#and in grand scheme of things the way he interacts with ''activism''.. its not for him/about him.

[linktube]

i think its some of damiens responsiblity to think what kinda relationship he cultivaded with his fans. and why is centering his need for explaning, defending and further protecting his self/image is his knee jerk reaction. unless you do those things a social media break is just another way of image management. plus it wont feel better when you come back and you are still centering your image which causes you too act defensive/childish. you cant support things thru acts of fear and nervousness and not expact them to crumble! i know people joked abour his virtue signalling in the past, and they are jokes, but its a curious thing people notice that around him enough to point that out. i hope he can actually look into that part of himself with a more honest critical lense.also these twitch stream where he wants this magicaly ''positive'' enviroment where people can ''escape'' is just unrealistic at best. this is a livestream where people rush on each other to talk to you. its by nature feeding into these things im afraid if you wont allow friction there, you'll fall into cencoring. positivity is not the warm blanket you think it is, its more of a trap lol

[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.”

[dois-funnyzone]

some thoughts on partitio and agnea's traveler stories and their ultimate contribution to the connecting plot of octopath traveler 2

i recently finished my second playthrough of octopath 2, and it was really fun because it reminded me on why this game is very special to me in spite of its flaws, as well as give me new reasons to appreciate it and its efforts to better connect all eight traveler stories to a grander plot than the first octopath game.

when i first played octopath 2, i thought agnea's story was pretty disappointing since it was the one that connected the least to the big bads behind the game's final chapter and was very low-stakes and lighthearted. however, after reading some folks' opinions on the game + reexperiencing the whole package for myself, i've softened up to her a bit and really appreciate the role she plays in the story, even if it might not be to the same level as the other travelers. (i'm also lumping partitio into this even though his connections are a little tighter + he's not as talked about regarding this issue since i feel like he and agnea's stories have similar ideas and tone)

this was originally apart of a grand infodump on the game i made after finishing the epilogue that i wanted to isolate into its own post!

some spoilers abound, up to the very end of octopath traveler 2 (with some mentions of stuff revealed in octopath traveler 1's endgame)

so the final chapter of octopath traveler 2 pretty much ties key characters and events together through the moonshade order, whose members were involved in all eight characters' stories in order to enact their plan to bring about eternal night. a common criticism of agnea's story is that her connections to this overarching scheme are pretty loose.

each traveler has a major member of the moonshade order involved in some way or another. temenos was acquainted with mindt, who turned out to be arcanette, the current leader and mastermind behind it all. castti's colleague trousseau was involved in the cult's activities as well, utilizing the shadow to spread pestilence after being corrupted by their teachings.

in agnea's case, her connection to this order is tanzy, who is a very minor character all things considered in her story. she was a member of giselle's traveling troupe, and she often mentions a "goddess" in most of her dialogue (who we later find out was referring to arcanette, who manipulated her into the order's cause). what gets to a lot of people is that agnea, upon finding out about tanzy's fate during the final chapter (that she was used and sacrificed by arcanette in order to further the moonshade order's ambitions), has zero reaction or comment about it. not even giselle, coda, and rico, the only other people that have actually met and interacted with tanzy, have anything to say about tanzy's noticable absence during the reunion during the epilogue, making tanzy as agnea's link to the moonshade order feel strange, especially compared to other members who had a slightly more active role in the other travelers' stories.

since i'm also talking about partitio, i might as well explain his connection as well: his story's moonshade order member is ori, a scrivener that always seems to appear out of nowhere. we learn in the final chapter that she was actually keeping tabs on a bunch of the other travelers (even appearing at osvald's trial at the beginning of his story) to gather information for the moonshade order. ori was a pretty important character, but her involvement with partitio's story is that she was Always There (that's the best i can put it), and partitio was sort of doing his own thing.

he and agnea's stories are the only ones to make no mention of The Shadow or any of d'arquest's shenanigans, and they're also a lot more lighthearted in tone, so they might feel a bit out of place when trying to connect them to the other travelers' stories and how they connect to the overarching plot. does that mean they served no purpose? not so! i think they’re relevant in their own way.

partitio and agnea’s story are about hope and forging a future that’s worth fighting and living for. partitio is all about bringing about prosperity to all and seeks to overcome the gigantic task of buying the rights to the steam engine so he can freely distribute it for the better. his resolve to help others is precisely what gets ori to doubt her nihilistic worldview instilled in her by the moonshade order, and it's what keeps her alive when she attempts to sacrifice herself at the fellsun ruins. ori states in her journal that she believes people, businessmen like partitio, are all destined to fall into the pitfall of greed that makes people suffer, much like how roque brilliante turned out, yet partitio’s compassion changes her mind. it’s really cool, even if it’s a detail buried among a sea of other stuff you have to read to piece everything together. (love the final chapter and its plot revelations, but yeah it's sort of disappointing that a lot of information is obtained through reading ori's journal rather than any kind of interaction between all of the members, but alas)

agnea on the surface has a really lighthearted story that doesn’t really have a natural place to mention the death cult lurking in the shadows of everyone’s story or the supernatural magic that will be used to bring about eternal night (see again, tanzy’s very minor presence compared to other moonshade order members). i thought the same at first after my first playthrough. HOWEVER! her story, more than anyone else’s, IS about hope, the main theme of the game. her final battle theme + the thing she works on her whole story is uniquely called the ‘song of hope’. she’s the only traveler to not have a version of the final battle theme; rather than being an epic clash between her greatest foe, it's a triumphant, uplifting song that she debuts in her "battle" with dolcinea ('song of hope' is such an amazing song too, perhaps my favorite in the ost). her journey involves inspiring others to keep moving forward in the face of adversity, such as motivating gill to pursue his ambitions as a musician or giselle to overcome her doubts or giving laila a reason to keep living and dancing despite her circumstances. it only makes sense then that she is the one to give the final speech that properly ends the story of the game, as it’s her journey that fully encapsulates that theme of hope for the future. it was the very thing the main villains thought there was none left in the world, that nihilism that made them want to put the world out of its misery by bringing about an endless night since the dawn was not worth fighting for.

agnea feels like the true protagonist of the game in my opinion, even if her story feels the least related to The Big Bads.

she’s not here to fight, she’s here to inspire, ya know!!! AAAAA

(if i ever play octopath 2 for the third time, ill definitely be picking her as my starter~)

(the reason why i’m kinda up on my soapbox defending my girl is bc i saw a gamefaqs thread of someone explaining this significance agnea’s story has to the main plot and themes and everyone dismissing it as a dumb, stretchy non-answer. YOU GAMERS KNOW NOTHING!!! /lh)

anyway, as far as lighthearted stories w a sort of vague goal go in octopath traveler, agnea’s heavily tying back to the main theme of the game makes it stronger than someone’s like tressa or alfyn’s since they kind of had their own plots that didn’t really relate back to anyone else’s. their only connection to everyone else’s stories were through their connections with graham crossford, which is PRETTY COOL!! but he was long dead/transformed into redeye before the events of the game and tressa and alfyn sorta do their own thing after he indirectly inspired them to go traveling. it just feels more vague i guess?

~

apologies this is really rambly. again, i lifted this from an infodump i wrote on the fly, so i was not really essay-brained, but i hope my point comes across adequately?

all the same, i just have a big appreciation and love for this game. i'm proud to call it my favorite video game, and though it has its problems, it's very special to me and i like talking about it. hopefully i got that across to any reader on this here post, and maybe it inspires a new appreciation for agnea's story and its place in octopath traveler 2 :)

[butchpeabody]

Zetto and/or Kizuna for the character ask?

once again for this...i shall take more if anyone wants to send

under the a cut once again!

ZETTO:

favorite thing about them: when i was a kid the kirb/zetto twist did genuinely make me insane. in a good way. i think hes a really fascinating character in his like...Mentality Switches between personas yk. guy whos a jerk in a funny way vs guy who just actually sucks

least favorite thing about them: honestly i wish it was just made more clear during like episode zero or smth what his stance in sofdti as like....a living thang was? not that it would matter much in the grand scheme of his development but idk kizuna said some SHIT yk

favorite line: id probably say like...a lot of stuff from the nylocke battle in the gemini tournament. absolute lowest point of that guy its really interesting. (obligatory MY ARM AAAAAGHHHHH mention purely because holy shit he was screaming)

brotp: HIM AND GAMESOFT oh my godd them together. aughh. the only two guys who Know the guys who can talk abt shit and he can be sad. solace in understanding and so on

otp: i know its basic but like....alphazet mannn. everything abt the two of them was PAINFULLY gay and its honestly kind of funny kirb (the guy not the character) didnt notice. runner up is him and nylocke becahse i just think they are silly and funny

notp: i dont really have anyone with him that i actively LOATHE but i think its probbably him and kizuna. putting my personal gay zetto hc aside i think theyd both be wayy too codependent unless they got like. therapy. i know a lot of what ive been saying so far makes it sound like i hate kizuna but i dont i PROMISE

random headcanon: i feel like postseries hed find a way to set gs up with a virtual machine desktop of her own so her knowledge of the world can extend beyond what she knows in tome. they spend time bonding over computer science n junk :)

unpopular opinion: im honestly never good at this part but as an adult with better drawing skills now...i actually like drawing his hair

song i associate with them: zetto was never someone i had much of a playlist for back in the day so i had to scrounge a bit but i think i found something satisfactory

favorite picture of them:

KIZUNA:

favorite thing about them: REALLY underrated secondary antagonist, interesting moral code, she has insane girlie guilt over her actions that doesnt get explored enough.....and shes a kitty cat :)

least favorite thing about them: her arc in the original series was like...a little inconclusive? i wish she couldve come to terms with sofdtis sentience and whatnot. the trajectory of a2z is changing her in a way im really liking so far though! im excited to see where she goes

favorite line: that whole rant at the tail end of the series where shes just like. a bunch of people she cared about almost died and she was freaking the fuck out. it hurts....i love her she needs THERAPYY

brotp: she doesnt get to interact with too many characters during the series but in my perfect world i think shed be chill with demonking. dont question my madness i know im right

otp: re the previous answer she doesnt interact with a lot of characters, on this note Especially im hesitant to give a definitive answer but i think if her parallels with flamey were more explored...in my perfect world.........theyd work so spicily

notp: same as zetto but also tacking gs onto this. less out of kizunas ability to see her as a person currently and more that in the future if/when she does end up coming around i do feel like gs would still be hurt by it. theyd be buddies tho:)

random headcanon: with the rpg version of tigerlily i sometimes wish that series kizuna had like...a secret lil roleplay presence. not necessarily on tome itself but she has to cool of SOMEHOW right. she made an anime catgirl avatar i KNOW she has thoughts about that shit

unpopular opinion about them: kizuna is probably the most divisive character ive done for this so far...all i can really say is like...i joke about supporting womens wrongs and stuff but i think introspectively she does have a lot of potential as a character that we dont see a lot of because most of the scenes with her are from zettos perspective. AGAIN tho im reallly liking where a2z is taking her so far i hope i get more scraps

song i associate with them: much like zetto she wasnt someone i had playlists for back in the day however unlike zetto i have the PERFECT one for her. nonexistent meet-cute (idlyam) by vylet pony.... feeling it

favorite picture of them:

[overthinkingfandom]

Cards on the Table - Breaking down the tactics in L'manburg Independence

/rp /dsmp

Much has been said in the fandom about L'manburg's independence. It is, after all, arguably the most important moment in DSMP's history, as the rest of the story wouldn't have existed without it. 

In light of the recent anniversary of it, yes I know I’m late, I wanted to throw my hat in the ring and add something to the discussion surrounding it. However, as the morality of the situation has been discussed to death I'll be taking a slightly different approach to it. 

Due to the nature of the DSMP's medium, the story has many unique quirks. One of those quirks is how realistic the tactics used in the story's portrayal of politics are. The independence conflict is a great example of it. While on the surface things seem to be rather simplistic in nature, there's a lot more going on that’s less obvious.

Both Wilbur and Dream are brilliant politicians who get to show both their strengths and weaknesses in dealing with an equally skilled opponent in this encounter. There’s actually quite a bit to go into, despite their interactions being so short.

When most people think about the L'manburg's independence, they think about the moment the declaration has been written up and the subsequent declaration of war. While this moment is certainly iconic, it's not really all that impactful in the grand scheme of things. Both declarations are the culmination of decisions that have been made beforehand. It's the moment when those decisions were made that really influenced things.

Conveniently, Wilbur and Dream only hold a single conversation about L'manburg before the declarations are drawn up, so we don’t need to look far in order to figure out where those decisions were formed. 

Wilbur has been working on L’manburg, collecting materials and building the wall surrounding it, for almost an hour when he spots Dream lurking. “Get [Dream] into the VC, I need to talk with him. He’s the leader of the other nation, I think we need to have a congress.” (52:44)

Dream: “Hello?”

Wilbur: “Hello Dream. Welcome to our great nation of L’manburg.”

Dream: “L’manburg?”

Wilbur: “Yes. We are seceding from Dream SMP. This is our own server now. This area, just this part [between the walls of L’manburg], is our server.”

Wilbur doesn’t waste any time before getting right down to business and talking about the matter at hand. However, the way he speaks about it here and in the rest of the conversation is fairly interesting. Wilbur is talking about L’manburg as if it’s something which already exists. They are seceding. This is their land. This conversation is merely a courtesy to give Dream a formal notice of their separation.

Yet, a bit later Wilbur shows he knows they need Dream’s acknowledgement in order for L’manburg to be its own entity. Independence is not a concrete thing that can just be taken or created on one person’s whim, after all. It only exists when the people with power agree it exists. 

Wilbur: “Dream, basically all we want from you is just acknowledgement that we are an independent nation now. That’s all we need.” (56:20)

So if Wilbur knows they aren’t independent yet, why is he talking like that? 

It’s because he’s using a salesman technique called an Assumptive Close. Instead of posing it as a question and putting the choice of agreeing or disagreeing in Dream’s hands, Wilbur acts as if it’s already true and leaves the burden of challenging his claims on Dream’s shoulders. He even moves on to ask secondary questions on how Dream feels about having embassies in his land (and notably he frames it as a question, unlike how he frames the topic of L’manburg’s independence) as if L’manburg is already a political entity. 

Wilbur: “Dream, I’ve got a proposition for you. How do you feel about having Tommy’s land being an embassy? Like it’s an enclave in your own land.” (59:01)

Wilbur’s use of this technique has an interesting side effect in that it signals to Dream Wilbur is taking a non-compromising position in this negotiation. In essence saying “L’manburg is independent, take it or leave it.” 

A non-compromising position is the game theory term for when someone goes, "I'm going to do that, this is going to happen and nothing can dissuade me from this course of action." It's a strong tactic which forces everyone to react to that person's position, reducing the others' options into a binary of either accepting that position or rejecting it. 

This is a very common tactic and various manifestations of it can be seen all over history and media. From Martin Luther who refused to recant or compromise with his famous words of “Here I stand, I cannot do otherwise” to groups who cultivate a "with us or against us" mentality to heroic characters who say they would die before giving in to whatever Evil the story focuses on.

This is the situation Dream is facing here. He can either accept Wilbur's assertion that L'manburg is an independent entity by either encouraging them or even doing nothing, or he can reject Wilbur's assertion by acting against it.

As we all know, he ended up choosing the second option but what were his considerations for doing so?

For that we would need to know what his goal was here, something we don't really get a sense of from his conversation with Wilbur. However, he ends up stating what it was in a later conversation with Skeppy. 

(Emphasis added by me and wasn’t part of the original dialogue.)

