#it was like starbucks venti glass

[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.”

[longleggedsocialist]

just realized I haven’t eaten a single thing today 😬

[m00nlight-ramblings]

BG3 Companion Modern AU Headcanons

These random thoughts popped into my mind and I had to write them down. I love these little weirdos, and some of them probably don't make sense but OH WELL.

Should I do a Part 2 with more companions?? Let me know - my inbox and requests are open!

------

Astarion

This dude's got iPad kid energy - he loves to scroll Tiktok for hours.

He gets bi-weekly pedicures. And not the basic kind - the full on 1.5 hour long with the massage and the mask and the exfoliation.

His favorite holiday is Halloween. He plans his costume starting in August.

He'd be the type of person to be walking through a mall, see a Claire's, and spontaneously decide to get his ears pierced idk.

Is really into metal. Like, you'll come home and Metallica will be blasting and you walk into the bedroom and he's folding laundry and just like, "Oh, HELLO, Darling!" but will have to scream it over the volume in which he's listening to music

Will truly take an hour picking out the perfect wine to pair with your dinner...he's definitely a wine snob.

The cheapest article of clothing Astarion owns is from Banana Republic and it's an undershirt...everything else is ~*very fancy*~

Loves watching all types of vampire movies/TV shows. He can often be heard saying, "Oh no, they got that all wrong" under his breath.

He definitely reads like 1-2 books a week. He's recently really gotten in spicy smut books (he definitely got recommendations from BookTok).

For sure falls asleep to ASMR videos.

Gale

This man loves HGTV *queue Home Depot commercial music*

Has the most absolutely beautiful, clean home you've ever seen with about 30 bookcases CRAMMED with books. The books are the only disorganized thing in his home because he constantly is reading them, so alphabetizing them is useless.

Pinterest is his most used phone app. His boards are carefully curated. That man has a recipe/inspiration pic/quote for EVERYTHING.

Definitely volunteers at the animal shelter once a month. Often times has to talk himself out of bringing a cat home.

LUSH is his favorite store at the mall. He loves them bath bombs.

He THROWS DOWN at holiday parties...Christmas? Thanksgiving? The table is SET. The decorations are UP. He's wearing an APRON because he's been cooking ALL day. The playlist is PERFECT.

Speaking of holidays, he has matching pajama sets for everyone in the household. For every. Holiday.

Fall is absolutely his favorite season. "Sweetheart...have you ever watched 'When Harry Met Sally'? Perfect autumn movie...also I bought a new scarf today to go with my new peacoat. And mittens. And a new hat...it's getting cold outside."

He definitely has a Live. Laugh. Love. adjacent sign somewhere in his home

He definitely needs glasses to read. And he for sure has those librarian chains so that he can just take them off and they hang, instead of losing them.

Karlach

Absolutely loves to eat meals watching Youtube videos.

Imagine her in Times Square? She tears the M&M's store UP.

Is obsessed with documentaries. She often says things like "I can't believe there's so much stuff to LEARN out there!"

Definitely has a Squishmallow collection. And she rotates which one she sleeps with every night so they all get a chance.

Is absolutely the worst cook of all time but tries really really hard...however, she can make a mean boxed mac n' cheese.

Has an obsession with sugary cereal. There's always Cinnamon Toast Crunch or Fruity Pebbles in her cabinets.

Certified Switie for SURE.

Is really into astrology. Definitely has said, "Oh, you're just saying that because you're a SCORPIO" or the like many, many times.

Absolute Starbucks addiction (venti iced caramel macchiato, extra caramel).

Has monthly "girl's nights" (but everyone is invited) at her place. The rules are: pajamas only, junk food, romcoms, and a playlist of the best pop songs in the past 20 years.

------

How'd y'all like it...should I make a part two with other companions?! Remember my inbox is open and I'm accepting requests!! I'd love to write some stuff so send it in!

[ericsprincess]

i can't stop for you and me

nc-17, Sung Hanbin/Reader, office au, lawyer!reader, also bully!reader (kinda), doormat!Hanbin, cunnilingus

~~~

A/N: Reparations ;) This is a gift for a friend. I'm not a ZB1 fan and I don't know them well, so I hope it’s at least a little bit of a fitting scenario for Hanbin.

~~~

Fucking CUTE. You think while spinning your pen between your fingers. You’re sitting behind your big wooden desk, peeking over the dossier that you’ve been pretending to read for the past 15 minutes, your eyes scanning through the office in front of you, until they find your favorite target - your new pretty assistant, Hanbin. 

To be honest, he’s not even doing anything particularly cute, he’s quite literally just doing his job, staring into a computer screen and typing occasionally. He’s that pretty and adorable just by existing, with his delicate porcelain doll face and black hair.

I should have hired that old lady, you lament, but you know it’s bullshit. You knew you’re gonna give him a job offer the moment he walked into the meeting room for his interview, all fresh from school and excited to start his career. He looked so proper and polite, thoughtfully answering every question, even daring to blush and sweat under your scrutiny. You took one brief look at his CV to check if he’s qualified enough, and he was. There might have been better, more experienced candidates, but you decided to do this thing for you, just this once. Treat yourself. 

And now it’s coming back at you in full force. 

This is not good. This is a problem. His presence makes you feel things and all of them are inappropriate at the very least. 

