue, i.e. there's nothing in here from the LI-solo routes after the Wet Wick group scene. I'll get to those, and I want to! But it won't be today.

Kuras: Introduction

Definitely, there were dialogue changes and additions in Kuras’s introduction. However, to my memory, there was nothing that would change his characterization significantly. So, we’ll skip right over him. Love you, Kuras! Thanks for making things easy.

If you have any big changes that you noticed in Kuras's introduction compared to the first demo, let me know either on this post, or in an ask! I always miss stuff and I'd appreciate the check.

What I will say about Kuras's introduction, though? The MC says that “[Kuras] towers over [their] prone form” and... Technically, they're supine. "Prone" means you’re face down, which MC clearly is not.

Leander and the Adderstone: Introduction

This is gonna be the longest section — 3 pages on my Google Docs. Please hang in there!

As stated in the RSS devlog for the 2.0 update, Leander's introduction has changed quite a bit. But I actually want to start by talking about Leander's followers first — previously the Bloodhounds, now the Adderstone. First: the name.

An adderstone is a glassy stone with a naturally occurring hole through it. There are all kinds of myths about the creation and use of these stones, which I encourage you to look up (it’s fun to learn!) but they have a strong connection with druidic magic; druids believed that serpents would gather in giant entangled “knots” and that the stone would be produced at the center of that knot.

Already you can see a connection with Le in the magic connotations, but the snake reference is not to be ignored, either for him or his group. An adder is a venomous viper — while their bites are not usually fatal to humans, they are quite painful, and they show up often in Welsh and British folklore. (Maybe all those people who thought Leander was British were actually right!) Perhaps MC has unknowingly walked into the center of a knot of snakes.

To me, this change in name also mirrors the change in the way the group acts. The Bloodhounds were rowdy drunks, though well-meaning, and did as Leander commanded like loyal dogs. They crowd around for the treat of his magic and disperse at his command, and yell at the MC angrily when they bring up the Senobium. 

By contrast, the Adderstone is a much more insular, subdued group. After Leander’s impassioned speech against the Senobium, you are stopped from speaking to him by one of its members, as if he’s a high-ranking official or something. In addition, when you mention the Senobium, instead of being outwardly angry, the Adders go silent and wary.

In addition, this new Adderstone has:

No motto. The Bloodhounds’ motto, stated on their poster, was “As above, so below.”

No uniforms. Leander’s Bloodhounds all wore green cloaks.

With the Adderstone discussed, it's time to turn to the man of the hour.

Mainly, Leander has now been established as a Man Of The People, one who is actively encouraging Lowtowners to stay away from the Senobium. This is a huge change from his "gregarious performer" personality, and it seeps into all of his new introduction (which is a good thing!).

Leander is now an anti-traditionalist. In both versions of the demo, he asks if MC is aware that in Eridia, "information is worth its weight in gold." However, in 2.0., he follows that up by saying that he "[doesn’t] much care for outdated traditions," and opts to tell you the truth without any "payment."

Leander presents himself as one of many victims of the Senobium's "propaganda," saying that he used to idolize them until he realized they were an elitist organization. This is in line with his socmed fun fact, which states that he turned down the opportunity to become a Senobium mage to pursue his own ambitions: clearly, something to do with his presence in Lowtown, though I won't go so far as to say he's trying to uplift the district or anything yet.

In addition to these points, Leander's more outwardly sexual, submissive, and flirty personality in his intro has been toned waaaay down in favor of making him seem more like a competent leader of a...rebel organization? I'm not quite sure what the Adders are in contrast with the Senobium.

Here are some examples of his more leaderly traits and the removals of his more fanservicey behaviors in his introduction.

Leander asks if you're looking for a guide or an escort to the Senobium, whereas in the last version he does not mention taking you there himself at all. Implies that he's taking direct responsibility for you.

It's now explicitly stated that his line, "You can tie me up if it makes you feel better," is a joke to ease tension and not actually flirting. He also doesn't blush :(

The bartender doesn't mention Leander's "escapades" explicitly anymore.

Small change, but in 2.0, Leander tells you to take a deep breath and counts you down to touching him, whereas in 1.0, you count yourself down. He's guiding MC's behavior.

Before, in the tavern scene, Mhin asks if Leander warned MC about Eridia. In 1.0, he did not; in 2.0, he does in fact warn you that, “Eridia is twice as dangerous as it is wondrous. Be careful out there."

This definitely makes him seem more dependable, but less cute, in my opinion. I was particularly crushed by devs cutting Le's line, "Look, we match!" when talking about his gold jewelry and MC's gold scars. This has been replaced with, IMHO, a weak flirty line that doesn't endear me as much to him.

The devs stated in their 2.0 changelog that Leander's character is still the same, but that his new intro is a better reflection of his full route. At this point, I disagree: I think he's being portrayed as very different here, though my opinion may change once I do his post-tavern scene.

Though I'm sure some people thought of Leander as flat when compared to the other LIs, I think that added to his whole "too good to be true" and "let me be the reprieve for what haunts you" angle — someone who seems totally normal, but is actually a danger to you.

Of course, the first angle has been retained with him being the heroic opposition to the Senobium. But he's gone from a clumsy, cute everyman with impressive magical powers to the leader of a kind of movement, which is very different as far as archetypes go (to me, at least). It's certainly possible that we'll see this other side of him later, or even that I'll see it whenever I do his post-tavern scene, but he leaves a very different first impression.

I also wonder if devs were worried that Leander was being oversexualized before his route came out because of all the references in his intro, and decided to 1) curb people's impressions of him as the local slut and/or 2) cut down on disappointment when there's no sex in his route by introducing his moral mission first.

(To clarify, I wasn't under the impression there would be fully written sex scenes or NSFW CGs, but I don't know if they're planning to do a fade-to-black situation, or not have any sex present at all.)

Finally, and this is a note about MC during this section: I noticed that the wording of their previous "experience" has been changed.

Why change this to make it more vague? It's not like it was raunchy before. The 2.0 line reads more like the MC, I think (mainly the first sentence), and also clarifies for everyone that the reason MC may not be a virgin is because touching their naked shoulder is safe. But, when I was reading it, I was like, "Why change this line, of all the lines?"

1.0: I've been with other people — kissed them, been embraced by them, and more — but not like this.

2.0: It’s not as if I’ve never been touched. My curse only extends to my hands, and desperation spurs creativity.

I guess you could ask that for any line that was changed, though, and it's not like I was particularly attached to it. But it does seem like another instance where a more direct reference to sex was omitted.

Vere: Introduction

Vere’s dialogue was definitely altered and significantly shuffled.

The main change is that now you’re able to walk away from Vere, which causes him to break from his careless façade — another thing mentioned in the social media posts (that Vere is not naturally aloof and needs to work to affect this behavior). He just wants someone to play his little mind games with :(

Vere's dialogue has also been made a little more classy, perhaps, by removing the mention of a handjob and the word "sex" from his intro. Not that it's a huge loss, considering he kept all his other innuendo.

Finally, Vere's line after smelling MC has changed, and this is one I think is real suspicious.

Did devs feel like his initial line was, perhaps, giving too much away? Or has the intention of the line changed? Basically what I'm asking is: will we still find out, later in Vere's story, that there's some sort of kinship between MC and Vere in what kind of being they are?

1.0: Not quite human, not quite monster. Seems we’re both—

2.0: There’s something else... / It seems I underestimated you. You’re—

These are really the only major changes, though — the rest didn't change much, just moved around. Thanks for that, Vere. This is the ONLY time you’ll find me thanking you for anything, at least until you start taking my commissions to draw Ais oiled up and tied down.

The Senobium / Ais: Introduction

Ais's dialogue was changed the least out of all the LIs, as far as I can tell, which to me suggests that devs have the best idea of his characterization and the strongest foundation for his route compared to the rest. Makes sense, since he's the poster boy. But he does change one of his lines, and I'm kinda mad about it even though it's literally soooo inconsequential. This is Ais's response after you ask him where the gang he's supposed to be the leader of even is:

Literally a one-word change! But to me, that was a line that helped define Ais's voice, and I'm sad it's gone.

1.0: Gang took a walk.

2.0: They took a walk.

Really, though, I'll be spending this section focused on the newly named Iris, the "red-eyed woman" who appears outside the Senobium to take you to the Seaspring. MC's interaction with her changed quite drastically compared to 1.0.

Her appearance, or the description of it, has changed. Before there was a lot of emphasis on her physical features (gauntness, smiling too widely) whereas now it's all about her clothing (lack of shoes, moth-eaten garments, jewelry).

In addition, instead of making idle small talk with you that the MC can choose to ignore, Iris asks you to your face if you need help.

Before, she never introduced herself, and was referred to simply as "red-eyed woman". This time, she politely introduces herself as Iris.

Overall, she now has a personality that isn't just "creepy lady". She's embarrassed when she shows MC the hole in her neck; she reassures the MC of their safety when they don't want to walk out of the city.