“Everyone can build wherever they want. [L’manburg] just decided to say that they get to determine where they can build and we can’t and we said well no, you can’t do that. And that’s what the whole war was over.” (31:44)

“[L’manburg] can’t tell us that we can’t go in their land. That’s all we wanted to say. That they’re not independent, they are a part of the Dream Team SMP. They’re just a delusional, small part." (34:26)

Dream lies a lot, so just because he says something doesn't mean it's necessarily true. However, this seems to be genuine. Dream has no problem telling Skeppy “we burned down their houses and blew up the whole land.” (32:36) later on in the conversation, so we can rule out that he's trying to paint himself in a better light, and there aren't really any other reasons for him to lie to Skeppy here about this. 

When looking at Dream's options with his goal we can see the choice is pretty much a no-brainer. 

Accepting is a total lose scenario for him. Not only will it fail to fulfill his goals, it would actively encourage the sort of behavior he doesn't want to happen, as Wilbur would set a precedent that so long as someone insisted hard enough and implied Dream is a bad person he would fold in negotiations and give them what they want.

Rejecting gets him far closer to his goal of railing against L’manburg’s exclusion. Going to war means he has to invest much more effort and resources into his reaction than if he just accepted as well as deal with the risks any war has, however the sheer difference in ability between Dream's side and Wilbur's side make the risk minimal. 

Going to a war he’s pretty sure he can win VS encouraging the sort of thing he disapproves of, isn’t really a hard choice.

This is actually the result of a mistake on Wilbur's part. CC!Wilbur called his character naive (37:49) and he's not wrong. Wilbur has a tendency to act as he wishes and not take into account that people might disagree or retaliate. We see it with him saying they could just ignore the Americans (1:51:17) or during the elections when he told Quackity his scheme and got blindsided by Quackity deciding to run against him. 

Historically, non-compromising positions worked best when the person who used it made sure rejection would be more costly than acceptance in one way or the other. In essence, narrowing down the options for others even more and leaving them only with acceptance. 

Wilbur may have managed to wipe off the table all other options and put pressure on Dream to accept with his use of Assumptive Close, but he didn't do anything to prevent Dream from rejecting. In fact, it seems like Wilbur didn't even consider it as a valid possibility as he outright dismissed it when Dream brought it up as an option.

Dream: “What happens if the rest of the server decides to take over your land?”

Wilbur: “They can’t. It’s literally not how servers- Dream you’re supposed to be smart man, that’s not how servers work. You can’t just take over another person’s server.” (54:33)

But, you may be asking, if it was better for Dream to go to war against L'manburg rather than grant them independence, why did he end up giving into their desire for independence in the war? Wouldn't it have been better if he just saved everyone the trouble and gave it to them when they asked for it the first time? Or maybe Dream’s obsession with Tommy and his discs is just that strong?

We can find the answer to all those questions at Punz’ video where he shows the behind the scenes of the independence war, including some of the planning which went into it from the Dream Team’s side of the war. Specifically, this quote:

Dream: “[The L’manburgians] are never gonna give up. So then in the end the resolution will probably just be, we won but they can think whatever they want, we’re just going to ignore them because they’re essentially like- You want to think you’re independent? You’re not, you’re still part of the SMP, but if you want to think you’re independent, you can.” (9:04)

“They’re never gonna give up.”

Whether it’s true or not doesn’t matter, as this is what Dream thinks and so this is what dictates his actions. Perhaps he’s overestimating his opponents here, or maybe he’s talking about how even if L’manburg is defeated this time they would try again for independence in the future. In either case, it’s clear Dream thinks the best case scenario for him - completely preventing people from fighting for L'manburg's independence - is impossible. 

So, he tries for the second best case. If he can’t prevent L’manburg, he’s going to allow it but only under Dream’s terms. That’s what his “they can think whatever they want” line is all about. He intends on giving them token independence here, something which would satisfy them but wouldn't pose a real threat. Which is exactly what he ends up offering them during the bow duel.

Dream: “Let me just clarify: if you win, we grant L’Manburg independence.”

Tommy: “Alright.”

Dream: “But we recognize it still as a part of the Dream Team SMP.”

Wilbur: “That’s fine, that’s a fine condition.” (40:54)

The token independence thing didn’t work out so well for him. L'manburg quickly grew to be seen as an entity separate from Greater Dream SMP by everyone, and so Dream was forced to concede and treat it as one as well. 

However, despite this part of his plan failing, overall the independence war was a glowing success for Dream. 

By giving L'manburg independence after winning the war, Dream sent a very clear message. L'manburg only gets to be independent so long as they stay on Dream's good side. If they don't adhere to the terms Dream sets out for them? He can and will kick their asses, as the war so aptly demonstrated.

This message is received loud and clear. During his entire presidency Wilbur went out of his way to treat Dream with respect and try not to piss him off. Something he clearly demonstrates a number of times, like when he asked if he should call Dream “king Dream” (59:08) or during the railway skirmish (24:16).

In fact, it can be argued that this message lasted all the way up to Tubbo's presidency. Unlike Quackity, who was perfectly fine with starting a fight with Dream, Tubbo knew first hand what a war against Dream looks like. He knew that they could not win a war against him, especially in their weakened state at the time, and that influenced his decision. 

As Dream once said: "L'manburg can be independent but it can't be free."

[thepictureofsdr-archive]

ok i KNOW this isn't just me, you cannot convince me that charlotte and gideon would care about alastair spreading the rumour at ALL. the kids seem so offended on behalf of their parents, parents who probably wouldn’t give two shits about this. 

charlotte is the woman who had to deal with young will, gideon, gabriel, and jessamine, so what alastair did isnt exactly world shaking to her and now she’s literally the consul. she saved the world from pure evil while still young. if thomas and matthew complained to her about alastair spreading the rumour (especially if they mention they were still school children at the time) she’d probably tell them to go away and come back with a real problem or at least something worse than what their parents did at that age. she had to deal with such bullshit while head of the institute let alone consul that playground bullying is literally the least of her worries especially when the bully has done a complete 180.

same goes for gideon, jem actively disliked him when they were young which is all the information you need as to what kind of person gideon was, and he also had to fight genuine evil while still young. he’d probably hear about the rumour spreading and ask what else alastair did because “there’s no way in hell these kids are THIS pissed about someone simply spreading a rumour in school” gideon also knows just how important allowing people to grow is, so he’d probably be pissed at the kids for still shitting on alastair despite how much effort he’s put into changing. 

they’re literally grown adults and they know how rumours work. alastair wasn’t the source of the rumour and he didn’t change it to be worse, he simply told people, just like everyone else in that school because that’s what kids do. that rumour 100% originated from an adult in the clave, elias and sona really don’t seem like the type to gossip to their kids, so alastair probably wasn’t even the first person to talk about it in the school. yeah he told matthew in a dickish way but im not sure why matthew was expecting any kindness considering before being told the rumour, he insulted alastairs hair and told alastair his family didnt love him. matthew would’ve found out anyway, so do they hate alastair simply because he was the one to tell matthew? that would be stupid bc what if a friend told him? even if alastair was a prick you can’t exactly hate someone that much just for informing you of a rumour. this insane hatred they have towards him alone makes no sense whatsoever, why don’t they actively hate everyone else from the school? i don’t think we see them interact with old schoolmates but they seem to place all the blame for the rumour on alastair. matthew seems to blame alastair for the unborn baby situation (which makes no sense, no one forced matthew to do what he did but i understand how that would influence his opinion) but the other thieves don’t even know about that, so they just despise alastair because of playground bullying and the rumour? alastair was a shit bully anyway. i have a theory that he tried to be as nice as possible with the bullying bc he could’ve easily called james “demon eyes” but no he went for “goat eyes” 

i understand why they dislike him, but this level of hatred they have towards him is completely baseless, even more so now considering alastair has completely changed and especially in the grand scheme of things. i genuinely cannot comprehend why they blame so much of the rumour on him alone. charlotte and gideon would see that in seconds and i wouldn’t be surprised if they apologized to alastair for the stupidity of their children.

yes the rumour was horrific especially considering the time period, but do we really expect these two grown adults who’ve faced genuine evil to care about a literal child spreading the rumour, a child who’s apologized and genuinely changed? there’s far more important things to worry about and its kind of worrying that they’re putting this much effort into shitting on one person.

tl;dr the thieves blaming alastair alone for the rumour is dumb as shit and charlotte and gideon would not give a damn about alastair spreading it years ago while still a child especially considering how much he’s grown since then

[imekitty]

10 and 12 for the writer ask game? i'm vvv curious since you're one of my favorite authors <3

Thank you, that's so sweet! <3

10. Why do you continue writing fics?

This is very interesting phrasing lol. Well, I guess I should start by saying that I wrote my first Danny Phantom fanfiction in 2006 and was decently active in my writing throughout that year, then I very suddenly lost my courage (had a breakdown) and completely stopped writing or publishing anything in 2008. And then in 2017, I started writing and publishing again, and I haven't stopped since.

I continue writing fics now because it gives me a way to practice my writing and share it immediately with others, and I know others will actually read it because this fandom might not be as big as it used to be, but it's still amazingly strong. I also love exploring things about myself through my writing, my thoughts and feelings and aspirations and inspirations. I love being able to experiment in ways I never would in my original fiction. I continue writing for all the great interaction I get, all the people who reach out to me telling me they feel "guilty" for liking my fics and me telling them well, we can be guilty together, then.

I keep writing because I want to give Danny all the things I don't have but also I want to put him through so much pain so he can feel worse than I do.

Fanfiction is therapy for me in many ways. Gives me something to look forward to every day. Gives me a reason to keep living because I want so much to finish all of my fics and share them with everyone. It's maybe a meaningless contribution to the world in the grand scheme of it all, but it makes a few people happy, and that's enough for me right now.

-----

12. What is your favorite theme/subject matter/trope/ship to write about? Why?

I have many, but I will talk about the one that I am currently most popular for, which is the toxic relationship between Danny and Maddie. I just love mother/son bonds in general, like mama's boys, yes, sign me up, that's always so good lol. And I am just so very intrigued by how clearly Maddie favors Danny over Jazz in the show and how that foils her views toward Phantom. I especially love writing her being super affectionate with Phantom because even when she's a scientist, she's still a mother, and she loves being a mother even more than she loves being a scientist. But her passion for both do come into conflict sometimes, and that is just so much fun.

And of course, I do love the experimentation/vivisection trope, like I am just so thrilled with how perfect DP is for that. I really enjoy torture movies like the Saw series, and DP has the most amazing setup for its own unique brand of torture. And finding ways to describe that kind of torture is a challenge but rewarding. Because I never just want to gloss over it, no, I want to explain exactly how it feels, inside and out, physically and emotionally.

[avversiera-writes]

touch your heart [senju tobirama/you] - chapter 4

Summary: Hashirama might go down as the worst matchmaker in history, but he thinks he might be on to something. Tobirama sees through his brother's schemes and is determined not to fall for it. Or fall for you.

Word Count: about 3k

AO3 LINK TO TOUCH YOUR HEART

AOR SERIES LINK TO ‘TIL DEATH DO US PART

[<<<CHAPTER ONE] [CHAPTER TWO] [CHAPTER THREE]

You are not sure what to make of it, but you feel like the awkward atmosphere between you and Tobirama seems to have multiplied by the tens. You did not feel like this around him before, but now, every time he addresses you, it makes your insides twist and you just want to avoid him as much as possible. 

 At the same time, Tobirama’s words seem more curt and he often repeats the same sentences like “ridiculous” and “get to work” as if those are the only words he can say. 

A part of you wants to make fun of him for sounding constipated around you, but you don’t think that the two of you have established a rapport that allows you to do so. You know you have been teasing him nonstop ever since you started working together, but now that he mistook your interaction with his brother as flirting, every time you open your mouth to say something to him, your throat decides to croak and you end up staring at him with your mouth hanging open. 

 You cannot stand it. 

You sigh and decide to stretch your hands up, garnering a glance from Tobirama. 

 You swear if he utters “work” one more time, you are going to drag him outside to breathe in some fresh air. Maybe the nice change of scenery will make his mind restart so that he can say other words for once. 

“I’m curious,” Tobirama starts. 

 You stare at him, not believing what you are hearing from him. Finally, something else he can say to you. 

“What is your relationship with Uchiha Madara?” 

Maybe he should go back to grunting out one word sentences to you. 

You narrow his eyes at him. He keeps asking unwarranted questions. 

You press your lips together, thinking about how you want to reply to him. “Well,” you start. “He’s someone I’m very grateful to.” 

 Tobirama frowns. “Why?” 

 “Excuse me? Have you never had someone be grateful to you?” 

 Tobirama suddenly looks pissed, but he quickly fixes his expression. 

You let out a burst of laughter. “Don’t tell me you think I’m also flirting with him,” you grin playfully to hide the ire behind your tone. 

 Tobirama looks away. 

 “Relax, he’s a friend and kind of a mentor to me,” you tell Tobirama. “Nothing more. He helped me get accustomed to Konoha. I think he just felt sorry for me, but thanks to him, I’ve had a good start here.” 

Tobirama glances at you, his expression unchanging but for once he is not looking at you as if you committed a crime. 

 Well, this is probably the first true thing you have said to him. Your heart ponders at this, but you decide that it should be okay. It’s not entirely specific, but it’s not trivial either. You wonder if you should elaborate more. 

“So, there’s no grand plan of me wooing the founding fathers of Konoha,” you joke and Tobirama rolls his eyes. 

 “Don’t worry, I am not interested,” Tobirama huffs and he straightens even more on his seat. 

You smile at this, and you go back to your work. “Alright. Are we good, then?” 

 Tobirama turns his head to you, and you meet his eyes. 

“Fine,” Tobirama reverts back to his automated one word responses. 

 You nod, and you detect that the air between you has somewhat cleared. 

At the end of the day, as you bid your goodbye to Tobirama, you slip him a piece of paper with some doodles of ninja fighting and a note saying ‘have a good day’ on it in your attempted fancy writing. 

 “Really?” Tobirama deadpans. 

 “For our budding friendship,” you joke. 

 Tobirama’s eyes narrow at you. “We are only working together, we’re not here to make friends.”

You roll your eyes and slip the paper further into his sights. “Co-workers?” You suggest.

 “Not even close.”

 “Oh, come on!” 

Tobirama rubs his forehead. “Fine.” He grits out. “Co-workers.”

 “And then future friends,” you include playfully. 

 Tobirama scowls. “Go home.” 

 “That’s not a no!” You wag a finger to him. “So it’s up in the air, yes?” 

“No,” Tobirama says, his fingers twitching–probably itching to crumple the paper in front of him. “And don’t do this again, this is a waste of paper.” 

  You sigh. “Okay, okay, fine. Have a good night.” 

Tobirama says nothing as you exit the room, and you let out a deep breath you have been holding. At least, he’s talking to you normally now. 

 You chuckle to yourself. 

  Tobirama is so weird, you think.

 The thought brings a small smile on your lips.  

 //

Tobirama stares at the doodle in front of him, his focus beyond repair for the meantime. He assumes the long-haired man in the picture is his brother, with a blob of red as his armor, and the one next to his brother is him, with a hair so huge and spiky that it looks like lightning has struck from the sky and connected with his head. 

 Tobirama stares at it, unsure of what to make of it. Why are you always making fun of him? 

 He sighs, and he looks to the window, where the sky has changed to a swathe of pink and purple, indicating that the sun has set and the night will soon take over. His eyes go to the table and he notices engravings on the table itself on your side of the table, and he sighs, trying to fight away the signs of a headache. Though for a moment, to his chagrin, he found it a little funny. He did say save some paper. 

Tobirama thinks about what you had told him about Madara, and he ruminates on this. Why would Madara take you in, help you get settled and feel sorry for you? How did you even get here, and why did you choose Konoha, of all places? 