It’s not helping that he would obviously bend over backwards to make you happy. You don’t even need to finish the question and he’s already eagerly rushing to complete whatever unnecessary task you made up this time. No request is dumb enough for him to object, and you actually tried. He would just happily go about his way to fulfill it. You could send him to sort cases by alphabetical order backwards and he would just ask when it’s supposed to be done. Sometimes you like to ruffle his feathers a little more by giving him work that he’s clearly not ready for, like that one time where you made him give a presentation to your client instead of yourself. You actually thought he’s going to faint, but somehow he powered through it just by sheer determination, earning an approving smile and nod from you, going all red in reply. 

Not to say that thanks to his good looks he solved your perpetual problem of missing partner at every work function and dumb dinner party with clients. Now you get to drag your handsome assistant along as your plus one to every event, where you can not only parade him around, but also enjoy him fussing over your comfort, bringing you drinks, holding your coat or bag and even driving you home. You can see the jealousy in others and it makes you secretly happy. 

You wouldn’t be able to do that, if you hired that old lady. 

And even today, despite being already long past his shift, he still decided to stay working late, just because you did. The office is already empty and dark, the only sole source of light shining on his face is his computer screen in his cubicle and the light coming out of your glass walled office. 

He rubs his eyes. 

You slap the dossier down on your desk.

“Hanbin-sshi, can you please come here for a second?” you call out. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he immediately replies and gets up. He’s sluggish and obviously tired and you almost feel bad for him. Almost. 

“Can I help you with anything?” he asks. 

“Yes. I would like you to run to the Starbucks, I want some coffee. I’d like a venti pumpkin spice latte-” you pause, seeing as he’s struggling to fish out his phone to take notes. “with four shots of espresso, almond milk, light caramel drizzle, light foam, one pump of pumpkin sauce, one pump of maple pecan sauce and salt topping. Thank you.” you smirk at him as he’s dutifully tapping everything down. 

“No problem, I’ll be right back, ma’am,” he bows a little and rushes out of the door. 

Your stomach rumbles. Actually. 

“Actually!” you call out, but he doesn’t reply. You jump out from behind your table in hope of maybe being able to catch him, but when you run out of the office you can see he’s already left.

Oh well. Maybe I’ll just send him for the second time, when he gets back. 

You turn back to return to your office, when his computer pings with a message. 

Huh? He didn’t lock his computer? 

You take a look, and really - he didn’t. He must have forgotten or just didn’t care, since no one else is left at the office at this time.

Moreover, the message is not from your designated work chat app, but from a personal one. You lean forwards to take a look at the unread notification. 

matt says: so how’s the late hours with the sexy boss going? dude you’re a masochist. 

You blink. Without any hesitation you click on the chat and scroll through the last messages. 

hb says: fuck it's getting really hard to hide my boners from her

>every time she orders me around i can barely think

>i just go home and jerk off everyday thinking about her bossing me around

>if she ever finds out im screwed

>i literally stayed working late, just in case she wants something

>she could ask me to eat her pussy under her desk and i would just crawl under 

>matt i’m so fucked

Your reflection on the computer screen twists into a wide grin. Oh. What a beautiful bunch of revelations. 

You had a hunch that he must like taking orders and feeling accomplished by completing tasks, but you didn’t know it’s sexual for him. Much less, that it’s because of you, in particular. But hey, at least it validates your own interests in this little game. 

You do your best to curb your giddiness and return back behind your desk. Hanbin appears a few minutes later, with your coffee in hand and a little bag in another. 

“Here, ma’am. I also took the liberty to bring you some snack, since it’s really late and you must be hungry.” he hands you both. 

You open the little back and pull out a blueberry muffin. “Thank you, Hanbin-sshi,” you take a bite. “It’s like you’re reading my mind. I hope I’m not putting you through too much trouble.” 

“Oh, no, really, it’s not a problem,” he’s quick to assure you, shaking his head. 

“Hanbin-sshi, it’s such a joy to have you. You’re always so eager and helpful, I could not pick a better assistant,” you smile kindly at him. 

“T-thanks, ma’am, this really means a lot to me.” he stutters, cheeks already burning red. 

“Sometimes it feels like I could ask you to eat my pussy under my desk, and you would just crawl right under, wouldn’t you?” you ask with a smirk.

He freezes. Gotcha.

“I-..”

“You?”

“I- I actually, I would,” he admits. He looks nervous, like he's sure he’s busted, outed as a pervert and will be fired immediately. It looks good on him.

“Okay,” you nod and push yourself off your desk on your chair. You gesture at the space. “Be my guest.”

He looks at you disbelievingly, as if he’s not sure if you’re serious or if it’s just some kind of a prank. But eventually, he seems to make up his mind. 

He slowly falls on his knees. He looks at you, as if to check whether it is really something you want, and when he sees you’re not putting a stop to it, he slowly crawls on his all fours under your big desk. 

You roll your chair back to its place. You look down, where two big eyes are staring right back at you. 

“I hope it were not just empty words, Hanbin-sshi. I’m sure you don’t want to disappoint me,” you warn him. 

“No, of course not, ma’am,” he hurries to assure you and visibly gathers all the courage to actually touch you. He runs his hands over your legs and leans forwards. 