This one's weird: Before, the red-eyed woman waves you off, and you continue on to the Spring; now, Iris disappears right in front of you. What kind of power is that?

Iris is now a character made to directly contrast the Seaspring with the Senobium. Here is a woman, obviously kept alive by some mysterious and possibly sinister force, but one who holds her hand out to you and offers you assistance. In contrast, the Senobium's gates and patrolling staff scorn you and push you away because of your status as a poor "tourist". The Seaspring is the poor man's miracle and the outcast's salvation.

I also noticed two themes in Iris's dialogue that stood out: choice and honesty. She only mentions the latter once, if you answer her truthfully (saying "I do" when she asks if you need help), but because I wrote that post about Ais and honesty, it made me wonder... Is this a theme for Ais, as the de facto leader of the Seaspring's thralls, or for Ocudeus, as the Spring's host?

As far as the former, she mentions that you have a choice a lot. For example:

So, not only is Ais telling you to really consider if you want to join the Seaspring groupmind, but even other thralls are emphasizing that you have the ability to turn away from it.

1.0: If I’ve caught your interest, follow me. It’s only a short walk away.

2.0: I can take you there, if you like. You can decide on your own once you see it. [MC: And if I say no?] It’s your choice.

Speaking of the groupmind, how does Iris know her name? Ais says in both 1.0 and 2.0 that, “When you drink from the Seaspring, you forget who you are.” If that's the case (and if we're willing to excuse Ais retaining his own identity due to Main Love Interest Syndrome), how can someone like Iris introduce herself and retain her human personality?

You could say that the groupmind retains every person's individual personality, but I was under the impression initially that the groupmind assimilated all identities into one. Something to think on, and to wait for more information about.

Mhin: Introduction

In the transition from Ais to Mhin, we get to see more inclusion of socmed fun facts: The MC unwinds their glove in an attempt to touch the Soulless chasing them and pacify it long enough to escape. Look at our MC, with useful powers!

Some smaller changes with Mhin's characterization:

They've made Mhin more considerate :) In 1.0, they pull you to your feet and pretty much immediately let go of you; in 2.0, they hold onto your hand long enough, and ask you verbally, to make sure you're stable before letting go, even though MC can tell that holding your hand makes them really uncomfortable.

No more calling Mhin short :( I guess that would be rude to do to someone you just met and who saved your life...

Mhin gets to talk about their hobbies: anatomy!, although they say when asked that they "[haven't] quite" studied anatomy or medicine. This definitely gives them a scholarly layer that wasn't as clear before.

The biggest change is that Mhin tells you that they grew up in Eridia, and that the city used to be better than it is now. Literally, while I was playing, I said "What?!" out loud. This is huge, because Mhin's whole thing is that they were a "relative newcomer" to the city. However, they now know the streets well enough to navigate MC in the dark back to the Amaryllis District by themself, where they and MC run into Kuras.

So, with this change, I have a whole bunch of new questions. Is Mhin's released character summary and backstory going to change by the release of the full game? If not, why did they and their family leave? What brought them back when it seems like they hate it here? How long were they there before MC got there?

We'll see if some of these are answered in the after-tavern scene, but for now, I really don't know what to think. I appreciated having a character who was also fresh meat in the city while not being as fresh as MC, as it allowed for a little "new kid" camaraderie while still letting Mhin guide you and teach you about Eridia. We'll see where it goes!

The Tavern Scene

Mainly line changes here I wanted to comment on, but let's go through the minor characterization or world changes first.

The drink Leander gives you, the "local specialty," is now a pomegranate wine instead of a plum gin. Yeah, yeah, Underworld, forbidden fruit. I've been through a literary symbolism class before.

Vere is made to seem less drunk when you speak to him and Ais, as he's no longer hiccuping like he was in 1.0. Seems he and the demon can hold their liquor. I'll miss you, cute drunk Vere.

And now, the main event: dialogue alterations! Let's run through 'em.

Mhin's line to Vere when they first enter the bar: "I thought Ais wasn’t allowed to bring his pets in here." -> “I thought pets weren’t allowed in here.” This is probably to make Mhin seem more distant from Ais: after all, how would they know about Ais's affinity for pets or his relationship with Vere? This one makes sense to me, even though the first line is a better burn.

Vere's line to Leander, once Leander realizes that everyone already knows each other: “Mmhmm, I’m starting to suspect [MC's] stalking me.” -> “To think we’d cross paths once again. It must be fate.” I like this change because Vere is very fate-coded to me. Give him some tarot cards, stat.

Leander's paypig lines to Vere have been changed, probably for the same reason Mhin's lines to Vere were changed: to imply that, while they know each other, Le doesn't know enough about Vere to know his expensive tastes.

And then the line change I'm mad about, which I talked about in this post, when MC is complaining about Ais kicking them out of the Seaspring just so he could go drinking:

I know this is partially nostalgia bias, but I’ve already talked about Ais’s whole honesty thing, and literally his fatal flaw is that he “lets his emotions rule him.” Why change this line?

1.0: I was lonely.

2.0: Had to give you a reason to come looking. Miss me yet?

Although MC acknowledges that Ais’s more flirty response in 2.0 is a deflection rather than a real answer, my current understanding of Ais is rooted in his honesty and his heart-on-my-sleeve behavior. He even says that about himself when comparing himself to Kuras (at least, in the 1.0 version of his route). It feels like a loss not to maintain his almost-blasé attitude towards just telling you how he really feels.

Now it's your turn!

While I find time to play the LI-exclusive sections, I'd love to hear from y'all. Any changes I missed in the main prologue that you think are important? Do you agree or disagree with me on any of the points I've made or conclusions I've drawn? Want me to expand on something I mentioned? Please let me know, either here or in my asks!

I had a great time playing the new demo and writing all of this up! It'll only be for a short while, but I'm happy to be back investigating this game :)

[toxicrelief]

Crawling Back to You

Chapter six

Synopsis: You still cannot believe what happened yesterday, and the guilt is starting to eat you up. Asshole or not, Rex did not deserve that. Probably… It’s time to apologize, but you’re not sure he even wants to see you, let alone listen.

Pairing: Rex x F!Reader

Word Count: 4.2k

Chapter: 6/?

Masterlist of all Chapters

TW: Alcohol, Descriptions of Wounds

Note: I really liked writing this chapter, I hope you guys like it too :3 I think dialogue is sometimes a weak point of mine, but I really tried for some good banter

“What?”

“It’s nothing, I am glad you were able to figure it out.”

“Figure it out? Cecil, you sent me into the Guardians Headquarters never having fought a fuckin’ fly and winning. You don’t think that will raise suspicions?” You could feel the anger rising in you, maybe it was not directly at Cecil, but he was not helping. You could still feel the sting on your pride of Rex refusing your help. Even worse you could see the hurt in his eyes as he backed away from you. Just when you thought you were making progress. “You’re the one who is asking me to keep all these secrets and telling me it’s to their benefit! Where is the proof of that Cecil?”

“Look, kid, calm down. I promise it was good for you-”

“I am sorry I messed up Cecil, I should not have said those things to them the other night, but why would this be your go-to punishment?” You exclaimed, holding a few fingers to your temple.

“Kid. This wasn’t a punishment.” His face was extremely serious at this. “I wanted to make sure you could work well with the Guardians before putting you on the field with them. I noticed Rex was giving you the most trouble, and I figured if you could make it work, then I would know.”

“Putting me on the field?” You ran a hand through your hair, you were in too deep. “Cecil I hardly know how to fight, I hardly have more strength than the average person-”

“Approximately 6.7 times the strength of the average person-”

“That’s nothing compared to these other heroes who are twenty or one hundred times stronger-” You quickly turned to look at the new voice. “Donald, why are you even here?”

“God.” Cecil ran a hand over his face, then continued once you turned back to him. “You have to learn how to utilize your powers when you are in the field.”

“But you said-”

“Not to let the others know, I know what I said. You can be discrete about it Killdeer. You just punched Rex and left a fuckin’ crater in his chest. I want to see you do more like that.” He nods at Donald, who leaves the room. “Lights.”

The white room around you dissipates and you’re in your study area. The ReAnimen is still on the gurney at the back wall, and the blood bag filled with Viltrumite blood remains near it.

“I want you to practice what you learned on this guy.” Cecil stepped towards it, holding out some sort of device that with a click of a button caused it to sit up on its own volition. It slid off the edge in a clunky fashion that made your skin crawl. If it had nerve endings that would have felt quite painful. It stood at the other wall adjacent to the gurney, swaying in an unnatural way. You looked at it with a furrowed brow before stepping forward to look at the blood bag closer again. It could not be good to leave this out at room temperature. Did Cecil have it taken out every time you left the room, and returned every time you came back?

“Do I ever get to meet Invincible- Mark Grayson?” The question was sudden and uncalled for, a direct contrast to the conversation you were having. It was something you had been stewing on for a bit, and looking at his blood bag brought it back to the surface. You knew he worked closely with the Guardians and Cecil at several points, so it was bound to happen. But you would be lying if you said you weren’t feeling a little impatient.