 Tobirama rubs his forehead, his thoughts circling in on you. It’s not common that he’s not able to figure out someone in a few seconds. He prides himself on feeling out people, whether it be their chakra, their personality or their thoughts, but the only thing he has learned about you is that you are loud . 

 He can’t even figure where you are from or which family you came from based on your chakra signature, which is not all that impressive. Compared to your presence, it is almost silent. It is there, but they are like waves in a low-tide, unable to do any harm. They ebb at some places, like something is disrupting its flow, and at times it feels almost nonexistent. You do not have any affinity for the elements either, and even with taijutsu, there should be a flare of chakra in you, but there is nothing.  

He knows that you are skilled with blades because the way you hold and carry it indicates that you have drawn it a thousand times. He knows that you have fought before because you are able to surprise him in a match. 

 He can keep guessing who you are, but you somehow prove him wrong and it bothers him. 

 He attempts to get back to work, but his stomach grumbles in complaint, which means that he really cannot focus anymore. Deciding to indulge his uncooperative stomach, he exits the Hokage mansion and trails towards the more active part of the village, where various restaurants are starting to pop up. 

People recognize him as he walks and they offer polite and formal greetings towards him. He greets back, but he does not stop for shirt conversations. Those exhaust him.

 Ahead, lamps are strung by posts to light the street. The street grows in volume as more and more people flood in, coming and going. Someone shouts nearby, and laughter springs everywhere. Splashes of red and gold appear in his peripheral vision, and the smell of fried food wafts in the air. 

Tobirama takes a deep breath, suddenly feeling overwhelmed. 

Suddenly, his eye catches you, running towards him with a carefully wrapped package in your hands. He notices you holding it securely, and as you get closer, he notices that they are packed food. You pass by him, and Tobirama turns to see where you are heading. 

It is not far, as he can see you stop by an alleyway and walk in. 

 Tobirama pauses at this, and against his better judgement, he decides to follow you and see what you are up to. 

He hears your voice first, and when he sees you, he feels unprepared to react at the sight of you handing the freshly cooked food to two children squatting by the trash. 

"Be careful," you tell them, your voice laced with worry. 

 "Thank you so much, nee-chan!" The boy cries out. 

 "Can I ask where your parents are?" You inquire. 

"Uhm...well," the boy starts hesitantly, his eyes swimming with fear. "We...don't have parents anymore."

The boy looks down. "We came here to find safety." 

Tobirama notes the change on your face. You look sad, and Tobirama wonders what is causing it. 

"Well, can you tell me your names?" You address both children with a gentleness Tobirama has never heard before. 

 Maybe that is how you talk to others that are not him.

"I'm Kaito," the boy says. "My sister doesn't talk much, but her name is Yuna." 

 You offer them a kind smile. "Well...enjoy your food, okay? If you ever need help, come find me. I live near the forest in the new building recently built there. I'll bring you guys some blankets if you stay here." 

Kaito stares at you, his eyes swimming. "Thank you very much, nee-chan."

 You sigh, and you reach over and pat his head. Tobirama backs away from sight to hide himself. 

 You run past him, and Tobirama elects to stand where he is so that he can watch the kids while you get them their blankets. 

 Tobirama suddenly frowns as a thought comes to mind. There is a newly built orphanage in the village now. 

 "Tobirama?" You cut him off his thoughts and Tobirama snaps to your attention and it occurs to him that this is probably the first time you called his name without insulting him in some way. 

 Tobirama had not noticed your arrival. He must have been standing here for a while. 

He should have moved and went on with his life. 

"We should take them to the orphanage." He looks down at your arms where you are carrying a blanket, a change of clothes and a knife. 

 Tobirama grows uneasy as you stare at him, even though the surroundings are almost dim. 

"Okay," you finally said and you called the kids out. 

Tobirama glances at the two tiny children, suddenly noticing how thin and grimy they are. 

"This is Senju Tobirama," you introduce him. "He can help us find a place to stay warm, okay? He's a good person." You reassure them.

Tobirama attempts at a small smile, but he feels your eyes on him and he ends up grimacing. He also zeroes in on the fact that you called him a good person in front of these kids. He doubted that you even thought of him that way, but hearing it from you is a little refreshing. 

"Follow me," Tobirama walks ahead, unable to stand still under your gaze. 

You are looking at him strangely and Tobirama is not sure what to make of it. 

Thankfully the walk is not too long, but it means that Tobirama has to spend the rest of the time walking with you in this awkward silence that seems to pervade whenever the two of you are near each other. It is now completely dark, save for the occasional lanterns guiding the way, but it does nothing to alleviate the tension. Instead, he turns to himself inwardly and makes a mental note on formalizing how to accept refugees in the future so that random people that have the potential to be a threat cannot enter the village easily. It is still so young and he is not sure how it will hold when there is some disorder. 

 After dropping the kids off in the orphanage and signing some documents and talking with the ward there, the two of you head back to the center of the village, where the night scene comes alive. He is tempted to say something to fill the air, but he is also waiting for you to say something because he assumes that you would normally talk when there is nothing to talk about. 

 Alas, he is wrong again. 

He never thought that he would be the first one to say a word.

 “You look chirper,” he comments. He glances at your face, noting how relaxed it is compared to earlier. You also do not look as glum. 

 “Yeah, well,” you start, scratching your cheek lightly. “It’s all I wanted to do is–you know, make a difference and all that shi-stuff.” 

 Tobirama hums, amused at your slip of a curse word. He senses the truth in your words and for once, he finds himself relaxing around you.

“I know you probably think that I don’t mean that since I tend to joke around, but trust me when I say that I see a lot of good things happening here. Children outside of Konoha are not so lucky,” you say. 

“Yeah,” Tobirama agrees. 

 Tobirama feels your eyes on the side of his face and he swallows. 

" I was not so lucky," your words falter as you begin them, but Tobirama sees the determined look on your face and it surprises him even more. "But I am now in a place where I can help people out." 

Tobirama glances at you again, surprised at your sudden confession to him. 

 "Ah well, I talked too much, you might start to think I’m nice," you joke. 

 "I do not find anything wrong with that," Tobirama replies, and for a moment the two of you locked eyes. 

Tobirama hears your stomach grumbles and you let out a shy laugh. 

 "Whoops," you announce, chuckling. 

Tobirama sighs, but he is not exasperated. "Let’s go."

 "Where? Back to work? Don't tell me I missed some pages to work on because I was very thorough today." 

 Tobirama raises an eyebrow. "Only today?" 

You smirk and Tobirama looks ahead of him, unable to stare at you straight on. 

"My brother and I weren't so lucky either," Tobirama begins, feeling that it's only right that he says something back that is equivalent to your confession. "All we knew was war when we were children. So many people we cared about died, but despite all that, elder brother was very ahead of his time. He's the one who dreamed of building this village." 

You smile softly at him. "Well, look at it now. It's something." 

 "More than something," Tobirama insists. "It’s a new world." 

"Tell me something, Senju Tobirama. Is this how you saw the world too?" 

Tobirama stares straight ahead. For a moment, he considers not answering, but his mind gets the best of him. "No," he admits. "The world is always in peril." 

"Then why partake in such an ambitious dream?" 

 Tobirama tenses up. He gives you an inch, and you are backing him up a mile without his control. Your question is too close in a way that it shows his deep devotion to his family and this village.

 You did not even have to try. 

"You wanted to make his dreams come true, right?" You prod on. 

Tobirama's fingers twitch, desperate to hold something. You are right and it almost pisses him off. 

"It’s his dream," Tobirama answers curtly. "But he dreams too much. He did not think of what the cost could be and the work that comes with it."

 "And you covered that part," you state. 

 "Right," Tobirama murmurs thoughtfully. 

 "I can respect that." You smile at him, and you bump your shoulder against his arm. 

Tobirama finds that he did not mind, but he is still a little annoyed that you of all people have seen through him. 

 However, he also realizes that the awkward atmosphere between the two of you has dissipated. 

It's a curious thing. 

He sees you walking ahead, and before he knows it, he is reaching out to grab your arm. He is able to stop himself, but his fingers brush against the back of your arm. His hand forms a fist as a form of restraint.

 You turn to him with a questioning look.

"Dinner," he almost stammers, but his voice is even. "It’s this way. My treat." 

 Your face lights up, but you cringe as your stomach announces once again that it needs food.

"Sounds great to me," you smile at him again, and Tobirama finds himself hurrying his steps ahead of you.

He thinks about the project and how it is almost finished. Just two more months of this, and he can be done and you can get out of his hair.

 That was the agreement, after all.

He hears your footsteps catch up to him, and now, he finds you walking by his side. 

//

If Tobirama thought that you were a con-man before, then he will probably think that you are now. 

 Today, he has students doing some chakra training by walking on water, and you have opted to watch and listen to Tobirama’s elaborate instructions instead of joining them and demonstrating how to do it along with Tobirama. 

 The truth is, you have no idea how to do that. You never learned how to because you had no formal shinobi training. All you know how to do is fight for your life, very desperately at that. 

 You watch the kids, and you cannot help feel the bitterness that you have tried so hard to let go. You did not have this when you were younger. All you knew were sickness after sickness, vials of poisons and medicine, and a hazy mind and a weak body.

 Years of your life were lost to parents who failed to protect you because of their twisted beliefs and their inability to stand their ground.

 You were lost and without a guide. 

You consider sneaking away, but you feel like you and Tobirama are finally on the same page and doing that might not help your case with him. 

 You are aware of his piercing gaze being directed towards you, but he doesn't call you out for not participating or push you to do the exercise with the kids. 

 You stand to the side uselessly, using your foot to draw random circles on the ground, until the kids are dismissed and Tobirama is walking up to you with a strict expression. He looks like he might yell at you or scold you, but surprisingly, he does none of that.

“You’re awfully quiet today,” Tobirama comments tersely. 

 You look up to meet his hard eyes and you shrug. “I did not think that you’d notice.”

Tobirama gives you a very hard and long look, and it burns through you. 

“What?” You snap, your facade long gone. 

You see Tobirama’s eyes widen slightly, but they are back to his usual scrutinizing gaze. 

“If you have a problem, it’s best that you communicate it with me. We are working together professionally.” Tobirama does not back down. “We are both adults.” 

 You press your lips into a thin line, and you look towards the flowing river, where the kids tried their luck to walk across it. 

Tobirama turns to walk away, and you grip the hilt of your sword in instinct. 

It is now or never. 

“I don’t know, okay?” You suddenly blurt out. “I did not have any of this when I was a kid.”

Tobirama stops and he turns to you questioningly. You observe from his demeanor that he is not particularly judgemental towards you at the moment. He looks at you with an understanding he extends to his students. 

 You turn towards the river again. “I…” 

Tobirama waits, neither impatient nor placating. He does not even look like he’s in a hurry. 

You grit your teeth, and then slowly let out a deep breath through your mouth. You glare at Tobirama. 

 “Do not ever speak of this to anyone,” you warn him. “This is between you and me.” 

“I promise,” Tobirama says, his tone serious. 

 You look at his face, your eyes tracing his set jaw and the three perfect markings that are tattooed on his cheeks and his chin. 

 “I did not have this when I was young,” you tell him vaguely, but you realize that you will get nowhere if you keep evading the subject. “I don’t know, maybe you can help me, but maybe it’s too late…”

“You should get to the point,” Tobirama finally says and he folds his arms. “And if it’s help you need, you only need to ask.” 

 You stare at the ground uneasily as you feel your face heat up. 

“I need your help because when I was young, I did not learn how to be a proper shinobi,” you say in a rush. “That walking on water lesson? I never had that. I don't know how to do that.” 

You look at him helplessly and watch Tobirama’s neutral expression, seeing the gears turning in his mind. 

 “I had to figure out everything myself,” you say in a low, dark tone. 

Tobirama nods, but then for the first time, he smirks at you. “That’s not a lot for me to go by, but it’s a nice change to see you not put up a farce for once.” 

You glare at him. “Yeah, well, beggars can't be choosers.” You fold your arms as well. “And you’ve noticed it, haven’t you? That I do not have a good, consistent chakra flowing in me.” 

Tobirama pauses, and his eyes glow for a moment. 

 “Shouldn't your closest friend know this?” Tobirama inquires sarcastically. 

 “He doesn’t,” you roll your eyes. “Or maybe he does, but he chooses not to bring it up.” 

 “Why did you bring it up?” 

 “Because I’m not stupid and I refuse to let my shortcomings get the best of me,” you snap. 

Tobirama raises an eyebrow. 

You meet his eyes, throwing your pride away and mustering all the determination you can find in yourself. “And I want to learn. So teach me. Help me. We only have two months and I know the timing couldn’t be better, but that’s all the time I need.” 

 Tobirama turns to the river, and a breeze brushes by, sweeping the grass, flattening it, and carrying dry leaves and scattering them about. It picks up strands of your hair, and it moves the hems of your clothes, and when the breeze has passed, Tobirama has his reply ready. 

“Very well,” Tobirama folds his hands behind his back and turns to you. “I’ll do it and keep your secret.”

 Your eyes widen, and you feel elated. “That was unexpected.”

 Tobirama narrows his eyes.

 “But...thank you. That means a lot to me.” 

 You can't help but give him a shy smile, and Tobirama glances at you from the sides of his eyes, his ears and neck turning pink. 

 "Well, when do we begin?" 

 Tobirama lets out a sigh through his nose and gives you a funny look. "Now. Get running."

 "What?" You stare at him with disbelief. "Now? It's almost lunch."

 "Yes, now." Tobirama's face goes back to its hard and strict expression, his eyebrows almost furrowing and his lips and jaw set. 

  You take a deep breath, and you break into a run and Tobirama jogs lightly after you. You try to get ahead of him, but Tobirama keeps up just as easily, his long legs pumping to match yours. The two of you run towards the forest, jumping over decaying logs and rocks. You hear Tobirama's rush of breath near you, the snap of sticks underneath his feet, and the ruffle of his clothes as his body moves. You focus ahead, and you see a wall of rock blocking the edge of this forest. Tobirama keeps going and you follow him, but you speed past him so that you can get to the rock first. 

 However, Tobirama does not stop there. 

 "What are you doing?" Tobirama barks. "We're going back." 

 You catch your breath and you watch him go ahead of you. Of course, you expected nothing less from the Senju Tobirama. You smirk to yourself, and you run to his direction, determined to get there first as well. 

 A burst of laugh escapes your lips as you pass him by, and you jump over a small path. You turn towards him, completely exhilarated and Tobirama stutters in his steps. 

 "Not bad," Tobirama comments coolly as he gets closer to you. 

 You pout playfully. "I was here first." 

 "That was not a race," Tobirama says. "And if it was, you'd lose."

 "Wow." You roll your eyes, but there is no malice between the two of you. This is the first time the atmosphere between the two of you had eased enough for the two of you to joke around with each other willingly. "Such hubris, my lord." 

 Tobirama's eyes narrow. "I think you should just stop calling me with a title. You give it no purpose anymore."

 "Are you hurt?" You say mockingly. 

 Tobirama sighs and he pinches the bridge of your nose. 

You chuckle easily. "Alright, Tobirama." 

Tobirama glances at you, a slight frown etched to his face but he does not look displeased. He nods and you shrug, and you find that spending time with Tobirama like this is not so bad. You are not sure about tomorrow since your interactions with him are like going through hills and valleys, but at least, it does not feel like you are Tobirama's mortal enemy anymore. 

.

.

.