He starts kissing your thighs, while bunching your skirt up, even daring to suck and lick a little at your skin. He slowly gets to your pussy and he doesn’t hesitate to lick over your panties, already wet ever since you discovered his true feelings. It’s like he’s trying to get as much of your taste as he can through them, licking until they are completely drenched with both your juices and his saliva. He’s kneeling in front of you, holding you around your hips, his whole face buried in your crotch, like he doesn't care if he can even breathe. 

It feels good and you’re getting more and more aroused, but you can’t wait for a more direct stimulation. You grab him by his hair and pull him off you by force. You quickly lift yourself up to pull down your panties, and he frantically helps, even tries to dive back in, but your hold won’t let him. 

You look into his eyes and wait a second until he calms down a bit, while he whimpers. He’s all red and clearly aroused and he looks so pretty, you’re sure you will never forget this sight of his delicate face, eager to pleasure you. 

“Now you can,” you say and let go of his hair. He doesn’t hesitate a moment and quickly leans forwards to get back your pussy. 

It feels like his tongue is everywhere. He’s licking all over your pussy and trying to push his tongue in. You have half a mind to tell him to use his fingers, but his tongue already feels so good, you want to see if he will manage to make you cum only like that. 

And it seems he will, since when he moves to your clit, it’s basically game over for you. 

He’s clearly bringing out his A-game, rubbing all over your clit with flat tongue in cruel tempo, building up your pleasure, until he can tell you’re getting close, then switching to quicker flicks, his mouth sealed around your pussy as if he was making out with it. 

You’re getting close and you know he can tell, just by the sounds you’re making. You’re so wet it must be dripping off his face. He’s tireless, his tongue never stopping, he’s even moaning a little, as if it was him being pleasured.

You grab him by his hair and push him even closer and then you’re cumming, smothering him with your pussy and juices and not letting him breathe at all, not until you’re finished. He’s not fighting it, letting you ride his face as much as you need, slowly coming down from your orgasm. 

You let him go, and he takes a deep breath. He looks up at you.

You roll your chair back a little. You take a moment to enjoy the look at him all out of his mind, kneeling under your desk, red, sweaty and disheveled. He’s breathing heavily, aroused and undeniably close to orgasm, without even touching himself.  

“Are you hard, Hanbin-sshi?” you ask. 

It’s a stupid question, his cock is obviously tenting his pants, even leaving a dark wet spot on them. But he nods regardless, eyes glazed over, face still wet. His black hair is sticking to his face a little.

“If you manage to drive us to my apartment without either crashing or cumming, I’ll suck you off. What do you think about that?”

You can see his breath hitching. He doesn’t even need to answer. 

“Go get your coat.”

[always-omo]

My first involuntary wetting

I’ve been holding for years but I’ve never been able to wet myself without making a conscience decision. Today I decided I was going to change that.

10:00

I woke up with a full bladder and tossed and turned in bed till I had to get up to go pee. Maybe this weakened my bladder?

11:00

I ran by Panera and got a 30 oz dr pepper and a 20 oz water and then went to get my nails done by the end of the hour my urge was barely 1/10

12:00

I decided to waste some time by going in and out of shops around the area. At this point my Dr Pepper was finished but I still had 20 oz of water to drink

1:00

I took my cup of water with me into target and told myself I would browse until all my water was gone (I’m a slow drinker) once the water was finished I was at a 4/10

2:00

I continued my shopping, this time I headed to the mall my urge was around 6/10 by the time I got there and I was just trying not to look suspicious

I then went into a department store and that’s when the urge REALLY hit me. I walked around for a solid 45 minutes sweating and blushing and trying to look normal. My goal was to stay away from the bathroom until I couldn’t hold without potty dancing. My urethra was tingling and I felt like I had a balloon in my belly.

At 2:45 I couldn’t take it anymore and rushed to the bathroom. I sat on the toilet and the piss trickled slowly out of me. I stopped my stream when I felt that most of the piss was out of me. I left the store at a 3/10

3:00

On the way home I ran by Starbucks and got a venti refresher and sipped on it in the drive. When I got home I was at a 5/10 and decided to ramp things up a notch.

4:00

I drew a bath and locked the bathroom door and finished my Starbucks and a glass of water. I stripped down into nothing but a white body suit with snaps at the crotch. Once the water and refresher hit my bladder I was at a 8/10.

Soon I got frantic. I went from sitting down to pacing and couldn’t stop rubbing my crotch or else I knew I’d piss everywhere. My urethra felt exhausted and I knew I wouldn’t last much longer.

I bent over the sink and that’s when I felt it. Relief. The best feeling I’ve ever felt. The tiniest little dribble pushed its way out of my bladder and into my bodysuit. I rubbed the small wet patch until I felt it again. This time it was a little bit larger. I could barely stand up straight I had to potty so bad. I sat on the potty with my bodysuit still on and relaxed. I wasn’t trying to pee, just trying to torture myself. But then I started spraying. Piss got all over my bodysuit and on the rim of the potty.

I let out about half of my potty before I stopped. I sat back down and rubbed myself for a little. Then it hit me again and I decided to stand in the tub and spread my pussy lips and spray piss all over the shower. Eventually my stream ended but I knew I still had some potty in me so I tinkled all down my legs and hands and it felt sooo good.

Now it’s 5:00 and I’m at a 4/10 and I hope that my bladder is too weak to hold much more potty inside tonight!