“Mark?” Cecil slowly turned back to you; his head cocked ever so slightly.

“Well, I just was thinking about it. I have met all the Guardians, and I have been able to keep fairly good connections there-” Rex flashed in your mind, and you winced at the wound you had left him with “Well… mostly.” You looked at the ReAnimen and ran a hand over the blood bag. “And…I think” You paused again, debating on if you wanted to tell Cecil this new discovery. “Well, I noticed when I was training with Rex that the longer I spend in combat with him the more of a grip I got on his life source.” You tried to put it lightly. “It almost became difficult not to use my abilities on Rex, I wonder if it’s a defense mechanism of some sort.” You looked back at Cecil “But I wonder if being around Mark would help me get that mental connection with his blood.”

“His blood,” Cecil repeated, walking towards you and looking at the blood bag. His eyes quietly ran over it as you removed your hand. Maybe he didn’t know you knew whose blood it was? He knew you had access to the files though, why is he so hesitant? “If what you are saying is true, why would being around him help you? Rex was fighting you, ideally Invincible will not be.”

“I figure if I concentrate on it then maybe it still would be better? Cecil, not that long ago I was struggling to make ripples in blood bags, and yesterday I just caused one of the most severe hematomas I have ever seen. You said it yourself.” Shaking the recurring image of Rex from your mind, you put a hand on your hip straightening up to look him fully in the eye. “I am able to learn better from live subjects.” You gestured to the ReAnimen. “There might be blood in that, but it’s not flowing, it not…alive. Merely biological matter, I do not have that strong of a connection to it-”

“Invincible is a lot different than the Guardians, there are a lot higher stakes-”

“I know!” You said with mild frustration but took a breath as Cecil narrowed his eyes at you. “I know.” You repeated. “But as far as Viltrumite blood goes, I am making zero progress sitting here with the bag. Maybe once I can feel the live thing I can come back and connect to this.” You gesture vaguely to the blood bag. “And…”

You pause for a moment debating whether to ask. You had drastically better results on Rex than you did on the ReAnimen, you should be practicing with live people. But the ethics on that gets very muddy, very quickly. Sure, Cecil had his own agenda for you, one he was not letting you in on, but now you wanted to get better. You were motivated by it. When Cecil found you there was no doubt in your mind that you knew exactly what you wanted and who you wanted to be. You considered becoming a nurse originally, helping one patient at a time. That turned out well.

After your training with Rex, you fully started to grasp the world that you might be able to enter now. You did not have to be some kind of mutant among humans. You could work in alliance with a team. You weren’t stupid though. Cecil saw you as an asset, and it was not because of your personality. When you thought about it, you wondered if Cecil had bad intentions, but after working with him so long you genuinely believed he wanted what was best for the people. The question was, as you grow your abilities, how long until he sees you as not what is best for the people?

You saw Mark Grayson as the epitome of what a hero should try to be, fighting his own father for the safety of the planet. And now that that was done you were here. And Cecil obviously was hoping you could be backup if Mark changed his mind and decided he agreed with his father’s past sentiment. Did he have a backup for you? Had he thought that far ahead? This is Cecil, of course he had.

You closed your mouth rewording what you were going to say. “Next time the Guardians go out I want to be told. I want to go. Not sometime off in the future.”

“Out of the question, I want you to be combat-ready, you’ve made good progress kid, but don’t let it go to your head.”

“What do you want me to do Cecil? You just said you wanted me out with the Guardians on the field. Now I am agreeing with you what changed?”

“Nothing changed, you will be combat-ready, and you will be discrete. But you simply are not ready yet.”

“Every time they answer one of your calls and I am not at the scene to meet them it must be more and more suspicious. How long until the Guardians call this bullshit? I am happy to be somewhat in the dark Cecil-” happy was a bit too enthusiastic of a word for it “because I trust you, but that’s because I know I am doing good. Do the Guardians trust you that much? Does Rudy?” You pause pressing the heel of your hand to your forehead, then slowly look back up at Cecil. “Does Rex?”

Cecil stops for a breath, his eyes drilling holes into you.

“Next small infraction I’ll send you. But you alone. If you want to practice then practice, we’ll watch from here. Make sure you make it.”

Sweet!

…

Make sure you make it?

“Okay, that’s- that’ll work.” You nod quickly, a little surprised. You were half expecting that Cecil would just say no and leave.

Cecil goes back to leave again and hesitates, “Try not to lose your brains this time hm?” He gestures to the ReAnimen still waiting for you to initiate practice.

“Sorry-” You gave an awkward smile, rubbing your neck, but before you could finish what must have been your millionth apology to Cecil in the past week he was gone. Guess he was not trying to reduce his teleportation uses. The blue static remained in the air after his passing for a moment.

This was good, you were going to be able to engage in real practice. Not just play in the kiddy pool. You ran your hand over your scalp, fingers tangling in your hair. Well, you had real practice yesterday… and look how that turned out. You sighed quietly, feeling yourself fall into the position Rex had shown you, as you took your first swing you knew that you were going to have to apologize. But how do you make someone who already hated you forgive you for giving them such a blow?

__

The answer was alcohol. At least you hoped.

You twisted the cheap plastic bow on the neck of the bottle nervously in your hand as you waited for the elevator to take you up to the dormitory section of Headquarters. It crinkled obnoxiously to the point you considered ripping it off. Your head ached. But you didn’t go so far you were admitted to the hospital again, so that was a win in your mind.

Rae was the first to see you when you walked in, which you were very glad for. She was the friendliest and most helpful face to you in headquarters. Bulletproof and Shapesmith did not seem bad, but they were less inclined to naturally want to help you. Or in the case of Shapesmith, they did not seem to know they were breathing.

After a very quick conversation with Rae, she told you Rex had been held up in his room, he had not come down for training or any meals. She shrugged it off though, saying this was not uncommon. With which you tried to make yourself feel better. And it did not seem like Rae knew why you were looking for him. Which hopefully meant he was not spreading around your mistake. But it might also just be because he did not want to come across as weak, sporting that big of a bruise after your first training session.

An uncomfortable pit started to develop in your stomach. It was not the usual one when you knew you had to interact with him, usually dread fed by annoyance.

No, you were nervous. It was not backed by anger or even your knowledge that Rex on some level probably deserved this a little bit. You were nervous he would turn you away, refuse to look at you.

Would it really be that bad for Rex Splode to decide to ignore you? A little awkward maybe, especially if Cecil pulled a stunt like that again. But it definitely would not be the end of the world, right? You couldn’t stand the guy.

You could not stand him.

You straightened your back, looking at the door in front of you, it had a very handy plaque that let you know you were at the right room. You held your hand out, fist clenched, ready to knock, and you…hesitated.

You rolled your neck, frustration rising, this really was not that hard. Just knock. Just knock on the damn door come on-

“Hello?”

Your gaze snapped to the sound of the voice. It was feminine and unfamiliar. You quickly realized why. It was Duplikate, a member you had only talked to once so far with your slow integration into the team.

Suddenly you were holding the bottle down behind your leg, which as soon as you did this her eyes trailed down to follow it. Why did you just do that? Way to make yourself look as suspicious as possible.

“I’m just here to see Rex.” You say dryly. WHY DOES THIS FEEL SO WEIRD?

It’s because you do not want anyone looking into Rex further, knowing more about the extent of your powers. Cecil was getting into your head, goddamn it.

But what if that wasn’t the only reason you didn’t like being caught outside his door?

“Quick house call?” She said, her eyes narrowing slightly. Okay actually, why does she care? You were starting to get annoyed, maybe because you had already hit the peak of how awkward you could feel today, and your head was still killing you from practice earlier.

“Something like that.”

“In his room?”

Hello?

You shifted a little uncomfortably. “He hasn’t been down yet, Rae told me he was up here.”

Kate stood there several moments too long staring you down, and for a moment you considered just leaving. Maybe that would be better than whatever this pathetic attempt at forgiveness was.

Finally, she not-so-subtly rolled her eyes and passed you to the elevator. You watched as the light above the elevators frame lit up to indicate it was going down and finally turned your attention back to the door. You deciding to knock before you got in your head about it again.

There was no response.

You waited a few moments then knocked again to which you heard an annoyed groan, “One day off dickhead!”

Well at least he doesn’t sound like he’s dying.

With that confirmation, you slowly open the door. It is dim inside the room; he had probably been lounging in bed. It was surprisingly not as messy as you thought it would be. There were some drink remnants on a desk and random magazines around with houses on the front. The kind you see elderly people read at bus stops. Rex was sitting on the edge of his bed, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands.

“I said-! Oh shit.” His gaze immediately landed on you once he lifted his head slightly off his hands, and then it trailed down to your attempt at peace that you held tightly in your hands. He did not say anything, but he did straighten up a little as it seemed to fully dawn on him that you were standing in the doorway.