[CHAPTER FIVE >>>]

[foilfreak]

Reasons why I like Tatsumaki x King and think they would make a good couple:

1. King and Tatsumaki have the potential to inspire a great deal of personal growth in one another. King is one of the few people who Tatsumaki seems to genuinely respect, so any criticism or advice she receives from him is likely to be taken a great deal more into consideration by her, rather than just blown off, because she actually respects his opinion and might begin to see some of the errors in her behavior and attitude that she previously would never have done anything about. The fact that King would actually give constructive criticism, rather than just an outright attack, would probably only better the situation because unlike the other heroes who just call her childish and a brat, King would go out of his way to explain why her behavior is childish and unacceptable (in the same way he went out of his way to explain to Saitama why his whole “Im depressed because im the strongest in the world and don’t get any thrill out of being a hero anymore” is a flawed mentality for him to have and only contributing to his poor mental state) which could then actually result in some positive changes to her behavior and mentality because (like how Saitama realized that becoming the physically strongest is only the first step in his true journey toward being a great hero and how he actually has a long way to go before he reaches that goal) Tatsumaki might realize that there ARE problems with her behavior and the way she interacts with the people around her and that those problems are contributing to her endlessly isolated existence that has only pushed everyone, even her own sister, away. Tatsumaki wouldn’t change right away, or even by very much in the grand scheme of things of course, this is still Tatsumaki we’re talking about, but if King were to give her criticism or advice on her problematic behavior I could see her taking that into consideration and maybe even beginning to take steps to correct it to some degree, and its all because King would force her to look at herself and her situation from a new perspective, but not in a way that was disrespectful or just outright insulting. Tatsumaki on the other hand could do something similar to King that Saitama did; inspiring him to get his butt into gear and actually get stronger or, in the event he decided to quit being a hero for whatever reason, pursue some other life goal that would result in him gaining confidence in himself and his abilities, tho her approach would be more blunt and direct than King’s (my personal headcanon and something i think would make idea for a fic if i had the time or motivation to write it, is that he loses to a dragon or god level monster that was known for stealing energy from people at some point, so when his unconscious body is retrieved and its revealed that he’s just a normal guy for whatever narrative reason would do the job, everybody’s like “he must have had his incredible power stolen from him by that monster, how tragic”, essentially getting him off the hook and letting everyone know that he’s a normal guy now but without ever finding out he was a fraud all that time and he quits being a hero cuz “well im not the strongest man in the world anymore” and goes on to make his own video game like he always wanted to. Tatsumaki may or may not end up being his beta tester). Regardless of the situation, King might feel inspired to better himself so that he could become worthy enough of Tatsumaki’s respect, regardless of the method in which he chooses to do so, because even tho he’s low key pretty terrified of her, he respects her a great deal and would want to be worthy of her respect, much like how he wants to become worthy of his title of “strongest man” and everyone else’s respect in canon. This could translate very well into a relationship between them because they would both actively encourage the other, consciously or unconsciously, to grow and mature and better themselves in some way, and their mutual respect for one another would lend well to calling each other out on their respective bullshit without it sounding like a personal attack.

2. Ships consisting of a big soft man and a smol angry woman where the man is clearly not the top make me go ASDFGHJKLPOQWEOTIQUZVXNA!!!!!!!!!

[blitzturtles]

Title: It Starts Like This, Ch. 1/?

Rating: Teen and Up

Fandom: JoJo's Bizarre Adventure: Golden Wind

Pairing(s): BruAbba, Platonic Bucci Gang

Summary: Then shit hits the fan.

Or, more accurately, Bucciarati hits the floor.

Giorno bolts forward, but there’s an entire, solid oak desk blocking his path. Gold Experience doesn’t even reach Bucciarati in time. His head hits the ground with a sickening crack, and he’s disturbingly limp.

Notes: Turns out being dead has a bit of a long term effect. Who would have thought?

This fic got away from me, so I'm breaking it down by character interaction (sort of). This is Giorno's part of this very Bucci-centric fic.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8

Disclaimer: I don't have a diagnosis of epilepsy, but I do have auras/various symptoms and am being tested. Also, I used 'grand mal' here, but it's an outdated term I only picked for the timing of the fic. They're now known as tonic-clonic seizures.

Unrelated: My dog typed the number ‘4’ on the google doc I was writing this on. Obviously it’s cursed. Sorry Bucci.

-

Giorno is midsentence when he notices Bucciarati’s attention beginning to wander. He watches a moment, letting his own words trail off into silence, as Bruno seems to fixate on something in his own head.

It's not entirely out of character, really. Bucciarati’s often juggling too many thoughts at once, and there are times that his mind will latch on to one in particular and get carried away. He doesn't mean it to be insulting, and Giorno doesn't take it that way.

Only a handful of seconds more pass before Bucciarati’s attention is turned back toward him. He blinks his eyes, clearing his mind, before speaking,

"Apologies, what was it you were saying?"

Giorno gives a slight smile and picks up as though nothing had happened at all.

-

The next time it happens, something feels off. Giorno doesn't know what. Bucciarati’s eyes drift off, almost upward. Then, rather abruptly, Sticky Fingers is there, reaching out to their user. Their movements freeze abruptly. The stillness is disturbing. Unnatural. Something tells Giorno that Bucciarati isn't lost in his thoughts.

He opens his mouth to try and say something, to right the wrongness of the air around them, but the door to his office creaks open.

Abbacchio looks between the two, from Bucciarati to Giorno. His eyes linger on Sticky Fingers a moment. The stand doesn’t so much as glance at their new companion. They don't move at all.

All Giorno can think is /wrong, wrong, wrong/. He feels sick. Without his realizing, Gold Experience has manifested behind him, fingers reaching forward.

All at once he can see the moment when Bucciarati begins to /exist/ again. His eyes still don't focus on Giorno. In fact, he looks right past him, but so does Abbacchio.

It's then that Giorno sees something settle in Abbacchio's eyes. Recognition of the problem. Or what he thinks is the problem. He nods to Gold Experience, and Giorno looks behind himself to see his stand.

Realization kicks in. Abbacchio thinks Bucciarati’s stillness-- the presence of his stand-- were justified things. Normal reactions to their boss’ stand being present.

Both are thinking: there’s a threat, and Giorno can’t help thinking that they aren’t wrong.

The conversation steers out of his control too quickly for him to keep up with. They’re both concerned about him and why his stand is out and not with what is truly wrong.

-

The next time it happens, Narancia is there. Bucciarati’s own words trail off. His fingers twitch in the air, a meaningless gesture that screams wrong, bad, wrong in Giorno’s mind.

He remembers, once, hearing Bucciarati explain that things can be unzipped and rezipped in a way that isn’t quite right. That sometimes, Bucciarati is in a rush or under too much pressure to be as precise as he would like.

He also remembers hearing of stands being incompatible with their users, but Bucciarati and Sticky Fingers work seamlessly. They move as one. Why now?

It makes him sick to think about, and he can see that same queasiness on Narancia’s features.

There’s something wrong, and Giorno doesn’t know if he can fix this with Gold Experience. He doesn’t know if he won’t just make it worse. Maybe Bucciarati needs time. Maybe his body will sort this out on its own.

Or maybe it won’t, some dark part of him whispers.

“You see it too?” Narancia asks in a whisper.

Giorno nods. Before he can speak, Narancia continues, “It’s happening more often.”

Those words feel like a knife slipped between his ribs. Before he can ask Narancia more, Bucciarati is rubbing at his eyes and making a confused sound in the back of his throat. All of Giorno’s attention is on him then, but he doesn’t know what to do.

Bucciarati more or less dismisses himself from the room after a few, confusing minutes of conversation.

“I must be tired,” Bucciarati had said.

Narancia and Giorno can only look at the door he leaves through in a helpless sort of uncertainty.

-

Giorno wants to berate himself the next time it happens, because the next time it happens is in the middle of a fight with two enemy stands, and Bucciarati is standing there, eyes drawn to the sky, and vulnerable. Sticky Fingers is no better. Giorno suspects that, if they had eyes, they would be looking in the same direction.

He doesn’t have time to panic or let the sensation of wrongness flood through him. The enemy stand sees the opening for what it is and rushes right for Sticky Fingers with an aim of demolishing stand and user alike.

Bucciarati turns his head with unfocused eyes, blinks at the thing rushing nearly right at him-- only inches off really, Sticky Fingers is too close. The enemy stand hesitates a moment, suddenly anticipating an attack, but Bucciarati only makes an odd sound in the back of his throat. His eyes draw unnaturally toward his right, where absolutely nothing of concern is waiting for him.

Giorno can only be grateful for the enemy’s hesitation. He takes advantage of it with a ruthlessness that is driven by fear more than anything.

Bucciarati doesn’t even turn his head when the enemy screams out with his last breath.

Everyone else chooses that moment to catch up to them, and the fussing is natural for the situation: the one where the two of them had been ambushed, and not the one where Bucciarati had stopped responding to his surroundings entirely.

-

Giorno tries to explain it to Abbacchio, but the man waves a hand, reminds him that Bucciarati has a lot on his plate at any given time. Lapses and distractions were bound to happen. Besides, they couldn’t ever be sure where Bucciarati’s attention was. With Sticky Fingers, he could reach beyond what they were used to.

Giorno finds no comfort in the reassurances, but he nods anyways.

-

Then shit hits the fan.

Or, more accurately, Bucciarati hits the floor.

Giorno bolts forward, but there’s an entire, solid oak desk blocking his path. Gold Experience doesn’t even reach Bucciarati in time. His head hits the ground with a sickening crack, and he’s disturbingly limp for a solid second or two before his whole body goes rigid.

Not one of their little group knows how to respond, all looking on in horror when Bucciarati begins to shake.

It’s Abbacchio that regains his composure first. He’s also the only one that has a clue on what to do, it seems, considering he’s rolling Bucciarati on his side before anyone else has managed to put their jaw back into its proper place.

“They’re seizures,” Abbacchio says once Giorno regains enough of his composure to crouch in front of them. Abbacchio keeps one hand on Bucciarati’s bicep, keeping him on his side without holding him down. He motions for Giorno to take over so he can shrug out of his coat.

“I know,” Giorno doesn’t think that could be any more obvious right now. He frets, for a moment, over how much pressure to put on Bucciarati, but Abbacchio doesn’t correct him.

“No, they’re seizures, Giorno. All of them. I should have realized,” Abbacchio balls his coat up and tucks it under Bucciarati’s head.

Oh.

Oh.

And, just like that, it all clicks into place. Giorno feels sick, but Abbacchio takes over holding Bucciarati on his side.

There’s a gargling sound that makes Mista reach forward, but Abbacchio stops him.

“He’s choking!”

Giorno glances back at Mista and realizes, not for the first time, that he isn’t the only one terrified by all of this.

“That’s why I have him like this, just- wait. Fuck, how long has it been?” Abbacchio has to push down his own irritation at himself for not thinking about that before, but he’s barely managing to keep his own composure.

“Thirty seconds, I think,” Trish speaks up.

“Okay, that’s good. That’s fine,” Abbacchio answers with what is meant to be a reassuring nod, but no one looks all that reassured.

There’s something horribly unsettling about the most put together of them being on the floor, with blood and spit mixing together on the ground. Giorno doesn’t actually know how much of the blood is from Bruno’s mouth versus his head, but it all looks like too much. He wants to fix it. He can fix it, but he doesn’t know if that’s a good idea while Bucciarati’s actively seizing. Hell, he doesn’t know if it’s a good idea afterwards either. It’ll hurt, and what if that just makes it worse?

An eternity seems to pass, with Giorno going back and forth with himself, and everyone else being equally tense until Bucciarati slows into what almost looks more like an occasional kick of his feet. Even that stops after another ten seconds.

All together the whole thing takes two minutes and thirteen seconds according to Trish. Abbacchio reassures them that it’s fine. That’s not too long in the grand scheme of things. When he was still a cop, he was trained to call for medical services after five minutes.

Still, Bucciarati is quiet and motionless outside of what Giorno thinks might be his attempts to swallow what’s in his mouth. Abbacchio uses part of his coat to wipe the spittle away while he speaks softly to the man.

“Oh, he…” Trish trails off, quickly removing the outer layer of her skirt. She drapes it over Bruno’s middle.

Abbacchio glances over at the same time as Giorno does, “It’s okay. That’s normal.”

Giorno takes a second to register the same thing that Abbacchio had and instantly knows that Bucciarati would be grateful for Trish’s consideration. Fugo and Narancia process a moment later and both frown. It’s not that they’re judging Bruno for something he can’t help. It’s that he couldn’t help himself in the first place. It’s another thing that makes it all so much more real. If Mista processes it at all, he doesn’t say anything.

Fugo moves to reach out, to touch Bucciarati, but Abbacchio catches his hand. Gentle. “Give him another minute. If we work him up too much…” He doesn’t want to continue that thought. Doesn’t want to accidentally infer that they might be responsible for the next seizure or this one. Or any of those previous. But the reality is that Bucciarati’s brain is dealing with enough. Overstimulating him is too much of a risk.

“Should we…?” Mista asks, already backing up a bit.

“No, we just don’t want to crowd him,” Abbacchio rubs along Bucciarati’s arm in the meantime. He continues his quiet reassurances until Narancia startles.

“His eyes!”

Abbacchio glances up at Bucciarati’s face, half expecting to see another seizure beginning to take hold, but he’s relieved to find Bucciarati looking around sluggishly instead. “Welcome back,” he says gently, “You’re okay now- woah, you need to stay put. Good, yeah, like that. You’re alright. We have you. No one is attacking us.”

“W-where?”

“Giorno’s office,” Abbacchio answers easily. He wipes at Bucciarati’s mouth again. There’s definitely blood coming from either his cheek or his tongue. “You owe me a new coat.”

Bucciarati hums and closes his eyes.

“You really had no clue, did you?” Abbacchio keeps rubbing along Bucciarati’s arm. Something comforting but not all together overwhelming. “That’s fine. We can take care of this.” He catches Bucciarati’s hand when it darts out. He checks Bucciarati’s eyes again and sees there’s a muted alarm to them. “You’re alright. You’re just coming back to us from a seizure, but you’re doing good-- great.” He looks to the rest of their little crew when Bucciarati’s eyes slide shut again, “He’s probably going to cycle through this a couple of times, and he’s going to be very tired. He needs to rest. Those other seizures-- they tire you out, but this…” He lets them infer the level of exhaustion they should be anticipating. Abbacchio certainly wouldn’t expect anything from Bucciarati after what was possibly his first grand mal.

It takes time, but they get Bucciarati into bed. Abbacchio is gentle with removing Bucciarati’s clips and taking apart his braid. He doesn’t think the added tension will help. He waits until the kids scatter to start undressing him.

Sticky Fingers appears midway through, and they look like they’ve been through the ringer.

“He’s going to be okay,” Abbacchio tells them. He calls to Moody Blues, thinks maybe her presence will be reassuring. He isn’t surprised when stand leans upon stand. He hopes the comforting gesture translates to Bucciarati without adding unnecessary strain.

He has Bucciarati tucked in by the time the kids get back. He leaves Bucciarati in a new pair of briefs rather than attempting to fully redress him. His knowledge on seizures isn’t the best, but he knows to expect soreness. Getting Bucciarati dressed again simply doesn’t seemed to be worth it in Abbacchio’s mind. The kids aren’t going to go looking under the blankets anyways.

He doesn’t notice Sticky Fingers getting a hold of Bucciarati’s head until there’s already a zipper in place. It doesn’t seem to bother him, so Abbacchio shrugs and let’s the stand take care of their user. Everyone had heard the sound of Bucciarati’s head hitting the floor; no doubt there’s a nasty cut under there. Stick Fingers’ zipper will keep the bleeding to a minimum until they all feel a little more comfortable poking at Bucciarati again.

“Is there anything else we can do?” Giorno asks, when they all stand there practically wringing their hands from anxiety. Each undoubtedly preferring that it was themselves in Bucciarati’s position.