[youling-the-ghost]

sfth incorrect quotes pt. 3 because I have no life :] (the link I used to generate these)

*obligatory "none of the shipping quotes are me actually shipping them"

AJ: Fruits that do not live up to their names; passionfruit, grapefruit, honeydew and dragonfruit. AJ: Fruits that do live up to their names? AJ: Orange.

Sam: Yo dumbass, get over here. AJ: Okay- Luke: *gleefully runs past* I’m coming! AJ, sadly: I thought...I was dumbass...

Sam: Do you take constructive criticism? Tom: Not without crying.

Tom: Luke, take out the trash. Luke: Sure. Sam, will you go out on a date with me? Luke: *seductively takes off glasses* Luke: Wow... Sam: *blushes* Haha...what? Luke: You're really fucking blurry. AJ: Why don't humans have a specific noise that means "there are bees here, let's leave immediately." Why are elephants more advanced than us. Tom: We do have a specific noise for it. It sounds like this: Tom: "There are bees here, let's leave immediately." Tom: Do you care if I take the skin off this Furby? Tom: I want to make him a god. Once he is free of his sinful flesh, he can begin a path towards enlightenment. He will take care of us. Tom: I also want to softhack his circuits. Luke: I literally could not care less but never say anything as frightening as that ever again. Tom: Here is my wall of inspirational people. AJ: Is that a picture of you? Tom: Yes, I am big enough to admit that I am often inspired by myself.

Tom: Anyone else feel good when their brain releases a bunch of endorphins? Luke: Can't relate. AJ: Why would my brain release a bunch of dolphins? Sam: Hey, wanna help me commit arson? Tom: What the hell!? Sam: Oh, sorry, my bad. Sam, whispering: Wanna help me commit arson? Tom, whispering: Of course. What do you need? Luke: I’m scared that when you become rich and famous you’ll be embarrassed by me. Tom: Oh Luke, I’m already embarrassed by you.

Luke: What, I can’t be in a bad mood? It’s like people think, “Oh, Luke is such a nice person, Luke is so happy-go-lucky! Luke can’t be in a bad mood!” Well, you know what? Luke CAN be in a bad mood. And right now, Luke IS be in a bad mood. Luke: The only thing I'm guilty of is being adorable...and also assault with a deadly weapon. Tom, seeing a banana on the car seat: What the FUCK?? Tom, buckling the banana up: Fucking buckle UP, it’s the LAW! AJ: Not to brag, but I can go into the Spirit Halloween without crying. Tom: I feel like I can be myself around you. AJ: You’re weird and quiet around me. Tom: Yes. AJ: *Reading a letter* Tom: Well, what does it say? AJ: It’s a confession letter. It turns out Sam killed my pet rock. Luke: I refuse to apologize for being weird or off-putting. That’s actually your problem. I’m having a fantastic time!

AJ: How long do you reckon it’ll be until Tom finally snaps and commits murder? Luke: I’ve been going through life assuming it’s already happened at some point and it’s just that no one was ever able to trace it back to him. Sam: You know my motto: carpe diem, carpe noctem, carpe coles. Tom: Seize the day, seize the night, what’s the last one? Sam: Seize the dick.

Luke: Watcha doin? Sam: Stealing my neighbour’s cat. Luke: Scandalous. Luke: Can I help?

AJ: Why's it called an oven when you of in the cold food and you of out hot eat the food? Sam: ...What??? Tom with a gun to Luke's head: What happens if I pull this trigger? Heaven? Luke: Bold of you to assume I'll go to Heaven.

Tom, at Starbucks: Can I get a venti vanilla latte with um, seven espresso shots. Luke, in line behind him: Jesus Christ, just do cocaine.

Luke: I’m this close to falling in love with Sam. Tom: Your fingertips are touching. Luke: Exactly.

Tom: You believe me? Luke: Tom, you’re the last good person on this planet. I‘d believe cartoon birds braided your hair this morning.

AJ: My head hurts. Sam: That’s your brain trying to comprehend its own stupidity. Tom: Ok so, apparently the "bad vibes" I've been feeling are actually severe psychological distress. Tom: What must it be like to live in your head? Are there happy ponies in there? It’s really something how utterly delusional your optimism is. If I didn’t hate you so much, I might even be impressed.

AJ: Huzzah! I got a heavily qualified and slightly sarcastic compliment from Tom! Sam: How petty can you get? Luke: I once edited a Wikipedia article to win an argument I was wrong about. Tom: I am going to cry. I’m going to cry until I can no longer physically cry anymore because all the water in my body is gone and I die from dehydration. Luke: Are you okay? AJ: Did you actually just ask him that? Like, you need that to be answered otherwise you won’t know? AJ: *spins around in chair ominously* I’ve been expecting y- *chair continues to spin* shit *tries to stop spinning* shit *tries to grab a table to stop spinning* sHIT *falls out of chair* Luke: So, you’ve finally arrived- Luke: Here to save prince- Luke: I’ve been waiting for this day- Luke: Stop skipping my dialogue- Luke: Seriously, stop- Luke: MOTHER FU- Tom: I need you to come meet me, and I need you to come alone. Luke: And I need you to be less vague and weird. Tom: Things will get better! The Squad: Tom: Okay, maybe they won’t. Tom: But they will be terrible in new and interesting ways!