“Hi.” That’s it? All that freaking out and intense grappling with guilt and that’s all you start with.

“Hi.” Promising. That’s not a ‘get out dickhead, I helped you and you did that to me, GET OUT’ so you’ll take it. His expression was surprisingly soft, was he already drinking?

“I feel really bad about yesterday and I don’t want it to be a whole thing, you know?” Oh, very sympathetic. You winced at your accidental nonchalant tone.

“A whole thing?” He raised an eyebrow at you, straightening all the way up, his hands landing on the mattress to lean on. He still was wearing that grey tank top, and in the dim light, you could see the bruise that was very prevalent over the collar of it. It looked worse than yesterday.

“That’s not what I meant.” You close the door behind you and immediately Rex perks up. You hold out the bottle to him, hoping it portrays your intentions better than your words are.

“Are you trying to get me drunk?” He gives you a snarky smile and just like that your anxiety dries up a little. He seems less pathetic now, so you don’t feel the need to tip-toe around his feelings.

“I’m saying sorry.”

“You said that yesterday.”

“I know.”

“Multiple times.”

“I know.”

“I said to leave it be.”

“I know.”

“Yet here you are, alone in my room, offering me a drink?” Ah. Kate’s reaction was feeling a lot more valid now.

“Don’t let it go to your head, it’s cheap.” You nudge it towards him again, and he takes it with a sigh, probably directed at you not taking part in his banter.

“Nice bow.” He said dryly, his fingers brushing over the twisted plastic you had forgotten about during your interaction outside his door.

“Thanks, it cost extra.” You decided to look around his room a bit, even though you knew he probably did not want you to.

There were a few pictures on the wall, some of Teen Team, and a few just of him. Which you thought screamed how huge his ego was. Narcissism must run strong with him. Your eyes paused on a picture of him and a redhead, she was the one taking it, and his arm was over her shoulder. You definitely recognized her; she had been in the files, but you could not place her. She was in several of the photographs, wearing a pink suit in the one of the Teen Team.

“So, was there anything else you wanted?” Rex’s low voice pulled you out of your thoughts and you turned around to look at him again.

He had just been drinking straight out of the bottle. Now his was hand clenched loosely around it as it hung just a few inches above the floor. You debated for a moment reiterating your offer from yesterday.

“I-”

Rex winced slightly, his free hand immediately reaching up to his chest. It would have been missable if you were still looking at the wall.

“I want to fix that.” You said shortly, folding your arms over your chest.

“No.”

“Why?”

“How do I know you’re not going to make it worse? You did the fuckin’ thing in the first place.”

You rolled your eyes walking up to him. “Rex, be serious for five seconds, I was brought on as a healer. Why not let me do my one purpose huh?”

“One purpose my balls.”

“Very mature.”

“Look, I just don’t want it okay? Back off.”

“It obviously hurts; you’ve been in your room all day-”

“No I haven’t, who said that?”

“Rae.”

“Ugh.”

You’re losing your patience, and he is acting like a child. You step towards him, and he has to strain his neck back slightly to look up at you.

“Let me help you and I’ll leave, you won’t have to hear from me until the next time Cecil makes me come to Headquarters. Don’t let me help you and I’ll be back every day, and I’m taking that with me.” You gesture to the liquor in his hand.

He sighs. “Every day?”

You nod, and he looks to the side, obviously debating.

“Will it hurt?”

“A little.”

“Are you lying?”

“A little.”

He grumbles but finally gives a small nod. You grab the chair from his desk and pull it in front of him.

“Woah, can’t you just heal it from over there or some shit?” He has his hand on the front of the chair and is pushing it away.

“No.”

“No, you can’t or no you won’t?” God this guy never shuts up.

“I have to have direct contact with the skin to heal.”

“Are you just trying to get me to take my shirt off?” He gives you a cheesy smile which you respond to with an exceedingly unimpressed look. “Fine. Jeez.” He lets go of the chair and you sit down. He puts down the bottle and moves gingerly to take off the tank top. A slight groan left him at the movement.

It looks a lot worse today, the edges are yellowing, and you can still see the blood pooling under his skin. It is honestly a little grotesque to look at.

You scoot the chair closer, sitting directly between his legs. He doesn’t say anything, but he leaned back slightly as you got closer. You look at him, silently telling him you are going to start. Your dominant hand cautiously reached out and your fingertips made tender contact with his skin. He was practically radiating heat. His body was desperately trying to heal this, and quickly.

After closing your eyes you felt the connection click, the healing process beginning.

“The fuck?” Rex tensed, closing his eyes tightly.

“I warned you.”

“Hardly!”

“You should feel what it’s like with a broken bone, it’s so much weirder.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better.”

“Why are you assuming I’m trying to make you feel better?”

Rex doesn’t respond. He is sitting quietly now, it’s almost too quiet. You can hear his breathing, the slight hitches as the pain ebbs and flows. You could feel the pace of his heart under your hand. Elevated. Pain will do that.

You could feel something else now, his eyes on your face. He was watching you. It almost made you dig your fingers in. Determined to make him look away. Instead, you pretended you could not feel his gaze and returned your focus to your job.

All of this bullshit just for him to give in at the chance of you taking back cheap liquor. You almost rolled your eyes. He was so aggravating. But even you knew that you didn’t like the idea of him hating you. Sure, he could dislike you, he had no problem making that clear. But why did he have to vehemently hate you? It would be easier if you thought he was no one of consequence. But he was one of the good guys. You knew his file, the kind of work he did, especially after Omniman and Invincible’s big fight.

Maybe it just bothered you that an ass could still do good things. That was it. You were jealous even. You couldn’t imagine being carefree enough to just be rude to whoever.

That’s not entirely true, you did not find it particularly hard to be mostly nice, but still. It was really getting under your skin.

Suddenly you’re vocalizing it.

“Why do you hate me?” You asked softly, you could still feel his gaze watching you. Your hand gently pressed against the brunt of the wound. You could feel it mending but you had to move slowly, especially with how close you came with the ReAnimen earlier.

“Who said I hated you, Joy?”

“You have been rude to me since the day we met. You don’t even call me my real name.” You shifted your gaze up to his for a moment, his eyes were half-lidded, staring into yours.

After a moment he looked away and took a swig of the drink. “You don’t deserve to be on the Guardians.” Stale, old, overused.

“And that’s it? Something completely out of my control and you use that to hate me?”

“You could tell Cecil you don’t want to be a part of it.”

You gritted your teeth and focused on his chest again, the bruise was shrinking in diameter, a minute or so and he’d be good as new. It was back to the tense silence, but now there was a buzz of irritation. Maybe it was coming from both of you, but it was definitely coming from you.

One minute and you could just leave, or maybe you could just leave it partially healed, it’s not like he deserves much more than that. Pompous, arrogant-

“I don’t hate you.”

You didn’t respond. The remaining time moved extremely slow. With every second that passed you could almost swear you could feel the rhythmic thumping of his heart more.

And then you were done. The ugly purple and yellow coloring was gone and with it the pain. You absent-mindedly trailed your fingers over his skin, making sure you were done. He stiffened slightly and you pulled your hand back. Rex lets out a slow, shaky, exhale. And you’re putting the chair back at the desk.

“I don’t hate you.” He repeats as you are pulling his door open to leave.

Your eyes linger on his face, he’s giving a sad excuse of a slight smile. It almost irks you.

“You have a funny way of showing it.” You retort, leaving him behind you and closing the door.

Author's Note: I am trying out using a fic specific tag at the request of @kittymeowmrow but I am really new to Tumblr so let me know if I am doing it wrong?

divider credit: @/ saradika

Chapter seven

[macabr3-barbi3]

if it interests you, I’d love to see what you do with alastor/dog sinner reader. I think it could be a very interesting dynamic- anyway good work! :)

HI ANON SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG LOL

I ended up combining this with another request from Ao3: "please please please I'd love a rough/teasing/edging (with a lil hate to love twist) oneshot i bet it would be another amazing read owo" from liddlefangirl

Tags: edging, rough, hatesex(?), teasing, Alastor Does Not Like Dogs™️

AS ALWAYS an extra large and mushy thank you to @fraugwinska for being a lovely hype-woman and my Alastor dialogue mentor 🥰

Things were bound to come to a head between you and Alastor eventually- the nature of your Sinner form had guaranteed that when it manifested you with features similar to a dog, the floppy ears of a Beagle drooping off the sides of your head and a sensitive nose to match. 

Charlie had apparently seen no issue with allowing a dog- a hunting dog of all things- in the confined spaces of the Hotel with the deer demon, and his discontent with the situation struck fiercely and often, out of Charlie’s sight, usually in the form of a wayward tentacle tripping you down the stairs or some kind of Eldritch magic moving doors and hallways around so you ended up hopelessly lost and unable to find your room.

Alastor himself avoided you like the plague, only interacting with you when absolutely necessary and with his cane held in front of him like a barrier, like he thought you would attack him unprovoked- even though it was him doing the antagonizing, constantly fucking with you, and the one time you had asked him about it?