“Not right now,” Abbacchio says, in that same gentle tone from earlier. His own nerves are shot, but he knows they’re scared. They want to help. He gets that, and being snappish and potentially starting an argument isn’t going to do anything for Bucciarati’s overworked system.

Giorno hesitates, but he nods. He wants to heal the problem away, but there’s more to this than he understands. He thinks it might be a mistake to try and intervene now, so he gently tugs Mista toward the door. Mista tugs on Narancia, and Narancia tries to pull Fugo along.

“Narancia,” Giorno calls when the other opens his mouth. “Let’s go.” He puts as much authority into his tone as he can manage. Truthfully, he feels too helpless to feel like their leader.

Narancia grumbles something under his breath but allows himself to be tugged along. Giorno closes the door behind them.

[anarchy-and-piglins]

Summary: Technoblade spends some time in Pandora’s Box. It goes about as well as you’d expect.

(Read on AO3)

He skimmed his hand along the obsidian, the surface smooth beneath his touch. Some parts of it were seemingly warmer than others, but Technoblade didn't know if that was because of the lava running somewhere deep within the walls or just his tired mind playing tricks on him. He tapped the volcanic glass once, an action that fills the cell with a light ringing sound. But the layers ran too deep for Techno to tell where hollowness hides beneath.

Which was a shame, because knowing the structure's weaknesses would already go a long way in him figuring out his escape plan.

With no tools and the mining fatigue weighing heavy on his bones, getting through obsidian might be a fool's errand. But it was a better way to spent his time than waiting for a rescue party that would most likely never come. Or better yet, stay put and sit pretty like Dream seemed to want him to.

Technoblade couldn't see any other reason for him still being here.

The sky tore open, lightning forming a spiderweb of fractures evaporating as quickly as they had taken shape. Rain beat down on them relentlessly and made it impossible to see more than a few feet in front of them. Another crack – a flash of blinding light – and it carried the glint of a sword at Phil's throat, the steady hand of Dream holding onto the base of Phil's neck and keeping him in place.

Technoblade stilled in an instant.

The thunder rumbled ominously as Dream's impassive mask grinned ever wider.

The trade-off had gone quick and easy, an unspoken agreement that Techno would sign again in a heartbeat. He nodded curtly at Dream, who pressed the blade firmer against skin to make his point. Techno dropped his own weapon, holding up his arms to show goodwill. Phil's eyes widened as he realized what was happening, helpless to stop it.

"Wait-" But Dream curled his fingers tighter around Phil's neck, the sword inches away from slicing a jugular and Techno shook his head, internally begging for the other man to stay quiet.

He didn't know if he could do this if Phil asked him not to with that pained look in his eyes.

It was impossible to tell how much time had passed since he was locked in Pandora's box, but Techno had a rough estimation. Sam brought him food and by counting the minutes between deliveries he had narrowed it down to two meals a day. Almost twenty meals had come and gone since his arrival.

During this time Dream had not come to see him once, was the thing.

It made a tight coil of worry pull in Techno's gut. One he stubbornly pushed down and shoved into a corner of his mind where he put all emotions he deemed worthy to be re-examined at a more opportune time, preferably over a cup of tea and some of Phil's freshly baked bread. There were only so many reasons he could think of for Dream to wait this long to state his demands – because that's what they had to be. Demands. Dream didn't do anything in half measures, always had some ace up his sleeve or a grand scheme to connect by pulling little threads of manipulation.

Dream had to gain something from putting him in prison.

Techno sat down on the small bunk that served as the room's only furniture, both bed and table in its function. The thin blanket that hardly did anything for him was balled up and shoved to the side. He started running down the list out loud so Chat could follow along. For all their strange tricks that eluded him, they still couldn't read his thoughts. Thankfully.

"Reason one: Dream thinks leaving me in here long enough will make it easier for him to get what he wants from me later."

Psychological warfare was the oldest trick in the book, but no method quite as effective as solitary confinement to break a person. Or, well, that would be the case for most others. Between the voices and a natural tendency towards extreme introversion Technoblade probably was the worst target for this approach. If the accommodations weren't so shit, he might have even enjoyed his stay.

Dream would most likely know this. Cross it off the list.

"Reason two: he needs to keep me secured for a future ploy."

A possibility, but the uncertainty tugged at Technoblade all the same. If Dream was planning to use him as a bargaining chip – or worse, a flunkey – down the line, then Techno would have had the honor of his presence by now, even if only for Dream to gloat. That man was utterly lost in his own superiority complex on the best of days, there was no chance he would pass on an opportunity to rub Techno's face in his future plans. Leave him stewing in misery with knowledge of what was to come.

A moment's hesitation, but he crossed it off the list.

"Reason three: he's forgotten I'm in here."

His joke made Chat agitated and he winced at the stab of a headache that brought forth as their yelling got louder, more jumbled. "Yeah, that would be pretty cringe of him," he agreed with their repeated outcries.

"Well, that only leaves the last option I can consider..." He trailed off, staring at the slightly shimmering surface of the obsidian. Techno could see his own reflection in the translucent facets. The crown on his head stood out starkly in the cell's dim light.

In chess, the best plays were always those that went for the strongest pieces first. It might be tempting to take a rook or two to start with, but you can't feel safe until that queen is removed from the board. Then it breaks open for you to do whatever you want with, essentially.

"He's leaving me here to rot."

Phil had stared at him, the shadows cutting across his expression. Techno couldn't look him in the face, keeping his focus on Dream instead. Not breaking eye contact even as his hands were tied behind his back. The useless gesture was only meant to humiliate him, Dream knew he wouldn't budge an inch with Phil's last life still in danger.

They had marched him straight to the prison, not taking any risks and all the while Technoblade had already been glancing around, committing any important leverages to memory. With every security measure they passed, his heart sank deeper in his chest.

Forty meals had come and gone.

Technoblade was chipping away at the wall, not for any real reason except it kept him busy. He wasn't stupid enough to believe it would actually amount to anything. Not when the walls were made of obsidian, not when the mining fatigue strained his movements and made his muscles contract under the pressure of forcing them into cooperation. There was less strength to his punches, flexing his fingers against invisible weights suspended from them by strings.

And even if he managed by some miracle to mine away a block, Sam would know and come replace it instantly.

"Chat," he addressed the voices. "You're familiar with the story of Sisyphus, right?" A mess of responses, mostly the repeating of their favorite letter which Techno chose to take as agreement. "Yeah, sure, I've read it to you before."

His claws broke through another inch of the solid stone. Obsidian wasn't a mineral, the composition wasn't right for it. But it splintered in brittle ways and cut open Techno's palm, making the blood run slick through his fingers. Chat went into a frenzy.

"This is what he must have felt like with his boulder," Techno concluded.

They stripped him of his tools, his weapons, his communicator. Technoblade was vaguely grateful they let him keep his clothes at least, though he suspected it was merely because Sam hadn't been prepared for the prison to already be put to use.

The creeper-hybrid looked at him in vague apprehension and Techno shrugged back.

Placing him in the highest security cell could have been a compliment if Techno didn't think it to be completely overkill and awfully dramatic on Dream's part. The rows of doors they passed on the way to the bowels of the box were concerning, enough to contain at least half the residents of the server.

Dream had officially lost his marbles.

High security turned out to be a euphemism for 'violation of human rights'. The cell was barely three by three blocks, with nothing but the bed tucked against one wall and a heavy-set door that didn't even have a handle on the inside. At floor height, there was a thin slot just wide enough for the occasional bowl of stew or a baked potato to slide through. The warden didn't have to interact with his prisoners.

"Cozy," Techno remarked dully before the door was shut behind him. It hadn't been opened since.

He had lost count, but he had to be nearing his eightieth meal now.

More and more often Technoblade found himself slumbering through the opening of the latch, only to wake up to a stale steak that had been left on his floor hours ago. It wasn't real sleep, merely a state of exhaustion both mental and physical that left him wandering the borders of consciousness, drifting somewhere between awareness and disconnect. Which he knew was probably not the best sign.

The lack of physical activity was wearing his muscles down, making even the simple act of pacing circles in the room send aches through his legs. For the first time in longer than he cared to recall Techno returned to the exercise routine they had done every morning in the Antarctic Empire – or at least the parts of it he could match in the limited space of his cell. It wasn't enough though and he felt himself grow weaker every day. There was no sunlight, no fresh air, and the food left something to be desired.

His mind too wandered more and more, having trouble staying on task. The voices gradually grew more agitated, bored by the same scenery each day, the lack of excitement. A permanent headache had taken residence and didn't show any sign of intending to leave soon, making its presence known through a constant throbbing and the occasional stab of pain when he thought too hard. Closing his eyes, Technoblade started to count out loud. Give them and himself something to concentrate on. Chat came apart into a tangle of numbers, noises, buzzing. He winced.

"Okay, new plan, new plan-" He curled up on the bunk, drawing his knees up to his chest. The blanket was on the floor. "Story time, what would you like to hear?"

More chaos, but one answer stood out among the others. Its irony was not lost on Techno.

"Thus, the first mortal woman was born and she descended down to earth." He hushed them and was grateful when chat fell away into quieter murmurs. "Her name was Pandora."

The door opened.

The sound made Technoblade flinch, the creak feeling so horribly foreign in the stillness of his cell that he had come to know like the back of his hand. He stared and didn't know what to think when he saw Phil outlined in the opening.

"Wha-"

His friend was at his side in seconds, one hand holding his wrist and it was nearly painful. An absence of touch suddenly set ablaze. Techno did his best not to shy away from the contact.

"We need to get out of here," Phil said urgently, eyes wide and panicked and the words died on Techno's tongue. "There isn't much time."

Techno could only nod, throat raw and hurting as Phil pulled him to his feet. He nearly fell over.

The hallways seemed different, longer and winding in strange angles. Door upon door upon door and Phil didn't say anything, just tugged Techno along. His head was filled with cotton. Why wasn't there any lava? Where was the redstone?

When they came outside, the sun was blinding him.

"Wait, Phil." Techno stopped moving, dug his heels into the ground and Phil stopped too. He turned around, skin pale and expression worried and it killed him. It killed Techno. "What's happening?"

"I came for you," Phil answered simply. "Of course I did, mate."

Techno felt like he was breaking.

He woke up in his cell.

"At the bottom of the box, only Hope remained there in an unbreakable home."

Technoblade missed his home.

He missed his farm and his pets and the feeling of the breeze running through his hair. He missed the winding of the river across the land, small sounds of trickling and running along the shallows with Wilbur and Tommy in tow. He missed Phil putting logs of wood in the fireplace.

He was tired.

The voices wouldn't stop screaming. Pressing his hands into his closed eyes, relieved when the pressure took some of the edge off, Technoblade grunted. "What has you guys excited now, hm?"

He didn't really care. The room was small and endless and he couldn't breathe within these walls, couldn't think. He just wanted them to shut up so he could go to sleep again.

But Chat didn't mind his protests, a litany of noise and somewhere in there, Technoblade could have sworn he heard Phil's name. He blinked back into awareness, struggling to get his stagnant mind into motion again. Too exhausted to move.

The door opened.

Technoblade couldn't even bear to tear his eyes away from the ceiling.

Somebody shook his shoulder and said his name and it hurt, it all hurt too much to be real. When warm arms wrapped around his body Techno wanted to sob but couldn't do that either.

"Hey, hey-" Phil was brushing his tangled hair from his face, fingers skirting along Techno's cheeks. He leaned into that touch subconsciously, needing it like a lifeline. There was time to be self-conscious about such vulnerability later. "It's okay, I'm here."

The noise that wanted to come out of him was a low whine, but Techno cleared his throat instead. "Took you long enough."

Phil let out a short laugh, not quite sincere yet but still music to his ears. "Yeah, you can complain about it to me later, once we get home."

Home?

Techno nodded, the minimal motion already enough to make him dizzy. But that didn't matter with Phil steadying him, holding onto him, helping him.

Coming back for him.

"Please," he said. "Home would be great."

[anobscurename]

ocean eyes – chris evans

previous part: PART XI — masterlist

concept: a collection of happenings. the slowest of slow burns. there will be many more parts. an interview is misinterpreted, leading to some awkwardness.

pairing: chris evans x reader

word count: 1,8k

warnings: angst

author's note: i used the name "lily" in slight reference to lily james (no hate to her) but if you, as the reader, is named lily, feel free to use any other name as hers.

There was something to be said about LAX. Status was practically inconsequential in airports. Everyone was either jetlagged or trying to make their flight in time, and everyone had to wait in neatly organized lines. Sure, some moved faster than others, but it was nice to see that everyone was built the same when it came to airports.

You stood, patiently waiting in the collection area of the arrivals. As patiently as you could, practically bouncing on your heels in anticipation. You didn't know why you were there, really.

Well, you knew. You were there to surprise him.

They had wrapped filming the day before, and he had shot you a quick be home soon :) text last night. But you had never picked him up before, instead opting to stay in the comfort of the apartment with Dodger curled up beside you and a batch of "welcome home" cupcakes cooling, waiting to be iced. He'd find his way back by himself just fine every time, so why the sudden change?

Maybe it was the interview you had caught the night before.

It wasn't as if you'd actively sought it – your friend had sent you a link to it in the early morning hours, followed by a barrage of messages that had your nightstand practically quaking from the vibrations of your phone. Knowing she wouldn't let you be until you checked it out, you squinted to see the bright screen before lowering the brightness enough to let your eyes adjust. Cursing the persistence of your friend, you huffed out a sigh and tapped on the link she had highlighted in numerous exclamation points and a slew of unintelligible yet highly suggestive emojis.

It was him. Chris. The flutter your heart gave at the sight of him was a natural occurence at this point, so it was easy to ignore.

Dodger, whose head was resting heavily on your feet, immediately perked up at the sound of Chris' voice the second the YouTube clip began to play.

It was a snippet from a Jimmy interview – Fallon or Kimmel, your brain was too sluggish to comprehend – uploaded fairly recently. If two months was recent in the grand scheme of things.

"Great to be here again, Jimmy," you heard Chris say as you rubbed the bleariness from your eyes.

"Always a pleasure." Fallon. It was Fallon.

Dodger came crawling up to you, nose sniffing the air, trying to console the sound of Chris' voice without the scent of Chris himself. His wet nose pressed into your cheek and you whined in slight annoyance, giving him a slight nudge. "Down, Dodge. It's just an interview. See?"

You turned the phone to show him, and his ears deflated in understanding. You hid a chuckle, pulling him to you for a cuddle, and he dejectedly flopped down onto your shoulder, curling up beside you. "Don't worry, Dodge," you mumbled, placing a small kiss to the top of the boxer's head. "He'll be home tomorrow."

Chris had been gone longer and longer in recent months. You had returned from Vegas in silence, before, once again, everything was back to false normality. What Anthony had said to you still stuck: he was in the profession of pretense. So you allowed him his pretense, even if it pained you at the prospect of having hurt him.

He had disappeared for a few weeks after Vegas, doing PR – this clip must've been from that junket. He returned for a day, before he had left to shoot his new film for the longest time yet: two months, and counting. Dodger was inconsolable, misery evident in the droop of his ears.

It was strange... Even while filming, Chris had never left Dodger for so long. But you supposed you'd been hired for a reason, and filming must've taken some form of toll on him. Enough to not visit his bud.

You turned your attention back to the interview that had been playing throughout your interaction with the pup and willed yourself to focus.

"–anybody you've had your eye on? Anyone new in your life?"

Chris chuckled, looking down and shuffling in his seat. The question was centered around any romance happening in his life, and by the blush that threatened to creep from his already reddening ears to across his cheeks, you knew that he had been caught.