Tom: *fast-forwards all the way through the movie* Sam: You can't just skip to the happy ending! Tom: I don't have time for their problems. Luke: Hey, quick question. How petty am I allowed to be?

Sam: Tom annoyed me today so I told them that I can’t wait to see what they have planned for our special day tomorrow. AJ: There is nothing special about tomorrow. Sam: But there is something special about watching the color leave their face as panic takes over. Tom: You know, Sam, when you generalize, you tell general...lies. Sam: ... Sam: Are you trying to teach me moral lessons through puns. Luke: Of course I have a lot of pent-up rage, you fool! I've been the same height since I was twelve!

Luke: Hey guys, what are your favorite kinds of pudding? Tom: Pudding deez nuts in your mouth? Is that what you were about to say? Do you gain joy from tricking your innocent cohorts? What if I actually wanted to tell you about my favorite pudding?

[makerofmadness]

aight I haven't made FNAF incorrect quotes in ages if I reuse one I did in a past post so be it

(uh disclaimer: I hc that the FNAF 3 guard and the other three named guards in the series are the fnaf 4 bullies so this is not operating under the theory that Michael is the fnaf 3 guard)

shoutouts to @umbrarkzoo for being cool and getting into a dawko fnaf meme review

*UCN* Mr. Hippo: Man, they look like a real handful. How do you deal with them?  The Puppet, watching Bonnie screaming, Golden Freddy trying to set a sleeping William Afton on fire, and Foxy choking on air: I don't know either.

-

Vanessa, at Starbucks: Can I get a venti vanilla latte with um, seven espresso shots.  William Afton, inside her mind: Jesus Christ, just do cocaine.

-

Golden Freddy: Mr. Hippo is forbidden from monologuing

-

FNAF 3 Guard: What do we think of Fritz?  *pause*  Jeremy Fitzgerald: *sighs* Nice pal.  Michael Afton: I think he's gay.

-

Jeremy Fitzgerald: Fritz, I beg of you. Please, PLEASE go to the doctor.  Fritz Smith: Hey, I'm sorry. Is this OUR stab wound?

-

Crying Child, laying in bed: Get out of my room.  Michael Afton, standing just outside of the door frame: I’m not in your room.

-

Bonnie: I assume you realize that this kind of idiocy will not be tolerated in this house.  Toy Bonnie: Is there any kind of idiocy you would be more comfortable with?

-

Circus Baby: The salary of a clown is 51,000 dollars.  Circus Baby, gesturing to Funtime Foxy and Ballora fighting: And yet these idiots do it daily, and for free!

-

Montgomery Gator: Do you guys hear something?  Roxanne Wolf: I hear the sound of you shutting the fuck up.

-

Michael Afton: Name a more iconic duo than my crippling fear of abandonment and my anxiety. I’ll wait.  Helpy: You and me!  Michael Afton: *tearing up* Ok.

-

Michael Afton, about to be scooped: I have been tricked, I have been backstabbed, and I have quite possibly been bamboozled.

-

Mangle: I have a problem.  Toy Bonnie: If it's harder than 2+2, I can't help. 

-

Moon: Oh, fiddlesticks! That really ruffles my feathers!  Gregory: Please, just say fuck.

-

Michael Afton: That was the worst throw ever. Of all time.  Fritz Smith: Not my fault. Somebody put a wall in the way.

-

*pre-divorce*

William Afton: So you like cats?  Henry Emily: Yeah.  William Afton: *tries to impress him by slowly pushing a glass off the table* 

-

Fritz Smith: *coughs blood*  Jeremy Fitzgerald: Don't die, Fritz!  Fritz Smith: Don't tell me what to do!

-

Michael Afton: No, this is not a mess. You know what I consider a mess?  Helpy: Your life?  Michael Afton: I- well yes, but-

-

Michael Afton: Everyone knows that Santa is an invention designed by the big five corporations to sell tinsel and video games to an unsuspecting public.  Phone Guy: The whole “childhood wonder” stage just blew right past you, didn’t it?

-

*Something crashes*  Gregory: Shoot-  Glamrock Freddy: *running into the room in a panic* WHAT FELL?!  Vanessa: *walking by the room calmly* What died?

-

Ballora: I personally don't think it's possible to come up with a crazier plan.  Funtime Freddy: We could attack them with hummus.  Ballora: I stand corrected.  Funtime Freddy: Just keeping things in perspective.

-

The Puppet: That's it, I'm cutting off the internet!  Toy Freddy: No, please don't! I have a family to feed!  The Puppet:  The Puppet: What?  Toy Freddy: I need to feed my Neopets!

-

Roxanne Wolf: I think we can all agree I’m the ten amongst these threes.