“You are quite welcome to leave at any time if the nature of the Hotel is not to your liking!”

The bastard. And even though it wasn’t like you, even though you were at the Hotel for redemption and everything and things like petty revenge should have been beneath you while you tried to improve yourself, you couldn’t resist pushing back a little.

You knew he had some sort of trauma with dogs from his death, so you weren’t trying to actually terrorize the man. You just didn’t let his bullshit get to you anymore- if he tripped you down the stairs you stopped sending a death glare over your shoulder at him, just standing up, dusting yourself off, and suppressing your limp until you were out of sight; when you found yourself in a twisting corridor that you knew hadn’t been there before, you simply picked the closest door and entered it like that was where you had meant to go the entire time. When he took the doors away entirely and just dropped you into an endless hallway with no entrance or exit, you plopped yourself down on the floor and took a book from your pocket to read until the lights went back to normal and the doors returned, indicating his departure.

You even played up some of the more canine aspects of your personality just for his benefit; you scratched at your ears whenever he entered a room; you sometimes barked or howled instead of applauding during some of Charlie’s meetings; you teased Husk incessantly, sometimes playfully ‘chasing’ him around the bar before Alastor left the area, always sure to apologize afterwards and make sure the avian cat knew that you didn’t mean any real harm, that you were just fucking with Alastor a bit.

But as with any war, sometimes there’s a line that shouldn’t be crossed from either side.

You’re walking carefully through the kitchen with a couple buckets of water for Niffty when you spot the shadow snaking out of the corner, and you’re not quick enough to sidestep it this time. You land hard on the floor, covered in hot soapy water, and when you see Alastor watching you from the doorway with that fucking smirk on his face and lowered lashes something in you snaps- the harsh bark of anger that rumbles from your throat is entirely genuine, as is the fear that seems to flash in his eyes before his smile grows cruel and he snaps his fingers.

There’s a muzzle around your face, the straps of it far too tight and digging into your skin before you can even get a chance to try and tear it off, and the yip of pain that escapes you hurts your sensitive ears combined with the laugh track that comes out of Alastor’s microphone.

“Ahh, isn’t that a sight? Muzzled at last, as every wretched mutt should be.” Apparently the sight of the muzzle makes him brave- he steps closer, reveling in being above you. “You know, in my time the strays weren’t even allowed indoors- how kind of Charlie to open the doors of the Hotel to you and the infestation of fleas that you’ve no doubt brought with you.” 

In lieu of a verbal response, you take advantage of his proximity and swipe at his ankles with your foot- his shadows don’t have time to react and catch him before he’s on the ground beside you, caught in an awkward crouch as he tries to flee before he’s fully landed. You snarl at him, sharp teeth bared behind the wire of the muzzle, still able to be seen and heard even if you can’t use them on him as you pounce, tackling him flat to the wet floor. 

Whether it's the shock of the move or something else, you’ll never understand why he doesn’t call on his shadows to assist. Instead, he lunges back, flipping your positions around, water splashing and scattering as the two of you essentially wrestle on the floor, harsh words and snapping teeth as you both try to bow the other into submission. He manages to get the upper hand, pinning you to the floor by your wrists, both your breathing heavy, sweat lining your brow, growling low in your throat while you try to wriggle out from under him. “Take the muzzle off,” you say.

“So you can bite me? I think not.”

“Take. The fucking muzzle. Off.” You stay locked in a dead stare, and when he doesn’t make any move to get off of you or reach for the straps of the contraption on your head you try once again to twist loose, managing to get your feet up under you to try and buck him off with your hips like some kind of wild horse. It accomplishes two things, neither of them what you wanted to happen.

First, you become aware of a dampness to your panties that is not just a result of your tumble across the wet floor; the fight-or-flight instinct combined with the adrenaline of the impromptu fight on the floor, ending with you pinned under a strong, powerful (sexy, even if he’s an ass) demon, means that your body has completely misconstrued what was happening here.

The second is that Alastor becomes aware of that the same moment that you do.

His eyes light up with malicious interest. “How interesting,” he murmurs, taking in the light tremble of your body, the likely dilation of your pupils and how hard you’re breathing. “Not just a feral mutt but a bitch in heat as well it would seem!”

Shame warms you from the inside out, burning in tandem with the arousal making itself known with the flush of your skin. “Fuck you,” you hiss through your teeth, but it’s weak, needy rather than demanding like you intend it to be. “Just- get off me, let me up-”

You continue to try to get out from under Alastor, attempting to buck your hips again to dislodge him. Quick as a whip there’s a tentacle wrapped around your wrist when he lets it go to dig his fingers into the skin of your hips, keeping you bowed nearly in a bridge. Your legs tremble from the strain of the position, and when Alastor presses his own hips down to meet yours you can’t help the cut off moan that escapes you at the feeling of his heavy erection pressing against your core.

“Get off? Are you quite sure?” He grinds against you, making you whimper when the drag of his cock through his slacks rubs under your skirt, against where you’re wet and sensitive. “You know, the one good thing about dogs is that they can be trained; by either rewarding them with a treat, or by whipping them into submission… perhaps there’s a mutually beneficial arrangement that can be made for us, depending on your preference on the matter."

“I’m not making a fucking deal with you,” you mutter, turning away from him, and a new tentacle slips around the other side of you to grab at your wrist so Alastor can release that one as well, using his now free hand to twist your face to meet his eyes over the cage of the muzzle.

“Who said anything about a deal? It’s a proposal- we can continue as we have been until you inevitably aggravate me to the point that I rip you apart, Charlie’s opinions on the matter be damned.” He lets go of your face to trail his hand down your throat, squeezing softly before continuing a path down your body to rest on your other hip, dragging your body up against his and properly slotting one of his thighs between your legs. “Or you can be a good dog and let me be the master with a firm hand that you seem to so desperately need to straighten your... flaws out, and make you at least bearable to have around my Hotel.”

When you hesitate, he taps the bars around your mouth. “I’ll even take the muzzle off at the end,” he says, “permitted that you prove to me that you can behave .”

And it shouldn’t be hot, the way that he says that; like you’re some unruly fleabag that needs to be fucked to act properly, like you were the one causing problems instead of just reacting to the ones he was creating. But the pressure of his leg against your sensitive clit, even through both of your layers of clothing, is sinfully delicious, and you can’t help but wonder what exactly Alastor as a ‘master’ would entail.

You force your muscles to relax, going slack against the Radio Demon, and he smiles wide and dangerous as he lowers your back down to the puddle of cooling water beneath you, still clinging to the faint lemony scent of the cleaner that Niffty uses. “Good girl,” he says quietly, and the praise floods your brain like a drug. “Obedience is a treasured trait in a pet, don’t you think? Even in one that’s a brazen tart- the slightest hint that I’ll touch you and you acquiesce so easily, how lovely.”

He releases his grip on your hip to reach up and rub your ear between his fingers; the action makes you whimper in your throat, the soft skin there thin and sensitive as he pays attention to it, slowly stroking while the thumb of his other hand rubs arcs across your stomach where your shirt had ridden up in the tumble across the floor. His touch sends shivers through your body, a perceptible tremor that he sees and delights in in his wild grin is anything to go by. “Go on,” he encourages, his fingers not ceasing their movements. “Tell me you’ll be obedient. Tell me you’ll be good for me.”

You grit your teeth behind the muzzle and nod as well as you can with his hand on your ear. Saying it out loud felt like a step too far, would feel like losing something to him.

Both hands tighten their grip, the prick of claws against your skin forcing a gasp from your lips. “Even young puppies can follow a basic command,” he mocks, and the hand on your hip shifts to dip below your waistband, his fingers quickly finding the slick heat of your cunt and rubbing teasingly along your entrance. “Come on now, don’t you want a treat? Speak.”

“Fuck you- yes, I’ll be fucking good,” you mutter, and he tuts in disapproval, pressing hard against your clit before starting to retreat. “Wait, no-”

“I won’t repeat myself again,” he says lowly, hand poised to exit your panties, possibly to leave you soaked and wanting on the kitchen floor as he disappears into the shadows.

You glare at him, even as the words bubble from your throat in desperation, wanting his dexterous fingers on your pussy again. “Yes, I’ll be good for you.”

His grin sharpens. “Lovely. And I am a man of my word…” His fingers return to your folds with a fierce vengeance, his thumb swiping hard against your clit as one of his thin, strong fingers dips inside, followed swiftly by another as they press against the sweet bundle of nerves inside you and stroke the soft skin there with unerring accuracy and pressure. The action makes your body tense, a rush of heat through your entire being as he rockets you towards a swift and sloppy orgasm with little more than a couple fingers and his hand rubbing the skin of your ears.

His gaze is fire as he looks down at you, the weight of his erection still straining his pants where it rests against your thigh as he crouches above you. “Who could have guessed it would be so easy to get you to listen to me? Why, had I known you were such a desperate harlot I may have taken your metaphorical leash in hand a bit sooner if that was all it took!”