Caught for what, exactly... The interview now had your full attention, exhaustion exiting your body to be replaced by butterflies that felt as though they were travelling through your very bloodstream.

"Oh, man," he smiled lopsidedly. "Where do I even begin?"

He was trying to avoid the question really, and honestly, you understood why. The rumours that would be spread, you could already see the tabloid headlines the next day. You had to remind yourself that this was an old interview.

"Well, according to our producers, the female viewership on the show skyrockets by 48% everytime you're on, so you need to give me something here. Before they come at me with pitchforks," Fallon laughed.

"Well, there is one. We're close, practically living together, but... I don't know. I don't want to risk it, in case, you know... It ruins things. And that's what she's scared of, which I understand. I just hope she gives it a chance. Fingers crossed."

There was a collective "awww" from the audience and the interview very quickly moved on to publicity for his most recent film, but the blood that was suddenly rushing in your ears drowned it out.

Your breath stuttered, your heart hammered in your chest. Your cheeks ached from the smile that seemed to be stuck there, the moment he had told Fallon.

Some part of you scolded you for thinking that Chris was speaking of you, but it was just too coincidental. What he had said, it applied, right? It was applicable to your situation. Directly. There was room for error, but that was practically minuscule. Dodger shifted in his sleep, almost to punctuate your point.

All rational thought of your previous fears disintegrated with that near absolute admission of his feelings.

You tapped on the icon for messages, and typed out a quick response to your friend so she'd know you'd checked it out. It was a non-committal response, neither denying nor fully accepting what she was implying.

On a whim, you checked the text chain you had with Chris. It wasn't a particularly thrilling text chain, very short and quick replies from when he had a free moment on set, interlaced with heart meltingly adorable pics you managed to grab of Dodger. But upon a quick scroll back, one message caught your eye, dating back a week. One that you hadn't thought much of when you first received it, but that now held so much more meaning.

We wrap in a week, I have something to tell you when I get back

You had expected it to be another film role he'd been going for, or maybe a new Broadway show.

You'd let yourself dream, but never let yourself hope. There was too much at stake. First and foremost, he was your friend, and you'd do anything to not ruin it. Anything but kiss him.

But that night, you dreamed.

And that morning, you hoped.

Maybe that's what had you finding out his flight details from his agent, promising a non-life threatening surprise (he had heard about the incident with the baseball bat, and was more than relieved to hear that you were taking initiative in actively not breaking his client's face – as he reiterated a thousand times over "his face pays the rent! HIS FACE IS WORTH YOUR HOUSE!"), and maybe that's what had you stood there, stomach twisted in knots as you waited.

And then you saw him.

And you were simultaneously utterly calm yet filled with butterflies – a refreshing change from the dull ache you had come to grow accustomed to when looking at him.

What you did next surprised even you.

Breaking free from the rest of the eagerly waiting crowd, you sprinted to him and flung yourself into his arms. They wrapped around you, almost as if he was expecting it, expecting you. He lifted you up and spun you around, his laughter vibrating through his whole body and working its way into yours. Your legs wrapped around his waist as you clung to him, and he chuckled breathlessly in surprise.

"Hey, you," he smiled softly down at you when he'd set you on your feet.

"Hey yourself."

And then you noticed her. You had been so happy to see him, that you didn't see her at first. But now you did. You noticed the woman next to him – the one with her own suitcase, the one watching your display of affection with amusement, the one with a beautiful (in every sense of the word) smile etched on her perfect features.

"{Your name}, this is Lily." Chris slung an affectionate arm over Lily's shoulder, pulling her slightly closer to him. He was still smiling from your surprise greeting, but when he looked at her, the smile shifted into something else. Something more. Something that crushed the hope from your lungs. "My girlfriend."

He had said it himself, that night at Vulpecula: you can't compete where you don't compare, and the fact of the matter was, you simply could not begin to compare to a girlfriend. Particularly one such as Lily.

Pretending to be overwhelmingly happy came easy, if not a little forced, and maybe if they weren't so lovesick, they would have have noticed just how pathetic your attempt was. But they didn't notice, and so you threw your arms around Lily in an excited hug. We are in the profession of pretence, after all. "So lovely to meet you!"

You almost kicked yourself. It sounded nothing like you, your voice strained and pitched a little too high. Red flushed your cheeks, but they didn't notice.

"Lily, this is {your name}. My roommate."

Roommate. Ouch. Pretending it didn't hurt when he called you roommate, not even friend, came a little harder. Chris was the actor in your friendship, it was clear enough to see now.

"Welcome to our home," you managed to get out, voice still strangled. You quickly corrected yourself: "His home. His home that I live in when he's not home."

In an effort to busy yourself and extricate yourself from the growing one-sided awkwardness of the situation, you helped Lily with her bags, leading the couple to where the car was parked.

They regaled you along the way with how they met – living together in the same hotel, meeting in the bar downstairs one night, the park dates they took.

When you asked when, the answer had your hands clenching half moons into your palms, a wave of nausea crashing over you like an icy ocean wave. Two months. Two months, and suddenly, that interview made sense.

The entire drive home, you thanked your lucky stars that you hadn't done something stupid.

Something so incredibly stupid, like hoped.

[lavendairs]

♚  ━━━  ❛ ALL ABOUT AUGUST.

G E N E R A L  —

NAME.         his full birth name is august ahn-evergreene, his last names being a combination of his maternal and paternal last names because his mother wasn’t going to allow her children to not have her last name in some fashion. however, in his twenties he drops evergreene and only uses ahn as his last name due to a rift with his mother / wanting an identity separate from her ( he’s not fond of his father either but he has a habit of leaving town so it’s easier for august to distance himself from that part of his family’s ‘legacy’ ).

AGE.         he appears in his late 20s ( 27-30 ) but is around 60 years old due to the extended lifespan of a mage.

HEIGHT.          he stands at 6′1 ( 185.42 ). no, he’s not a sloucher and is the type to internally judge people who do because stand up straight wtf?

WEIGHT.          170 pounds ( 77.1kg ). he’s lean and not overly muscular; doesn’t do much heavy physical activity anymore due to his current ‘condition’.

ETHNICITY.         korean-filipino american mage. he comes from a bloodline of magic-users. if commenting on his natural magical prowess, expect a dry ‘of course, i was breed to be.’ in response.

OCCUPATION.           he is what the people of crescent creek call ‘the overseer’, the highest sitting member of the council of novema ( or just ‘the council’ for short ). they are the ones who ‘govern’ the town and its people, establishing laws and stepping in to resolve high-level matters between residents if it should come to it. with the council needing to hear matters from the magi, vampires, fae, werewolves, and other beings, august has a constant headache.

GENDER.          cis-male.

SEXUAL & ROMANTIC ORIENTATION.         he would state that he’s heterosexual but admittedly he’s never fully explored his sexuality enough for that to be a definite statement. he hasn’t seriously dated in a very long time™ and it isn’t interested in changing that.

MBTI.         INTJ-A,  The  Architect  —  it can be lonely at the top. as one of the rarest personality types – and one of the most capable – architects ( INTJs ) know this all too well. rational and quick-witted, architects may struggle to find people who can keep up with their nonstop analysis of everything around them. these personalities can be both the boldest of dreamers and the bitterest of pessimists. architects believe that, through willpower and intelligence, they can achieve even the most challenging of goals. but they may be cynical about human nature more generally, assuming that most people are lazy, unimaginative, or simply doomed to mediocrity.

S P E C I F I C S  —

FAVOURITE  FOOD.           he’s very particular about getting his three meals a day in if he can but he probably has the most fondest for food that was often served at dinner time with his family or when all his cousins spent time at his lola’s house when they visited her. dishes such as bopis, kimchi, pancit canton, tocino and rice, korean styled steak, etc. are personal favorites.

FAVOURITE  DRINK.           his day isn’t complete without having a nice, chilled glass of vintage red wine during dinner ( and maybe just drinking straight from the bottle by the end of the night ). he does enjoy drinking rosé during a nice breakfast or lunch depending on the bottle.

FAVOURITE  HOBBY.          brooding. joking aside, he does enjoy sparring matches, ‘magical’ based sparring matches. he does practice taekkyeon ( korean martial arts ) and enjoys mixing spells in by shocking opponents, blocking their spells with his own wards, etc.

FAVOURITE  SCENT.             the smell of freshly cut grass as well as the scent of pomegranates, vanilla, cinnamon, and musk. the former is bittersweet and nostalgic, reminding of his years as a teen: when he was young, oblivious, and only had to be concerned about being late to football / soccer practice. the latter reminds him of someone he would rather forget.

FAVOURITE  PERSON.        i. his twin brother, ansel ahn. his death still hurts and he’ll always partially blame himself for it - despite the fact that there would’ve been nothing he could’ve done to change it. ( this is the part where that wand.avision quote is inserted in ). the loss of his brother dramatically changes the course of his life. ii. his lola, nora evergreene. she grounds him a lot. one of the few times he’s at peace is when he visits her for brunch every third saturday of the month. iii. his ex, audrey cramer. he would never admit it out loud though - at least not anymore.

T E N   F A C T S  —

he’s well versed in magical creatures : one of the 'gifts’ of being the overseer is the ability to traverse pass the veil - a barrier / entry way that exist between ‘earth’ and the many dimensions that exist beyond it. this ability, however, is one that has fallen out of use over the past few decades. ever the abnormally, august makes use of this ability for his own personal agenda. outside of the different races that already live within crescent creek ( witches, vampires, werewolves, fairies, etc. ), there are those that prefer to live freely in their own worlds rather than live in secrecy on earth. so yes, he has met unicorns and he thinks most of them are actually assholes.

on the nature of the veil : the origin of the veil itself is a mystery. all that is known that about its existence is that many millennium ago, those from different dimensions ( or ‘worlds’ ) were able to freely pass through it without the need of assistance or a spell. as time progressed and humanity began to rise, passage through the veil became increasingly more restricted, leading to entry ways within the veil being sealed and only accessible through the leader in each world ( ex. the overseer in crescent creek ). although the town of crescent creek has always traded with other towns, cities, etc. pass the veil, many of those trades have slowed to a stop entirely as those dimensions have become inaccessible. to somewhat ease panic and concern, the council has framed the issue being due to other dimensions permanently closing themselves off from earth ( a situation that has previously happened some worlds ). in truth, the veil itself has become 'infected’ by a foreign spell that’s led to the blocking of entry ways that lead into other worlds. due to not knowing the source of the spell and its affect on the veil, the knowledge of its presence is unknown to most people in crescent creek. // note: this is more of an overall ‘lore’ fact that explains the backdrop of what’s going on in this ‘world’ to understand other facts about him. in the grand scheme of things, this wouldn’t come up when interacting with him.

he doesn’t believe in astrologists, psychics, fortune tellers, etc. : which may seem contradictory considering he’s a literal magical being but in his experience, it’s typically humans pushing pseudoscience or mages using their magic to con clueless humans. people in that line of ‘work’ are hacks to him - especially since he’s seen it first hand with his own father’s profession.

over the past twenty years, he’s been continuing his brother’s research : ansel, his older, twin brother, had been studying the distortions within the veil in secret before his death a decade prior. although the status of the veil was supposed to be concealed to those outside of the council’s reach, ansel confided in his brother before his death. in august’s eyes, whatever spell that’s taken over the veil is an active threat and with the backing of onyx crane, a vampire on the council, and his cousin, faye evergreene, he began an almost obsessive-like determination to complete his brother’s work and find answers - even if it’s to his own detriment. // *note: with a big soap opera trope being people returning from the dead, it shouldn’t be shocking to discover that ansel, is in fact, not actually dead. he used a storm that hit the town as a means to fake his own death ( disasters that kill off characters is usually a soap opera storyline that happens during ‘sweeps’ period ) and left town for his own agenda.

the youngest overseer to sit in the council : his status as the overseer is one steeped in controversy due to...a variety of reasons: an overseer typically is replaced by another council member by vote or an apprentice to the overseer should they have one after an overseer’s death, resignation, or if they’ve been forcefully discharged from the position. none of these things applied to august’s own mother, tala ahn-evergreene, when he usurped her - blackmailing the council by threatening to expose the truth about the current threat of the veil. // *note: in every ( american ) soap opera, it is a staple to have a ‘thing’, whether it be a business, a central institution in town ( ex. a hospital ), or a position ( CEO of a company, chief of staff at a hospital, etc. ) that many of the characters are tied to or even fighting for control over. ELQ, the quartermaine’s family business on general hospital, often have storylines where family members are fighting over shares of the company, who should run it, or the family teaming up to oust an outsider that’s taken over the company ( funnily enough, there is a story like the latter happening on the show right now ). the point here is that being the overseer or even sitting on the council of novema is that ‘thing’ that people fight over to be on for various reason. 

he takes his personal upkeep very seriously : there’s a lot of things one could say about crescent creek’s current overseer but no one can ever say they’ve seen august ahn not look put together when he’s out and about ( this is him going out publicly basically ). as someone who values consistency and control in his life but pretty much never has it, august actually highly treasures the time spent doing his morning / nightly skincare routines, getting his acupuncture treatments, and so on. he supports the self care movement essentially.

he ( as well as his siblings ) once witnessed one of his father’s affairs : it was an awful experience. -10/10. doesn’t recommend. this incident shapes his attitude towards relationships in general and how he operates within them. august has a very black and white attitude about relationships: you are either with him 100% or you’re not with him at all. it’s unhealthy and he has to unpack that. // *fun fact: this is actually a real event that happened with this family back in the sims 2 over ten years ago - they just all had different names, were a different race, and so on at that point.. they’ve changed a lot:tm:. 

may be an active suspect for murder : it happens. when marlena cramer, a former council member, suddenly passes on, the town is overtaken by a wave of a grief...that soon becomes shock and suspicion when her death is rules to be from unnatural causes. between being one of the last people to see her alive and reports of him wanting her off the council, august becomes one of the prime suspects for her murder case. // *note: whodunit’s are probably up there with ‘who’s the daddy’ storylines in terms of being the most common soap opera staple ( ex. who shot j.r. on dallas ).

voted most likely to be successful in his HS yearbook : august was the picture perfect prom king, the jock that was friends with everyone on campus, and the one everyone expected ride off into the sunset with his hs sweetheart. on paper, august was well rounded - some would say outright perfect. today, those who knew him in high school would shake their heads and ask themselves what happened to the boy who always smiled at them when he passed you by in the hallway or whose laughter could easily be heard the loudest in a classroom. august, as he is now, is a stranger to those that once knew him.

it’s happening gradually but he is, in fact, dying : many of the worlds that had become unaccessible were not only blocked off but were actively decaying - many of its residents fleeing to other worlds before they were forever trapped in a dying one while others locked their entry ways to stop the spell from spreading to their own homes. the overseers in crescent creek were restricted from traversing the veil themselves due to the unknown risk of the spell, a rule that august actively ignores. every time he travels through the veil, the more the spell slowly eats away at him - a fact that he is well aware of and he has no desire to stop. he will keep traveling worlds ( and helping those he can ) until he finds the source of the spell and kills its caster himself.

FIVE  THINGS  HE  LIKES.

visiting the sauna. the heat helps with his internal pain.

eating home-cooked meals.

getting hydrafacials ( james_franco_so_good.gif ).

smoking with his cousin, faye.

blasting emo music as he gets drunk, questions his life choices, and stares at the ceiling

FIVE  THINGS  HE  DISLIKES.

feeling used.

disloyal / uncommitted people

selfishness.

tough, chewy steak.

cheap wine.

COMMON  WORDS / PHRASES  THAT  ANNOY  THEM.         during a misunderstanding or argument, the worst thing to tell him is that he ‘doesn’t understand’. even if the person is somewhat correct, august is a person that prides himself on being an objective observer of a situation, rational in his thinking, and not someone who lets his emotions dictate his choices. saying something like that to him would just further annoy him.