[mythvoiced]

-. wenzhe-core (pt. 4 tbh pt. 4 was gonna be qianru-centric but i'm moving it to pt.5)

really disappointed if the 'jason derulo' or pitbull yell is missing from the song, he will go :O >:|

one of the taller muses on this blog (excluding muses like nathaniel & hermes who are Tall™ to make them a lil Uncanny; Hermes is the tallest muse btw) but wants to be the little spoon So Bad

has absolutely broken a pair of glasses by sitting on them

if he takes a really, really deep breath and just sort of holds it with an unreadable expression then he's very much counting to ten in his head

can't do the thing where you wet your fingers to flip a page better because if his wet finger comes in contact with anything papery he'll do a full body visceral shudder

pray that he never accidentally drop his ice cream he's not mentally built to go through that and i am not even joking oh my god

there's a good chance he'll cry or sort of dissociate due to the ferocity of his reaction if you kiss his forehead

his whole thing is mostly Very Casual & Relaxed & Assertive on the outside but so i so close to spiraling at all times

phone always on at night, notifications always on, if you call him in the middle of the night he will pick up

the babygirlification of xu wenzhe

he's that tiktok of the guy bemoaning the fact that he's 6'3 but wants to be dainty and babied

'who's that pokemon?' 'IT'S PIKACHU' 'it's clefairy!' 'FUUCK'

if he's muttering classic vines under his breath that's fine don't worry he's all right just wenzhe in his natural habitat

absolutely genuinely and in all seriousness: what the hell is eurovision, do they... do they look at? at the world from an european angle?? i'm-?? it's colonialism and the roman catholic church, babes, what is there to look at

NO it's frankenstein's MONSTER, the SCIENTIST is frankenstein, that's NOT THE MONSTER'S NAME--

you will NEVER... NEVER catch this man(?) confessing his feelings to someone

in response to the question 'what are your pronouns': why what are you saying about me

will pronounce things wrong with his whole entire chest

pretty much anti-discovering anything new about himself

a few 'Oh That's Very Wenzhe' shots of his manga fc: here, here, here

born to "haiii uwu <33" forced to "yo wsg"

would you still love me if i was a worm

what? no, it's not neurodivergency i'm just quite literally The Worst Person To Ever Exist

a few more 'Oh That's Very Wenzhe' shots of his manga fc: here, here, here

what? no, why would i go home? i'm perfectly fine, i don't get sick- (nasal voice, half-hunched-over, sweaty, wheezes after having taken only two steps, hallucinated two separate cats out of the corner of his eye)

smart kid highschool wenzhe voice: copying my homework costs two weeks of snacks, copying from tests can go up to a month of snacks-

someone: gosh he's so tall and he looks so cool and mysterious i wonder what he's thinking about; wenzhe's brain: hi- hi- welcome to starbucks, what can i get for you, a pink drink? hm, is that your idea of being funny? what're you gonna get then? ... a pink drink. hm~ what size? a medium. mm-mm, i don't know what that is. it's like between a small and a larg- ssh, mm-mm, no; we go by tall, grande, and venti here? most people know that. oh, do i look like most people, sweetheart? absolutely not. hm, that was a little condescending, don't you think? was it? yeah. cool! ... can i get a name for your order?

[goldenchildminmin]

|| Minho & Min-Ji ||

He had only intended to bring his own copy of ‘Much Ado About Nothing’ and a few packagings of strawberry-shaped gummy treats he’d preferred to snack on lately, but still somehow Minho found himself hauling multiple shopping bags stuffed full of just made purchases along the way, all unintended but absolutely irresistible once the stores he got them at were spotted. Assorted variety of fresh donuts were what he was excited for the most - maple glaze sprinkled with sea salt, chocolate with almonds and coconut, sprinkles and peanut butter, marionberry and chocolate drizzle and many other flavor combos more. Then venti cups of caramel apple spice from Starbucks for each to sip on with the donuts. Also, dragon fruit and papaya bubble tea for later. And as if that was not enough, he’d also picked up knickknacks his dear fae friend might like, or rather what Minho thought she might like - Pandora’s baby Yoda bracelet charm, a Chanel’s multicolored fabric backpack that reminded him of Min-Ji as soon as he’d seen it on the shelf, a set of unicorn themed makeup brushes and two pairs of matching heart-shaped pale mint reading glasses, no actual prescription for them because neither really needed it, only a demand to look fashionably cute for the book club they were both participating in. Of course, he’d also grabbed a handful of bookmarkers, colorful sticky notes to jot down thoughts on them while reading and a set of glittery gel pens to make the experience even more fun.

It was why Minho was always fashionably late everywhere he went to - he could simply not stop himself from preparing bribery to buy friendship and affection with, even when it was not needed or the last thing he should do. Crippling insecurity compelled him to always have a shiny, interesting offering in his bag, just in case everything else failed. He could not stand being disliked, it was the worst thing ever and had to be avoided at all costs. So even though he could rest assured with Min-Ji because their friendship was already well-established, he nevertheless continued with his old habits, albeit with much less pressure to impress and with more incentive to just make the other happy.

Dropped off where his friend lived in Descray, never driving the fancy cars he owned because he’d never actually bothered to learn how, Minho juggled the bags he carried to pull his phone out and announce himself to Min-Ji first, before he came knocking on her door. As soon as he heard the subtle change of the tense sound coming from the phone’s speaker which signaled that the person on the other end of the line had accepted the call, he shot out a greeting in a sing-song tone very complimentary to the language they both spoke well. “Hellooooooo, I have arrived and I am walking up to your apartment building. Come out to help me, my hands are full. I’m afraid I’ll drop our drinks.” He sobbed, but then his cries for help were interrupted by a gasp of delighted surprise. “Oh, oh! There is a squirrel climbing one of the trees down the street. So cuuuute! Come out quick to see!”

@min-ji-min

[a-tale-of-legends]

Osanna and Sterling ft. Kenji

Osanna: I wanna sleep for 40 hours.

Sterling: You know that's called a coma, right?