You can’t respond as the pleasure builds in your body, shaking and whining in your throat as your orgasm builds, fingers inside you never ceasing in their movements as your walls clench around them. You won’t give him the satisfaction of crying out, biting your lip behind the muzzle to suppress the sound as well as you can; you’re helpless to the force of your release as it grows, cresting, and-

Alastor pulls away, his fingers pulling out of your fluttering hole, the slick of your arousal trailing out along with it before he brings his hand to his mouth. You can see the hint of his tongue darting between the digits as he cleans them, oblivious- or uncaring- of your incredulous stare at your ruined orgasm, so close you could fucking taste it before he ripped you back from the edge.

“What the fuck, Alastor?”

“I can’t have you making a mess already,” he says, your pussy clenching around nothing as he sucks on his fingers as if in thought. “Wouldn’t that be a shame?”

“‘A shame’ is not letting me fucking finish,” you snarl at him, his grip on your ear preventing you from being able to turn away, tentacles still keeping you restrained so that you can’t finish the job your goddamn self. “Get off me, I’ll fucking do it-” 

“I have no need for a naughty pet, you know,” he murmurs quietly, and the tone of his voice makes you freeze in your half-hearted struggles to get free. “Perhaps if you can learn to ask for what you want instead of simply expecting me to give it to you we might get somewhere! What do you say, my dear?”

You start to nod by default before remembering his earlier command- speak. If you wanted to cum it would be best to do as he asks. “Yes,” you say, and he tears your panties from your body and positions his fingers. “Please,” you add on a moan when he delves back into your wet heat, repositioning so that he can grind his erection against the soft skin of your thigh again.

“Let’s see if you can do this correctly this time,” he muses. “Be sure to use your words, darling- tell me when you’re about to finish.”

And he’s back to the task at hand, pistoning his fingers in and out of your drenched cunt with unerring precision, stroking that spot inside of you that made your breath come quicker and your body start to tense again. Too soon you can feel the orgasm creeping back up on you, tears budding in your eyes as the pleasure and the pressure becomes too much, too fast. You’re tempted- so tempted- to ignore his demand, to just race towards completion and damn the consequences if you could cum before he realized it was happening and stopped again. Then you think about the way he had called you “good girl” earlier and despite how much you hate him and this situation, you want that again.

You crave the praise, the rush of endorphins and pleasure that it sent racing through your head. It’s the thought of this that has you choking out, “c-close,” when the edge gets a little too near; instead of pulling off entirely, Alastor merely slows, brings down the intensity of his actions enough that you can breathe, the wave of ecstasy fading before it can crash.

“So you are a quick learner,” he says, something like pride in his voice, and he finally releases his grip on your ear; the disappointed whimper that escapes you at this doesn’t go unnoticed as he trails his hand down your body, cupping your breast while his fingers continue to pump slowly, too lazily to bring that buzz back to your limbs. “There might be hope for you yet. Shall we go again?”

And again.

And again.

You lose track of how many times he does this- bringing you right to the brink, waiting for you to vocalize how close you are before he stops, repositions, and starts over. You’ve nearly cum on his fingers, tongue, and a tentacle that slithered up between your bodies, your words failing you the longer he denies you- he eases up on your shadowy restraints enough that you can reach up to grab at his clothing or hands once your voice seems to stop working, nothing coming out but a litany of moans and whines with no words attached to them. He reads your sounds like the words of a book, knowing exactly when to stop to leave you the most frustrated. His eyes rarely leave your face unless its to look down at whatever appendage he’s fucking you with, his cock still constrained within his slacks, hot and hard where he ruts against you when he can.

This time, when he lets you come back from the edge, his fingers drop to pull at his belt, the metal clink of the fastening loud in the kitchen as he pulls himself free, prick flushed a deep red and the slick sheen of precum beading at the tip, stroking down the shaft with a hiss. His smile is strained, a faint tremor to his expression and limbs from holding out on his own pleasure for so long. “Is this what you want?” He asks, low and dangerous, rubbing the head of his cock against your folds, the evidence of how many times you’ve almost cum dripping from your core to the drying floor.

You nod, barely able to speak, to do much more than cling to him for dear life and jerk your head up and down in the affirmative.

He cocks his head to one side, an eyebrow arched even as he presses forward with his hips, the tip of him a blazing heat where he rests against you. “You can do better than that,” he says, “or has all our training been for nothing? Beg.” 

“Please,” you whisper, your voice a broken, raspy thing in your throat, and he purrs in satisfaction, bucking his hips as he uses a hand to bring a leg up around his hip. 

“Please what, dear?” Alastor takes his hand off his cock now, an experimental thrust against you sinking the tip of him inside you, the stretch of it burning in the most delicious way even with how long he had been preparing you. Even he stops to take a moment, a low hiss escaping his lips at how tight you are around him. “Go on- no more edging, this is the last time, and you’ve done so well thus far. Such a well behaved mutt, aren’t you? Tell me what you want.”

And even with the barbed insult in there, the pleasure of his words zips through your body like a bolt of lightning, the floodgates of your voice open and overrun. “Please, please, Alastor,” you whine, and with every word he presses harder into you, spearing you on his length with every cry from your mouth. “God, please, fuck me- please, I- let me cum, I need it, please-”

Alastor finally bottoms out inside you, the heavy weight of his balls slapping against your ass as he grips your hips with an almost possessive ferocity. “Good girl,” he growls, leaning forward to lick and suck at the delicate skin of your throat. It should be frightening, his sharp teeth so close to your jugular, but all you can think about is how fucking perfectly he’s stretching you, the harsh bolts of pleasure that spark through your body and make your head fuzzy as he pulls back only far enough to slam back in, hitting that spot inside that he had been teasing with his fingers and tongue for however long it had been now. “We might make a proper pet of you yet, darling- fuck, you feel too perfect.”

It’s the first time he’s vocalized his own pleasure the entire time, the first bit of praise meant for how your body makes him feel and not just how well you can follow orders. It swims through your brain like the buzz of whiskey, another wave of arousal crashing through you and reflecting in the gush of wetness where you’re connected with Alastor. The feeling of it makes him curse again, eyes glowing black and red as he pulls back and watches you, your mouth open and panting behind the wire cage of the muzzle. You can feel the faint ache of the marks he’s left on your skin, where his teeth had nipped and drawn traces of blood that pool in the soapy water below you. His body snaps sharply each time he thrusts into you, chasing his own orgasm through your body as you cling to him, unintelligible sounds that only seem to spur him on as they fall from your lips.

Another orgasm builds, one that Alastor has promised to actually give to you, and the ‘training’ has been effective enough thus far that your mouth is open before you can consciously think about it. “Close, c-close, please, Alastor- gonna cum, please let me, I’ll be good, fuck-”

“Do it,” he demands, a hand releasing your hip to brush over your swollen clit, sensitive and sore but fuck it still feels good, gives an edge to the need that has you clenching hard around Alastor’s length. “You’ve earned it, so well behaved for me- for me alone, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, yes- please please please, fuck, I-”

The ability to speak leaves you with a well timed and well angled thrust as Alastor fucks into you, fingers rubbing at the sensitive nerves at the apex of your thighs at the same moment; the world beyond the fluttering of your cunt around Alastor’s cock shatters and dissolves into nothingness. You just barely register his own harsh grunts and a couple pulses of white-hot heat inside you before he pulls out, the rest of his cum dripping onto the bare skin of your pussy and combining with the mess you’ve made from your own release.

Slowly the feeling returns to your limbs, everything in your lower body still faintly clenching and twitching with the aftershocks of your orgasm, having been kept at the edge for what felt like hours before you were permitted to take the final leap. When you finally open your eyes, Alastor is still knelt between your thighs- he uses a couple of fingers to scoop the mess of his cum from your skin and push it back inside, the feeling of it making you shiver. Once he’s satisfied, he rubs his thumbs in small circles against the skin of your inner thighs, and it takes a moment to realize what he’s doing.

“Are you fucking- that’s not lotion, asshole,” you say weakly, head falling back against the floor, and he merely chuckles and continues to smear the remnants of his release against your flesh.

He stops, tucking his soft cock back into his pants and doing his buttons back up. “I thought ‘marking one’s territory’ was a dog behavior- one would think you would be flattered! Though I suppose you can always wash it off- you do shower, yes?”

You kick weakly at him, not too irritated when he steps away. You fix your skirt, pulling it down over the evidence of your afternoon. “Fuck off, yes I shower,” you mutter, trying to rise to standing and glaring at your shaky legs when they won’t comply. “Trust me, first chance I get I’m going to- hey!”