PERSONALITY  TYPES  THEY  PREFER.        those who are smart, loyal, and efficient. those who are willing to dirty their hands on occasion, and believe that the ends do justify the means.

PERSONALITY  TYPES  THEY  AVOID.       selfish and incompetent people, those who proceed to waste his time, useless people in positions of powers, jerky unicorns.

WHAT  DO  YOU  FIND  DIFFERENT / DISTINCT  ABOUT  YOUR  PORTRAYAL?

         the whole concept of this ‘world’ is based around soap opera cliches and tropes so the character is intentionally ‘tropey’ and meant to pull from different fictional men from the genre - as well as outside of it. i would say him being the leading man is unique within itself because people of color in soaps ( at least within american soaps which this is all inspired by ) are generally never the leads or involved in what i actually watch soaps for: the drama, the love stories, the scheming, the cheating, etc. they’re usually the straight men to the white characters; living well off but boring lives and are rarely given front burner stories. all black people in a soap opera are usually always going to somehow know each other, only date each other, etc. you can switch black people out with latinos, asians, etc. and it would still be true. the characters of color are easily written off as a result of this.

        in general, soap operas are very white - and still are today. they have a history of casting white people as mexican characters, ex. lindsay hartley as theresa on passions. asian american soap characters are severly lacking - i could probably count the amount of i’ve seen on screen. a black actress formerly on general hospital mentioned how people jokingly called the show ‘generally white hospital’ behind the scenes. chad.wick bos.eman left all my children because of how much of a stereotype his character was - and he was right ( ironically, michael b. jord.an was his recast ). some shows are getting better, bold and beautiful currently has a story involving two characters cheating ( one of which is black ) and it’s hot af but it’s still not enough for the times we’re in. this isn’t a problem exclusive to soaps either - most media has a problem with this. people of color aren’t getting lead roles and especially not romantic lead roles - even if they do, the shows always make it a interracial romance with a white person ( ex. bridg/erton ) as if people of color of different races are incapable of dating each other.

         finally, i’ve noticed that you rarely see asian american men portrayed as romantic leads or desirable ( at least in a non-fetishized way ) in western media. that’s pretty lame:tm: so that was also a factor when i revamped audrey’s love interest ( parts of ‘old’ him still exist, ex. him being a jock / king of the school as a teen, a complicated relationship with his brother, etc ). anyway, stan august uwu.

tagged by:   i took it from myself. tagging:   anyone who wants to.

[dakotacrisis]

It’s a Fluke

I got like two other one shots that I’m gonna get posted later. Tis the season and all that jazz.

Felix and Marinette get partnered for a project and neither are too thrilled about it...at first.

---

Felix and Marinette had never gotten on. Felix couldn’t get past her excessive cheer and energy and Marinette was sick of his cold shoulder and grumpy attitude. It was how it was between them and everyone knew it. Felix had joined the ranks of the exclusive group of people Marinette couldn’t stand and Marinette became another casualty of trying to befriend Felix and utterly failing.

That was until the day they got paired for a project. The partners had been paired by the teacher and were not up for debate. Whether they liked it or not they were gonna have to work together.

Things started off cordial enough. Straight to the point, no nonsense, everything was about their work. They chose what they were going to work on and figured out times they could get together to review the progress they made. It was going to be fine.

“Dupain-Cheng,” Felix approached her at her locker, “Did you finish the research for your part last night?”

“Yes.” She pulled out her notes on the subject. “You?”

“All done.” he flashed his own notes. “Meet at the library during free period to review?”

“Sounds like a plan.” And with that they parted and went to class.

Free period rolled around and they settled into the library to continue working.

Marinette sat across from her looking over her notes and making edits and constructing a good flow for the information when she felt like someone was watching her. She looked up and Felix’s sharp grey eyes were trained on her like he was studying her.

“Yes?” She asked when he didn’t say anything.

He blinked a couple times before sneering a bit. “Do you know you hum while you work? It’s quite distracting.”

“Sorry?” Marinette huffed as she went back to her work. She thought about humming again just to spite him but decided not to. She would be mature about this.

“It’s a fluke?” Felix said.

“What was that?”

“The song you were humming. It was It’s a Fluke, was it not?”

“It was.” Marinette nodded. “How did you know? I didn’t think that was your type of music.”

“You’d be surprised what all I listen to.”

“Hopefully not XY’s stuff.” Marinette grimaced.

“Goodness no, I have an eclectic palette of music and that man’s dribble meets nowhere near my tastes.” Felix scowled. “Doesn’t help that his latest song has been on every radio station on repeat for at least a week now. It is starting to drive me up a wall.”

“I know! It comes on at the bakery all the time and my parents are one repeat away from just disconnecting the sound system to the store altogether. I’ve never actively listened to it but if it started playing I would be able to sing along and I hate it.”

A brief smirk creased his otherwise blank face before dropping once again. “Yes, but enough about music. We should be getting back to work.”

“Right, of course.” Marinette shook her head and raced to find the place she left off.

The next day was more of the same with them working in relative silence. Marinette made a small comment about a song she liked that she thought Felix may be interested in. He didn’t say much but nodded consideringly which gave Marinette hope he would actually listen to it later.

When school let out Marinette frowned at the torrential downpour. Her house was right across the street but she would be soaked through by the time she got to cover. If only she hadn’t forgotten her umbrella again.

“Dupain-Cheng,” Felix met her at the entrance, “I was hoping to catch you before you left for the day.”

“What is it?”

“I won’t be able to work during free period tomorrow but I would like to finish up what we have so that we can do any final edits before our presentation Friday.” He said, “Would you mind if we worked after school? Considering your schedule is open of course.”

“Oh yeah, shouldn’t be a problem. Where were you thinking?”

“My house, six PM sharp. Does that work for you?”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Then I will see you then.” He pulled out his umbrella and started descending towards the car waiting for him.

Marinette looked out towards her house and sighed. Might as well get it over with now. She stepped out into the rain trying to shield her head from the downpour as much as she could with her bookbag.

She was halfway to the street crossing when the rain let up around her. She looked up and Felix was walking next to her with his umbrella stretched over her. “What are--” she started to ask.

“I’m not so heartless as to let you trudge your way home in this rain.” He cut across her. His eyes trained forward. “Be quick though, my ride is waiting.”

“Thanks.” Marinette turned to him once she was at the bakery door. “That was kind of you.”

“Do me a favor and don’t forget your umbrella next time. It does no one any good when you’re forgetful.”

Marinette’s small smile curdled into a scowl. “Right. Sorry for inconveniencing you.” Marinette stepped into the bakery and slammed the door behind her. At least she tried. There was an automatic stopper on the door that slowed its close so it couldn’t be slammed.

Felix stood on the other side with an entertained smile as Marinette glared at the slowly closing door. Uppity little weasel!

She turned sharp on her heel and stomped upstairs. Every time she thinks he’s being nice he does a one eighty and she’s right back to annoyed.

A night of rest and a subsequent pleasant morning didn’t do much to improve her attitude towards Felix the following day. Which was bad seeing as how she had agreed to go over to his house that evening. Whatever. At least this project was almost done then she wouldn’t have to interact with him again.

She got to his house and was buzzed in. He greeted her at the door and Marinette was taken aback by the casual boy in front of her. Worn out pair of jeans and sweatshirt. Even his usually perfectly styled hair was mussed.

“Is there a reason you’re gawking at me?” Felix asked when she hadn’t said anything.

“Sorry. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so...casual before.” She was going to say laid back but even in his pajamas she didn’t think she’d be able to say that about Felix. No matter what he was always ramrod straight and professional. No amount of sweats or messy hair could cover that.

Felix gave an amused scoff before gesturing her inside. “We can work in my room. Is that alright with you?”

“Sure.” She followed him up to his room.

Now this felt more like Felix. Simple decor, tall bookshelves, everything was organized and tidy and there was a distinct pine smell as if someone just finished dusting. Felix sat down at his desk and Marinette stood off to the side shuffling through her own work.

“You can sit if it makes you more comfortable.” Felix said after a couple minutes.

Marinette looked around but didn’t see another chair that she could use. “Where?”

“Oh right…” Felix looked up and scanned the room. “You can sit on the bed so long as you take off your shoes first.”

“Okay…” Marinette pulled off her shoes before nestling at the corner of his bed. She spread out her work around her as she tried to compose it all into a cohesive whole.

This is weird. This is so weird.

“What do you want done with this bit? I’m not sure where to put it.” Marinette asked.

“What bit?” Felix collected the paper. “Oh this, huh,” He pushed some papers out of his way to make room and sat down next to her. “We could put it--no that wouldn’t work. We could always--no that doesn’t fit either.”

“Honestly, I’m not even sure if we need it. It seems really irrelevant in the grand scheme of things.” She reached across him for a paper. “We could just jump to this next part and skip that bit. What do you think?”

Felix was staring at her again but it wasn’t out of annoyance. He was studying her again.

“Felix?” Marinette inquired quietly. “What are you…”

She glanced down and noticed she was far closer to him than she had been a moment ago. “Sorry. I should have just asked you to pass the paper instead of leaning across you like that.” She tried to withdraw but at the last second he touched her shoulder.

His eyes were still trained on her face flicking across her features like he was searching for something. Then he gently pushed her away. He stood up and stiffly walked back to his desk. “That sounds like a fine plan. You can throw that last bit out.”

Marinette was still trying to figure out what happened a moment ago. Felix was making a definitive point of avoiding looking at her.

They finished their work and Marinette started packing up to leave.

“Dupain-Cheng,” Felix walked her down to the door, “I listened to that song you recommended.”

“Oh. What did you think?”

“It was good.”

She waited for him to elaborate but that seemed to be as much as he was willing to share.

“Okay. Good. Glad you liked it.” She opened the front door. It was raining again. “Crap.”

Felix gave a small sigh. “Forget your umbrella again?”

“The forecast said it was gonna be clear tonight. Would you mind if I borrowed yours? I’ll give it back first thing tomorrow.”

“If you can’t remember your own umbrella what is there to convince me you’ll remember to bring me mine?”

“Fine then. Geez. I’ll just use my bag.” Marinette took one step outside before she pulled right back in. “Felix!”

“Calm down.” He pulled his umbrella out of the rack by the door. “Let’s go.”

“You won’t let me borrow your umbrella but you will walk me home?”

“Do you want to be dry or not?”

“Are you going to make a snarky remark like you did yesterday if I do?”

“If I apologized would you come along already?”

“Don’t. My house is just down the block. I’ll be fine.”

“It’s also late. And I would feel better knowing you got back to your house safely.”

“Nothing is going to happen in the five minutes it’d take me to run to my house.”

“Marinette,” the use of her first name caught her off guard. He held the umbrella towards her. “I am sincerely asking you to let me escort you home for peace of mind.”

She stepped out next to him. “Okay. Thank you.”

They started the walk home in silence before Felix spoke up again.

“I am sorry if whatever I may have said offended you before. Sincerity seems to spark a defensive reaction in me for reasons unknown.”

“That seems rather silly, doesn’t it?”

“Yes.” he chuckled dryly, “I suppose it does.”

Marinette could see the lights of her house in the distance. For whatever reason Felix slowed down in his stride forcing Marinette to slow as well to keep under the umbrella.

“Dupain-Cheng, I was wondering something.” Felis asked, “What is your thoughts on vinyl records?”

“Vinyl? My mother really likes them but she never let me touch them when I was younger. Why?”

“There is a little vinyl shop I know that has some albums I think you would like if you were interested.”

“Are you serious?”

“I would like to see what other recommendations you have for me. My usual tracks have grown stale to listen to and could do with some newer sound.” He looked away from her. “I understand if you would rather pass. I fear I am not the best company even in the sincerest of circumstances.”

“I wouldn’t go that far. You’re grumpy and have a tone issue but you’re not outwardly malicious like other people I know. I have to say I am surprised though. I had the distinct impression you didn’t care for me very much.”

“True you are far bubblier than I would like and it is hard to take in all at once. But I would much rather be partnered with you then say Kim or Nino.”

“Such praise.” Marinette rolled her eyes. They were finally back at her house. “When were you planning on going to this shop?”

“Tomorrow after class?”

“It’s a date.” She nodded. “I mean not a date. Like a date date. But a get together as friends kinda date. You know what. Let’s call it an outing. Not a date. That sounds good to me.” She fumbled for the door handle to her house. “I’ll uh see you tomorrow?”

Felix was smiling at her in much the same way he did when he walked her home yesterday. “See you tomorrow, Dupain-Cheng.”

[sepublic]

Makuta and Rahi

           I really have to speculate about the Makutas’ relationship with Rahi as a whole. It’s never quite defined within canon the purpose of Rahi’s existence in the Matoran Universe, did the Makuta ever consider this, and did it bother them? While Mata Nui created various sapient races with no-doubt clear-cut purposes as part of a larger machine… Did the Makuta ever feel insecurity over the seemingly pointless addition of the Rahi? Did they ever feel extraneous alongside their own creations?

           Especially since I can see a LOT of thought, passion, and creativity going into a lot of Rahi species and their designs, behaviors, the way they interact with one another… There’s a delicate thing that needs to be considered when designing an ecosystem, and that’s Balance. I have to wonder if that’s a concept that the Brotherhood of Makuta held dear to their hearts, especially given how inextricably tied it is to their creations.

           Thinking on it, I can better understand why the Makuta saw taking over the universe as just a mere extension of their pre-existing duties. Their ordained purpose in life had already been to create species who have specific niches, roles, and purposes to play… Mata Nui’s handling of sapient species was no different, right? You had Makuta actively working to improve upon pre-existing creations, so improving upon a fractured universe by uniting it just makes sense! The line is further blurred when one considers the presence of sapient rahi… And in that scenario, I guess it’s not too surprising that the Makuta saw themselves as not all that different from Mata Nui, in the end- Maybe even better.

           The creation of ecosystems also means establishing a cycle of life, which often means designing species with the intended purpose to be devoured and/or killed by other Rahi creations. That sort of lifestyle and mentality, raising and designing entire species for a specific purpose, one they both live and diefor… It can really create a God complex amongst some Makuta. They have literal divine justification in creating a ‘greater system’ where the lives of countless Rahi are meant to be sacrificed and hunted down, all to maintain a cycle of life, a specific balance.

           And considering their roles, the Makuta no doubt got used to the idea of culling populations in order to maintain an order and ‘balance’ within ecosystems. And with the line between Rahi and sapient species blurring… I can see, more and more, how the Makuta became so nonchalant to the idea of killing others for a ‘greater purpose’, and how this casual attitude just led to the Brotherhood becoming more and more desensitized- Until we have people like Icarax or Gorast, who outright revel in carnage. They were encouraged from creation to create species that were meant to die, or species that were meant to kill- Oftentimes both. And as one takes pride in their ability to fulfill this role, some end up taking pride in their creations’ ability to kill, and/or die…

           I’d even argue the Makuta are the Matoran Universe equivalent to the Great Beings, as amoral scientists who saw ruling the world as just a natural extension of their pre-existing duties, and themselves as the best candidates for the job. After all, the Archives Massacre taught them that it was necessary to kill a few, in order to save the rest… Aside from Teridax having always been genuinely terrible, I can see why his role as a Zoologist framed the way he perceived the situation. It wouldn’t have been much different to the nonchalance that comes from killing off an invasive species in droves, all to maintain an ecosystem- Or introducing predators whose sole purpose is to kill those creatures.