Osanna:

Osanna: That sounds so refreshing, I could totally go for a light coma right now.

___

Sterling: We’re having a moment, aren’t we?

Osanna: If by 'a moment' you mean me not wanting to strangle you for the first time since we met, then I guess we are.

___

Osanna: My assistance will be an act of beneviolence.

Sterling: ...Don’t you mean benevolence?

Osanna: No.

___

Osanna: Would anyone know any good vendors for professional-quality brass knuckles?

Sterling: I know you’re serious, but you say the scariest shit sometimes.

___

Sterling: Ow!

Osanna: What’s wrong?

Sterling: I have this weird pain right above my eyebrow.

Osanna: It’s called a stress headache. I got my first one when I was four.

___

Osanna: *casually taking four stairs at a time*

Sterling, falling behind, taking two stairs at a time: Fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fu-

___

Osanna: *Pulls a glass a water from out of nowhere*

Sterling: Where did you get that?

Osanna: My pocket.

Sterling: How do you keep a glass of water in your pocket?

Osanna: Skills.

___

Kenji: Can I ask you for a favor?

Sterling: I would literally die for you, but continue.

Kenji: We need to talk about you starting sentences that way.

___

Osanna: How are we supposed to put a tracker the size of a penny on Sterling without them noticing?

Kenji: Hey, Sterling, I bet you 5 bucks that you can't swallow this penny.

Sterling: *takes and swallows tracker* Pay up, loser.

Osanna: ...

___

Kenji: Why are there little handprints all over the walls?

Sterling, whispering: Why are there little handprints all over the walls?

Osanna, whispering: Because I have little hands.

Sterling: Because they have little hands.

___

Osanna, at Sterling's funeral: I need a moment with them.

Everyone: Of course. *They leave*

Osanna, leaning over Sterling′s coffin: Okay, listen here you little shit. I know you’re not dead.

Sterling: Yeah, no shit.

___

Sterling, at Starbucks: Can I get a venti vanilla latte with um, seven espresso shots.

Osanna, in line behind them: Arceus, just do cocaine.

___

Osanna: Go fuck yourself.

Sterling: Come over here and fuck me yourself you coward!

___

Osanna: Deep down, I'm sure I was always pretty okay with you.

Sterling: Thanks, Osanna!

Osanna: It wasn't a compliment, numbnuts.

___

Osanna: Someone will die...

Sterling: Of fun!

___

Osanna: Sterling, this morning, I called you abhorrent and reprehensible, and I’d like to withdraw that statement-

Sterling: Aww, thanks-

Osanna: But I can't. Those are the 2 words that best describe you.

[peterkirihara]

Do Frappuccino's Have Caffeine?

Whether you are sensitive to caffeine or trying to monitor your intake, knowing if frappuccinos have caffeine can help you make the right choice.

The amount of caffeine in Starbucks Frappuccinos can vary depending on the size and flavor you order. Tall Frappuccinos contain 95-125 mg of caffeine, whereas Grande and Venti sizes have 150-180 mg of caffeine.

What is caffeine?

Caffeine is a stimulant that helps to boost energy levels and improve alertness. It can also help to lower your risk of certain cancers and protect against Alzheimer’s disease. However, too much caffeine can cause unpleasant side effects such as jitteriness and nervousness. If you’re concerned about consuming too much caffeine, it’s important to know what’s in your Frappuccino and how to limit it to a safe level.

A Starbucks frappuccino is a blended iced coffee beverage that consists of a flavored base, usually either coffee or creme, with ice and sometimes added syrups and sauces. It is often served in a venti cup or tall glass, but can be ordered in other sizes as well.

There are many different flavors of Frappuccinos available at Starbucks. They range from classic favorites like Mocha to unique concoctions such as Caramel Cocoa Cluster and Cotton Candy.

These drinks are popular among both coffee lovers and those who prefer to avoid caffeine. They are available in regular and grande sizes, so it’s easy to find the perfect drink for you.

One of the most common types of Frappuccinos is the creme Frappuccino, which comes in a variety of flavors such as Mocha, White Chocolate Mocha, Vanilla Bean and Caramel & Sweet Cream. These beverages typically contain less caffeine than coffee-based Frappuccinos, ranging from 25 to 75 mg per serving.

Another popular type of Frappuccino is the double-espresso, which contains more caffeine than other options. These drinks are available in both regular and grande sizes and are usually accompanied by whipped cream and a topping.

If you’re looking to cut back on your caffeine intake, you can also order one of the non-dairy refreshers or smoothies at Starbucks that don’t have any caffeine. These are low in calories and sugar and can be a great way to enjoy the taste of a Frappuccino without the extra boost of caffeine.

You can also ask your barista for espresso shots when ordering a creme Frappuccino. These can be poured on top of your Frappuccino or blended into the drink. This can add up to a significant amount of caffeine, so it’s important to communicate with your barista about the amount of caffeine you’re comfortable with.

What is caffeine?

How much caffeine is in a Frappuccino?

Frappuccinos are a popular coffee-based blended drink that you can find at Starbucks stores all over the world. They are made with cold milk, ice, and flavored syrups.

There are many different types of Frappuccinos, and they vary in caffeine content. They range from less than 15 mg to over 150 mg of caffeine, depending on the size and flavor you choose.