Alastor pulls you to standing with his hands under your arms, the motion sending you careening into his chest. He stares down at you for a moment, his hand reaching up to cup the back of your neck, fingers carding softly through your hair. Your pulse stutters and increases as he leans in- was he going to kiss you?- and your eyes clench shut, waiting…

There’s a clink of metal, the straps of the muzzle loosening at last and letting the cage fall from your face, landing neatly in the grasp of a nearby shadow. “I did promise to take the muzzle off if you could behave,” he murmurs. “And you’ve shown me you can- well done.” He steps away then, the muzzle vanishing with a snap and the wrinkles in his clothing straightening out. “I should be off! I put off quite a bit of work for our… training,” he says with a smirk, and you feel the blush light up your face. “Do come see me if you think you can handle more- there’s always more treats to be had for a good pet.” He drops a hand to the top of your head, pats a couple times like one might to a real dog, and fades into shadows just as Niffty appears in the doorway of the kitchen. 

She wrinkles her nose. “Phew, it smells like wet dog in here! Did you spill my water? You better not let Alastor find out, I don’t think he likes you very much!“

“Don’t worry, Niff- I need to have a word with him soon anyway,” you mutter. “Let me help you clean this up…”

She fetches the mops, leaving you alone in the kitchen to wonder exactly how open Alastor’s offer to come see him for another ‘session’ was. Judging from the laughter you can almost hear echoing from the shadows at your furious blush when Niffty returns and notices a spot on the floor where Alastor's cum had dripped out of you onto the tiles, you'd say the next time couldn't come fast enough.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

savanaclaw light novel: the importance of introspection

I’ve previously discussed how TWST benefits from telling us the same story across different mediums. Different mediums provide different benefits over others, and some can “patch up” rougher bits of story or add more detail to them. The game is interactive and serves as a baseline for most new content. The manga is able to have far more freedom of movement and expression due to being visual-heavy. And last, but not least, a light novel, which is mostly text, has the boon of letting us see more of each character’s thoughts and feelings. We can elaborate on what the game already established and understand the characters on a deeper level.

I would say that the light novel’s format will most benefit the OB boys, as they are the ones who will go through the biggest character arcs in the main story. Because the game’s story is told via mostly dialogue and some sound effects, we rarely, if ever, get a clear understanding of what the OB boys are truly thinking and feeling outside of their brief post-OB flashbacks. The same goes for the manga, which has limited pages to tell its story, so it has to keep a certain pace. But a light novel? Well, you can go ham there with an omniscient narrator.

Today, I want to talk about Leona’s expanded post-OB introspection in the second volume of the light novel as an example of this. Then I will combine it with the information we have from the game and see how the light novel complements what already we know of his character thanks to hindsight. (I’ll be referencing this fan translation if you want to read and follow along!)

First thing’s first! From the game, we know that Leona enrolled in Night Raven College one year late (and then got held back a year, which makes sense considering he is 20 in the main story present). He didn't find a use in attending school since he, by royal birth, was able to afford all the best tutors in the world and didn't think NRC had anything left to teach him. In Leona's Birthday Boy vignettes, he further specifies that he decided to enroll at NRC after Cheka was born. As Leona says in his post-OB flashback in-game, Cheka's birth means "the despised second son loses what little claim he had to the throne forever", essentially putting an end to his hopes. This would imply that this specific change in circumstance was the push that made Leona want to physically distance himself from home. Furthermore, it's supported by Leona's other behaviors: he does not take calls or read letters from home if he can help it (implied by Cheka asking why Leona doesn't answer his letters and Cheka calling on Halloween night to catch up with him; Leona lies and quickly hangs up), he makes excuses to avoid going home (as Kifaji states), etc. If we want to extrapolate even more, how is it that Leona, second born prince, initially crossed paths with Ruggie, who was born and raised in the slums (which, I imagine, must be quite some distance away from the royal palace)? This makes me think that even before Leona enrolled at NRC he would leave his housing and roam around, finding alternative places to stay because home just felt too uncomfortable and suffocating for him. There's also the implication that Leona often brooded over his circumstances, as he confesses to thinking about it and going to NRC to get his mind away from the tired cycle--although he also acknowledges that he's running away from "the pain" of having lost the throne.

The distancing would prove itself to be beneficial to his mental health, as Leona cites that his heart started feeling lighter, his restlessness dulled, and his pain numbed. With the throne out of sight, so, too, was it out of mind, and his longing softened. But that same haunting despair returns when another group starts to place expectations on him. This time, it's no longer the palace servants, but his own dorm members. Instead of fear and derision, his new pack looks at him, their "king", with desperateness--and, more importantly, hope. Speaking about the future with sparkling eyes. That, in turn, made Leona hopeful too. He can't let these people who look up to him and rely on him down, so he must do anything to win. That's all he ever wanted: to win, just this once. No matter what, he wants to win.

But when Leona's plans crumble, that crushing sense of despair rears its ugly head. He fails. And he suddenly understands that all his efforts will always amount to nothing, that they will always be meaningless, that there is no future for him. Leona's hopes have been dashed. He has been struck down by the world once again, just as he had started to climb up, fighting tooth and nail, to prove himself. Yet when defeat came, he also claims it doesn't bother him as much as he thought he would--perhaps because he's so accustomed to not winning, because maybe this is the outcome he had expected all along in the deepest recesses of his heart. That familiar disappointment begins to hurt him once more, and Leona wants to forget it all, to retreat to the shadows and to lick his wounds, to be far away from that pain.

One interesting new detail we glean from the light novel is that Leona is terrified by his dorm mates staring at him with hopeful eyes. It's not their expectations he's inherently scared of, but what those expectations can do to him. Leona is scared of himself, of being motivated by others to act, to never give up hope, when he still anticipates being beat down again and again by a world that rejects him and denies him. He even goes so far as to say he would be pathetic if he let his dorm mates' words inspire him and keep his waning hope alive. Ruggie, who had wanted to turn the world upside down together. Jack, who was inspired by his play three years back. All the mobs putting faith in their futures on him, their one and only leader. With so many people looking to him, how can he not be swayed by that positivity that had once been so elusive to him? How could that not ignite what little spark of hope is left in him? And that's exactly what Leona finds so dangerous about it. He's lived almost his entire life being put in his place, hurt every time he tried to demonstrate what he could do, how he could contribute--yet time and time again, here comes life, tempting him to try again, just to inevitably be compared to his brother and kicked down, delivering another blow to his pride and his self-image. Leona truly seems to hate himself for not being able to let go of that small fragment of hope he has left. He wants so badly to give up and not have to worry anymore about something he can never obtain. He's so tired of struggling and suffering for nothing. If he just caved, then he would never be hurt again. He can't be hurt if he doesn't care about anything. Yet no matter how much he wishes or tries, he can't run far enough away to detach himself from those expectations of grandeur, of being something more.

There's been many fan theories about Leona's mental health in circulation well before the release of this light novel, many of which mention self-loathing in spite of how proud and confident he typically presents as. You'd have to read in-between the lines of dialogue from the game to draw these clues out, whereas the light novel lays it more bare to you. It hits very differently reading hateful statements made by the character to himself. Leona calls himself all sorts of things: a fool, pathetic, insignificant, boring. That he isn't strong, that he isn't wise, that he's not loved. (In the in-game flashback, Leona also talks in a self-deprecating way, but to a far lesser extent than in the light novel; we also see that Falena does his best to discourage Leona from this kind of behavior.) That this is who he is, that it's the one thing he's afraid to admit and accept--but he also says he lacks the "strength" to give up. That's why Leona would rather run away than confront that potential truth. The option to embrace complete nihilism just isn't possible for him, because he can't just quash that pesky little thing called hope. This is much more complex than what's explained in the games and demonstrates a maturity and degree of self-reflection from Leona that we've never seen before. What's more, this gives us brand new context with which to view many of his other seemingly mundane actions mentioned in the game. At face value, Leona often acts very callously and doesn't care to help others unless he gets some kind of benefit from it (like agreeing to poof the contracts in book 3 just because he has his own deal he wants to get rid of). We see this time and time again when he instructs others reliant on him or less knowledgeable than he is in various matters where he is well-read and experienced with. For example, he takes note of his club members' strengths and weaknesses and offers tailored advice to help them improve their play. He tells others how to mine magestones of an adequate size in Vargas Camp. Maybe he's just doing these things to make the circumstances easier for himself (so he can put forth less effort to leading them in a game, or so he can nap heartily). But from what we've just learned from the light novel, now I'm suspecting a different secondary motive.

What if... Leona is, in part, encouraging and helping others to hone their own skills to subconsciously compensate for what he doesn't believe he himself is capable of? Because there's still so much hope for his dorm mates, for his underclassmen... (and, let's not forget, it was those in Savanaclaw that first motivated Leona to "try" again for the first time in forever) but he doesn't have that same amount of hope for himself. I get these vibes as late as book 6, when Leona and Jamil have a talk. In their conversation, Leona directs many pointed, blunt words at Jamil--words that could very easily also be thrown back at Leona's face and be applicable to his book 2 self. He accuses Jamil of making excuses so he won't have to actually act, just as Leona has continuously run away from uncomfortable situations to put himself at ease. At one point, I believe Leona event states that Jamil “*isn’t like [me]”, Here, again, it can be argued that we're seeing Leona's self-awareness on display, as well as a willingness to warn others to not follow down the same path he once treaded, to lose all hope in the future. Again, it's done with a double purpose: the other one being to get Jamil out of his way while they're exploring. And (of course) Leona's way of expressing his message is gruff and not very warm, not to Jamil and certainly not to himself. He's become prickly and defensive himself after all of his experiences--but that just adds to the complexity of his character when we synthesize what we know of him from TWST multimedia.