           I can also see this desensitization towards individual plights and smaller issues, all for the greater good, really getting to the Makuta. As they spread out following the Matoran Civil War, a lot of Makuta likely had a policy of just letting smaller incidents, chaos, and injustices occur without interference- So long as they didn’t interfere with the grand scheme of things. It’d be like turning a blind eye to a helpless prey being pursued by a hungry pack of predators- Sure, you feel sorry for that prey. But in the end, this is just nature, it’s just how it is… And those predators have to eat, man. It’s like how Zoologists, out in the wild, generally don’t interfere with the stuff that goes on around them, unless this is something threatening an entire ecosystem or species. I can see some Makuta coping with their roles by deciding that it’s downright immature to be caught up in the life of a single Rahi, learning not to be so attached to creatures that just come and go, living and dying, etc.

          I can see how their roles as ecosystem overseers led to the Makuta being discouraged from getting personally involved, nor closely attached to the actual subjects they were working with- And how this practice translated towards their oversight of the Matoran Universe, letting the Toa do the heavy-lifting of protecting society. I can see how they became resentful of the Toa, who were blessed to be but mere heroes and protectors, and received adulation for this; While the Makuta felt unappreciated as beings who had to make difficult choices for the greater good, and often sacrifice the lives of others for this purpose.

          No doubt, many coped by seeing the callous reality of their duties as being noble in its own sense, as is the idea of making the difficult call to kill others for the sake of a larger world. There must’ve been jealousy amongst the Makuta towards the Toa- Who were revered for fulfilling their roles, only for the Makuta to be vilified for doing the same. Don’t blame THEM for their detached manner of overseeing the universe, the Makuta were just doing what the Great Spirit told of them! And that could lead to resentment towards Mata Nui, for even making the Makuta to be like this…

           And when the League of Six Kingdoms fell, following the disappearance of the Barraki? It’s no wonder the Brotherhood of Makuta took over, they applied that same principle of enforcing a balance and functioning system, an interconnected web of interactions, and applied it on a grander yet similar scale- This time to the countless civilizations and sapient species of the Matoran Universe. Given how apathetic Mata Nui was towards maintaining the Matoran Universe, I can see how the Makuta thought themselves as better rulers.

          As Zoologists, they’d be intimately aware of the process of observing populations in their natural habitat, keeping an eye on them, herding them towards a desired path with a guiding hand. The Brotherhood probably saw itself as paying more attention to the goings-on of the Matoran Universe than the Great Spirit, and they were probably right! And it really does seem like common sense, that people who actually know more about the world they’re governing and more closely involved with it, should actually be running it VS some detached, apathetic Great Spirit that can’t even notice the formation of a League or Toa Empire in his own body, so long as it’s not directly affecting him.

           When you’re designing ecosystems, you have to take everything into account- So the Makuta likely saw themselves as more attentive, responsible, and even compassionate towards the Matoran Universe inhabitants, than their own god. Not to mention the idea of constantly manipulating the lives of being they see as lesser, more primitive, and not having the same rights nor intelligence as them… I can see some Makuta mistakenly dismissing the sapient species of the Matoran Universe as no different. Or at least, that same detached, patronizing attitude of treating others without regard to what THEY have to say, because they’re too dumb to consider the bigger picture… I can see how it was applied to beings like the Matoran.

          I can see why the Makuta saw the sapient species of their world, and ‘dumb animals’ as not being all that different… And on the flip-side, this naturally meant that just as Rahi were lesser beings to them, so were the other sapient species in the Matoran Universe. And it just led to the Makuta distancing themselves, creating that sense of detachment and superiority, that mentality that the ends justified the means… Being encouraged to create others with the purpose to kill and/or die, taking pride in one’s ability to create something that causes death, or satisfaction at the demise of something else…

          Not to mention, the diversity of Rahi may have exceeded that of sapient species, which not only influenced the Makutas’ fascination with shapeshifting and their creativity, but likely made them see themselves as being more clever and imaginative creators than Mata Nui himself. Working closely with the Great Spirit also made him seem much less distant to the Makuta, much more approachable… And thus so much more flawed and vulnerable. Especially if they knew exactly how a jeopardized system could easily throw Mata Nui’s health out of balance, how he was outright dependent on the lives of his ‘lesser beings’ and creations, while the Makuta lacked such a weakness and only continued to transcend, evolving past physical bodies.

           The Makuta, most of them, were terrible people. That much is not up for debate, and most of them really DID choose their own horrific paths. People like Gorast and Icarax enjoyed carnage far too much, while Teridax was just awful to an unprecedented degree. But it makes me consider Krika’s sadness, how he sees the Makuta as trapped to their fate, like their decisions to become conquerers and usurpers was merely inevitable… Because in the end, they were made for that. They were made to be Zoologists, and thus predisposed to traits that would better enable their purpose.

           Just as the role of the Toa made them predisposed to being heroic and beloved by others… One could argue that the Makuta were similarly fated in a sense, albeit doomed. They had a completely different purpose than the Toa, and that meant a different mentality, way of life, and handling of others… The Makuta weren’t made to necessarily care for others, and to even disregard the lives of some for a ‘greater good’, for a balance. They were placed in an environment and position that both encouraged and required the attitudes that led to their corruption, so I can see why Krika felt his fate as a traitor to the Great Spirit was inevitable- Because one can’t escape their reason for existence, nor can they escape Destiny. And, it’s funny that Krika becomes so resigned to the idea of being unable to escape one’s inherent nature… Because one can argue that the Makuta DID rise above that, alongside their intended purpose. They weren’t meant to take over the Matoran Universe as conquerers, yet they chose to act contrary to both the plans of the Great Spirit and Great Beings.

           And while Krika saw this lifestyle as a natural extension of their creators’ intended roles for them… There’s still the realization that they DID defy the plans of their makers, to an extent. To the point where they could outright rebel against them- Again, as a result of attitudes implanted by their creators, for the purpose of carrying out their assigned duties. But still… It’s not entirely hopeless, and that’s Krika’s downfall- He just sort of gave up. He was too much of a coward, too resigned, and too apathetic to make a difference. Krika saw one’s environment as dictating a person’s existence and identity, but I can see why- After all, with regards to the idea of evolution and adaptations, for many animals their environment literallyshapes what they are!

          And just as environments can be created by the Great Beings, so too can Rahi be made by the Makuta, with regards to how they’ll function in said environments. Krika lived by the idea that beings are dictated entirely by the circumstances they were made in… If his own Rahi could never rise above their environmental circumstances, then could Krika? Especially since he, too, is a creation of a higher being? Overall, I can see how Krika became so defeatist and cynical; At least until the last second, but by then it was too late. To Krika, beings’ lives are dictated by an unchangeable environment/situation, and the only way to survive is to adapt and conform to that environment, to live by what it dictates- There is no changing one’s situation, you are entirely subject to its whim and power. Perhaps it’s no wonder Krika became so disillusioned.

[ahhsokka]

Star Wars: Light of the Jedi — Review

Reading Dates: 08/16 - 08/18/2021 Word Count for Review: 1880

TL;DR: This is a must-read for the High Republic era. It mostly feels like exposition for follow-up projects instead of its own story, but it is still a good book and an enjoyable read. Main criticism is that we get too much information for one book. Important to note that the Jedi are cool.

INTRODUCTION Welcome to the era of the High Republic, a golden age of peace and prosperity throughout the galaxy. Charles Soule authored this first installation for the project: Light of the Jedi. We follow a brand new cast of characters in the galaxy as they navigate the immediate aftermath of the Great Disaster and the rise of the Nihil, the villains of the High Republic project. In this review, I’ll give a vague and brief summary of the book and then dive into my compliments and criticisms of it.

SUMMARY PART ONE Part One focuses purely on the Great Disaster, beginning with the event that caused it and ending with a last-ditch effort by the Jedi to save the entire Hetzal system. Billions of lives are on the line, and the countdown until impact clock at the beginning of each chapter reminds us how close everyone is to death. Soule introduces us to the main cast of characters that feature not only in this book but also in the whole of the High Republic project. Some of these new faces include Avar Kriss, Loden Greatstorm and his Padawan Bell Zettifar, Nib Assek and her Padawan Burryaga Agaburry, and Chancellor Lina Soh. Brilliant technician Keven Tarr, the Hetzal government, and a fleet of Jedi work together to keep peace on the planet, blow up debris, and save lives. By the end, the overwhelming sentiment is “it could’ve been worse.” Although casualties in the Hetzal system were kept to a minimum, the people of Ab Dalis were not as lucky—twenty million people were killed without a shred of hope for salvation.

PART TWO Finally, we meet “the big bad”—the Nihil. A ragtag group of marauders led by three Tempest Runners and their Eye, Marchion Ro. Throughout Part Two, Soule briefly dives into the history and organization of the Nihil, how they become a powerful group after they first received ‘the paths’ from Ro’s father, and where they are headed from here following their own involvement in the Great Disaster. As Marchion Ro attempts to gain more power within the Nihil, the Jedi and the Republic are working on two main problems: solve the mystery behind the Great Disaster and make sure it never happens again. Towards the end, a third task is added to that list: bring down the Nihil.

PART THREE Now that the Republic knows about the Nihil involvement in the Great Disaster, they focus their attention on snuffing the group out and maintaining peace in the Outer Rim before the opening ceremony of Starlight Beacon. While transporting a flight recorder that is instrumental to learning more about the Great Disaster, a fleet of Republic ships encounters the Nihil. Tempest Runner Kassav Milliko was sent by Marchion Ro to intercept the fleet, but he was vastly underprepared for their numbers. Although he was essentially being sent to battle as a sacrifice, Kassav led his warriors in the dirtiest fight the Republic had ever seen, killing many of their troops. Despite their efforts, his entire Tempest perished. The Republic successfully opens Starlight Beacon, but they do so with the knowledge that a great threat could be waiting around the corner.

COMPLIMENTS I would like to make it very clear that I enjoyed reading this novel. Charles Soule was handed a tall task in opening up an entirely new era. He had to make it compelling enough for readers to stay engaged with the story he was trying to tell while also building up the setting of an unexplored time period. Some planets and concepts will be familiar to fans, but for the most part, the structure of the universe is different from what we’ve known. Although I have some criticism for this book, I believe that Charles Soule and the rest of the Project Luminous team successfully created this new era. I want to know more about the characters and what the universe was like for people at this time. We only know of the galaxy at war; what does it look like at peace?

By far, my favorite part of Light of the Jedi was, of course, the Jedi. The way that the Force is perceived by each individual—as a song, a forest, and an endless ocean—is so beautiful. (Whenever Avar Kriss would mention the song that she hears in her head, I would get chills imagining it.) The bond between Padawan and Master was well done and seems to be a common theme not just for this story but many others in the High Republic project (for example, the High Republic comic by Cavan Scott). Loden Greatstorm and Bell Zettifar are by far one of the most fascinating pairings. Burryaga, a Wookiee Jedi, and his sensitivity to the emotions of others saves the lives of many people and will be a fascinating character to follow in the future (mainly because we so rarely see Force sensitive Wookiees). The High Republic is truly when the Jedi are at their peak; they are the light; there is no other interpretation. (Although I fear that will change as we learn more.)

We are all the Republic. Chancellor Lina Soh is a breath of fresh air from the Clone Wars politics that fans are used to. She clearly loves the Republic and makes decisions which she believes will only benefit its future. It seems that many of the people she works with also hold the same ideals, and I genuinely am excited to learn where it all goes wrong. As horrible as that sounds, only a couple of centuries later, we get Chancellor Palpatine and the Galactic Empire, so clearly something went wrong—what will Lina Soh sacrifice for peace, and how does it go awry?

As for the Nihil: Marchion Ro is honestly terrifying. Soule clearly spent a lot of time developing this storyline to turn the Nihil from being a disorganized group of thieves and murderers to essentially becoming a crime syndicate. Ro almost feels like Maul in his planning skills and adaptability and his cruelty and temper. Obviously, Maul is one of the most beloved Star Wars villains, so I wonder if they used him as a template for Ro. Without their Eye, the Nihil are quite rowdy and kind of dumb, which made them less threatening, in my opinion. They make many mistakes, are selfish, and basically have no impulse control (at least the ones we interact with the most). Initially, that was a criticism, but the rise of Marchion Ro most certainly makes it clear why the Nihil needed to be like this. They aren’t threats until they have a cut-throat, meticulous leader at the helm.

CRITICISMS My biggest criticism is that we know too much as readers. There’s no mystery or puzzle for us to figure out alongside the characters. We understand the story for the most part and have to watch it play out as expected. Although I felt for Captain Hedda Casset and was glad to read her story, I wish that we got it later in the book, or maybe we heard about it through the flight recorder (which didn’t play as big of a role as I expected). The flight recorder acts as a metaphor for most of the book in that way. Something that we’re told is important, but it doesn’t feel that way by the end.

The Great Disaster was horrific, for sure. Billions of people died, and that will be felt for years to come in the galaxy. However, once again, it didn’t feel that way while reading. The Jedi coming in and saving the day and successfully preventing the deaths of an entire planetary system, although an excellent introduction for the Jedi Order, took away from the impact of the event. Even the way it was handled afterward felt clinical and detached. Keven Tarr was the one exception, in my eyes, who conveyed the urgency in solving the situation, but his point of view was unfortunately rare.

This metaphor applies to the Nihil as well. We know so much about them that their intrigue is gone. The most important beats of their recent history with the Eye has already been revealed. The fact that they did start out as a small-time gang who are just now evolving into something greater is exciting, but I personally would’ve liked to see that in a separate story. Peeling away the layers of a villain is much more interesting than getting most of the information immediately. In the grander scheme of the High Republic narrative, the Nihil had the best introduction to explain why they are threats. However, Light of the Jedi as a single story in that narrative suffered as a result. The villain didn’t feel like a villain.

To round it all out, there are a lot of characters. I honestly recommend using some memory trick to remember the names (personally, I grouped or paired them together). One great part of this book is that it doesn’t shy away from death, but at the same time, that made it difficult to get attached to characters. Either I didn’t get to spend enough time with a character and their companions, or I actively didn’t get attached to a character because I didn’t know if they were important enough. As a result, the losses weren’t felt as much. I understood that it was a significant loss, but I didn’t feel it. (Big spoiler) The death of Jora Malli is an example of this, and the only reason I felt anything was because of Master Sskeer’s reaction.

That may be a criticism that only I have, and honestly, it’s pretty minor in the grand scheme of things. Charles Soule did a great job introducing this era. I can still say I enjoyed reading the book, and at the end of the day, that’s all that really matters.

CONCLUSION Ultimately, Light of the Jedi sometimes feels like an exposition-heavy Marvel movie. Not bad at all, just a different story structure. It’s a stepping stone for other stories in the High Republic era. I have already read some other High Republic content and all of it benefited from the information in this book. This is ground zero, an absolute must-read for the High Republic. However, it sometimes is just too much information. I certainly enjoyed learning about this era, and I’m looking forward to reading everything else, some of these stories and characters could’ve been introduced later on, in my opinion.

But hey, I’m not a fiction author, so I definitely don’t know if any of my thoughts or ideas would’ve made a better story. This is honestly a best-case scenario for the first work in this universe. I wasn’t confused while reading, and even though I didn’t get attached to all of the characters, there were indeed some that I immediately latched on to (cough cough looking at you, Bell and Loden). All in all, it’s exciting to have brand new characters in a different period. I love the Skywalker saga—it’s our origin as Star Wars fans—, but this is a massive universe, and it’s good for everyone’s mental health to explore other parts of it.

Rating: [ 7 / 10 ]

Note: Hello! This is my first proper book review. I’m obviously still trying to get the hang of it, so if you have any constructive comments, please drop a note; it’s appreciated. :) I’m trying to fly through all of the current High Republic content so that I’m ready for the new stuff, so expect more reviews, among other things that are in the works. Thanks for reading!