I really wish a lot of what was in the light novel post-Leona OB was also in the game. It would have helped to flesh out Leona's motivations and fears, which book 2 was sorely needing. As he is presented now, he appears shallow and selfish in his goals, and we don't fully understand the emotions spurring him on, a lot of which is genuine self-loathing and the sinking despair that comes with thinking you're not enough and you'll never be enough. That would have been so much more relatable than the in-game Leona having himself a pity party with a great amount of emphasis on the throne--a throne which, in actuality, just symbolizes a desire for recognition, love, and acceptance. It was never about explicitly being king. It was about being seen as his own person and appreciated for it instead of being admonished and compared to his exalted older brother.

Now, as an adult, Leona has become someone who pushes away those who try to give him that which he craves. He sees a lot of people--his own family and his dorm mates, the closest thing he has to friends--as dangers to his own mental wellbeing. He's scared to let them in, so he's built up these emotional, arrogant walls around himself. Think at how often he rejects advice from Falena and refuses Cheka's affection for him. Look at how this behavior extends beyond those who are keeping him from a literal throne and to his classmates. They instill hope in him, hope which scares Leona. The things he has wanted all his life are now poison that chips away at him. Considering all of that together, it makes Leona's story far more tragic than how it was initially shown to us in the game alone. But guess what? That can also become his strength, fuel for his character arc. Leona isn't running anymore. He's actually returning home for winter break in book 4. He's determined to not get held back again. He's committing to an internship in a field (an energy lab) which will immensely help his country (which is rich in natural resources). All of this, coming from a young man who once acted bitter when his older brother suggested that there were many things Leona could do with his intelligence to benefit their homeland. Leona is making slow strides and steady progress toward a future he used to think was unattainable for him. From that darkness, he's rising anew--like the sun upon the savanna.

[notsosmallbean]

saw the musical!!!!

not sure if there's a point to just noting every thing I liked about the musical in general (too much to count), but here are some bits i specifically liked a lot about the exact experience I had in orlando on the 20th of january 2025.

as is public information, the cast was Morgan Traud (Amanda et al) James Lynch (Adam et al) and Adam Forward (Lawrence et al). I would let any and all of them have my kidneys. There are a good number of recordings (within the context) of James and Morgan performing on YouTube. I have not yet found Adam Forward singing any of his songs, and he was so funny and perfect for the role that this is a crime. please let me know where I can see more than the 1 minute video my friend has of him cutting his foot off <3

I really specifically like the exact bit of condom dialogue during wrong place, wrong time that they gave us yesterday: (upon pulling out the huge strips of condoms) "would you believe these were a gift..?" "FROM WHO?" "...my mom" - (he may have actually said "my mommy", but I have the memory of someone who benefits from all the flashbacks in these movies) anyway I really like that way of doing it

every actor for Adam online of course does his faggy little voice but OH MAN. James was COMICALLY whiney the entire show. I cannot make it clear to what extent this was, because looking at videos over time is indicating that he started off like a year ago being a bit whiney and has ramped it up immensely over time

Is the pig mask meant to fall apart before the Amanda then/now song? the hair was on one end of the stage and the pig head was on the other.

At Lawrence's request for applause during You Make it Hard For Me, the crowd went wild. In the same vein, there were a couple bits where Morgan RELISHED in the applause. damn right queen. I believe it was after Amanda's first song she just stood and nodded. Then after the Alison/Zep fight she gestured for more applause when it started dying off and then silenced the crowd after a few moments (a la Farquaad in shrek the musical, if I'm honest).

Honestly I think the audience was just really reactive versus certain recordings. The first song was a bit of a struggle for me to hear, but everything else it really enhanced my enjoyment getting to have other people laugh along at the "key in your eye" bit and such. Like yes! community!

GOING BACK A COUPLE, there was a bit during You Make it Hard For Me where the blowup doll pegs Lawrence. Very Funny.

Another bit idk if it's regularly what happens, but when James went to break the mirror the second time, he entirely missed the mirror. hit nowhere near it. and then there was just glass confetti out of nowhere.

That happened a lot, actually. James and Adam both committed so hard to the shitty overhand throws that there were several points where they had to throw things twice. I may be misremembering, but when James had to throw Adam the key for the box, he essentially threw it at the floor 2 or 3 times, prompting "I've been on stage right this whole time" before there was a successful throw

"what are you doing?" "rigor mortis... bleh"

Every time an actor made eye/camera contact while I was photographing them, I was so embarrassed. i promise i was not bootlegging, I just needed literally 200 photos of what is to date one of my best days of all time

James duel-wielding sex toys trying to get the tape player

it was a small venue, so billy's handler started down on the floor with his trike after Amanda's song. he gave up after going maybe 5 feet and then carried it most of the way onstage

Certainly not specific to this showing but oh my GOD the apartment kidnapping combat goes so hard. Accidentally started cheering when she took that twink down, apologies.

Related: the violence of the foot-sawing and gunshot both hit so perfectly. both of them were so physically impactful, because Adam and James both lined up perfectly the blood/movements/sounds to the point that I was shocked it could be done with blood packs.

That is except of course when Adam seemed to recognize the splatters were not actually reaching the splash zone and purposefully started flinging blood into the audience. 10/10

Not technically in regards to the show itself, but afterwards I bought a bit of merch and was stood nearby to the table gushing to my friends when the man selling things got my attention to give me a not-yet-for-sale design they're testing for some sort of trading card of adam?? exhilarating, I feel so honored <33

Might reblog with more things as I remember them! overall I had such a splendid time and want to catalogue as much as possible because of aforementioned bad memory. I love saw and I love live theater!!! I wish this was a permanent installation in florida so I could go every couple weeks

[inanimateinsanitywiki]

okay enough smacking the blue chipmunk's corpse with a stick time for my actual review of the remaster so far

i liked it!! i understand why some people didn't, but i feel like it found a good balance between new and old dialogue and jokes. it feels more like a refurbishment than a full blown ship of theseus situation. i definitely noticed it's a lot faster paced than the original, but i feel like that's a mix of both the crew getting better and snappier at writing, and modern cartoons being faster paced in general. i can definitely feel the absence of how genuine the original felt, however. the remaster feels a bit too self aware of the fact that it's doo doo ass and often feels like it's winking and nudging at the audience. i don't know how that could have been avoided though, unfortunately 💔 i do like the new jokes added in their own way though! you still get the feeling that the cast is a bunch of freshly formed homunculi instead of the well-rounded people most of them ended up becoming. i say most because. looks at salt. don't worry guys salt character arc in s4 trust

by the way since i'm sure you're all curious how Knife Guy feels about his new voice, i like it so far!! you can tell it's a different person, but it doesn't feel jarring. that's honestly impressive given how distinct knife's voice is, but they surprised me with how on-point's bow's voice was in the finale, so i guess adam's just gotten good at recasting characters after having to do it approximately one shitillion times over the past 14 years. (also i think knife's new va is a trans woman like bow's current va? trans women are carrying this show's cast at this point everyone say thank you trans women).

on the topic of voices though, i'm a little bummed they didn't get a chris mcclean impersonator on board to do mephone's "host" voice. there's obviously no way they could get potenza back after all the shit that's come out about him over the years, but there are SO many voice actors who can do a nearly one-to-one chris impression, the person who voices chris in the comprehensive roast of total drama videos would have been perfect. it just feels like a missed opportunity.

also they got rid of the elephant shit you CAN'T DO THAT!!! okay i'm joking i get why they did lol. the gross-out humor earlier on was definitely a result of the show being made by teenage boys and i imagine they wanna move past that. i will miss the elephant feces, but i will come to terms with losing her despite it all.

anyways i'll rate the episode on a scale of 1-10 hows that sound. as both a remaster and standalone episode it gets a solid 7/10 from me!! my main fear when the remaster was announced was that they would be fully updating it to match the standards of modern seasons, but they managed to maintain a healthy amount of the earlier crust, and i can still look at it and go "yeah. that's inanimate insanity season one!!" good job mario and luigi. yes we are calling brian and adam mario and luigi now. no more core four or key three. it's mario and luigi. and it's awesome.

anyways i'm expecting someone to draw bookshelf as a beautiful fat butch woman by the end of the day. that's not even just because it would benefit me personally (i'm not into women) i just know that someone is gonna do it. and i will send it to all my lesbian friends and they will all go "hell yeah" and it will be so cool