If you want to make a frappuccino with a higher amount of caffeine, you can ask your barista to add espresso shots. This can increase the amount of caffeine in your drink, but it also adds more calories to the mix.

The average Starbucks coffee-based Frappuccino contains 85 mg of caffeine in a grande cup and 155 mg of caffeine in a venti cup. That’s much less than what you’ll get from a regular cup of coffee.

You can customize your drink with a variety of toppings and add-ons, including chocolate chips, java chips, nuts, sprinkles, and caramelized sugar. All of these items add to the caffeine content, so it’s important to keep an eye on your intake.

For most people, 100 mg of caffeine is considered a moderate amount of caffeine. However, it’s still important to keep in mind that too much caffeine can lead to negative effects such as restlessness, headaches, and insomnia.

Caffeine can be found in various beverages, including sodas, coffee, tea, and energy drinks. While most people consume caffeine in small amounts, it’s best to limit your consumption to no more than 400 mg per day.

Starbucks offers a wide variety of Frappuccinos, from traditional ones with freshly brewed coffee to ones with double espresso. In addition, there are many creme Frappuccinos, which are dairy-based blended beverages that are low in caffeine and available in a variety of flavors.

A creme Frappuccino can contain anywhere from 25 to 75 mg of caffeine, depending on the flavor and size you order. The caffeine level in a creme Frappuccino will depend on the ice cream, milk, and other ingredients you use to make it.

You can also choose from a variety of flavored syrups and sauces to enhance the taste of your drink. Some of these options include caramel, chocolate, and mocha. In addition, you can also choose to add a scoop of ice cream to your drink to create a layered effect.

Which Frappuccinos have caffeine?

Starbucks has a huge variety of Frappuccinos to choose from, and many customers are wondering which ones have caffeine. Caffeine is a stimulant that can be helpful for boosting energy, but too much caffeine can lead to negative side effects such as increased heart rate, anxiety and irritability.

There are two main types of frappuccinos offered at Starbucks, and both can have a significant amount of caffeine in them. Coffee-based frappuccinos are packed with the coffee, and creme-based drinks are made with a blend of ice, whipped cream and other ingredients.

A traditional coffee-based Frappuccino drink has 3 pumps of coffee, about 100 mg of caffeine and can be ordered in a tall (small) or Grande (medium) size. However, you can also add shots of espresso to your drink if you want a larger caffeine boost.

Depending on the flavor and size of your drink, you may also see small amounts of chocolate or other caffeine-containing components mixed in with your drink. You can also get a decaf or caffeine-free Starbucks Frappuccino, which is great for those who are sensitive to the effects of caffeine.

While Starbucks offers a variety of different Frappuccinos with caffeine, it is important to keep in mind that the drink’s sugar content can be very high. For example, a Caramel Ribbon Crunch Frappuccino has 62 grams of sugar, which can raise your risk of diabetes and other health problems.

The good news is that most people can manage the amount of sugar they consume in a Frappuccino without getting too overwhelmed. For instance, you can reduce the amount of sugar in your drink by asking for less ice or choosing low-fat or no-fat milk.

In addition, you can also ask your barista to make a light-blend Frappuccino instead of a regular one. This can have 30-40% fewer calories than the standard Starbucks version.

If you are looking for a healthy and delicious way to get your caffeine fix, you should look for a healthier alternative like a smoothie or fruit juice. In fact, most smoothies and juices have fewer calories than most coffees or sodas.

Which Frappuccinos don’t have caffeine?

Starbucks offers a variety of iced coffee beverages called Frappuccinos that are blended with milk and topped with whipped cream and flavored syrup. They are available in a wide range of flavors, including all-time favorites like the Vanilla Bean and Strawberry Frappuccino.

While most Frappuccinos contain coffee, there are also some that don’t have caffeine. This is helpful for people who don’t like coffee or are sensitive to caffeine.

Which Frappuccinos have caffeine?

The most popular Starbucks coffee-free Frappuccino is the Double Chocolate Chip Frappuccino. It is a mix of creamy milk and chocolate sauce with a bit of shaved chocolate on top for texture. It’s not too sweet and has only a small amount of caffeine, so it’s great for people who want to enjoy a delicious treat without a huge hit of the drug.

Another great choice is the Mocha Creme Frappuccino. This drink is made with real chocolate chips and a heavy amount of milk. It’s a little more on the sweet side than the Chocolate Chip Frappuccino, but it has only a small amount of caffeine and is still a great option for those who don’t mind a little sweetness in their life.

You can also try the Caramel Ribbon Crunch Frappuccino. This drink is similar to the Vanilla and Caramel Creme Frappuccino, but it has a little more sugar and a bit of cookie crunch on top. This is a nice change up from the smooth and creamy drinks found on this list.

There are many more coffee-free Frappuccinos on the menu at Starbucks, including the popular Chai Tea Frappuccino and Matcha Green Tea Frappuccino. These drinks also have a small amount of caffeine, so they’re best for those who don’t want to take in a lot of coffee or who are sensitive to the drug.

Regardless of your caffeine tolerance or whether you’re just trying to avoid caffeine, you can always find a Frappuccino at Starbucks that doesn’t contain coffee. You can also try one of the coffee-free creme-based Frappuccinos on this list, which are often called “Blended Crèmes.” These drinks have a small amount of caffeine, and you can even ask for a non-caffeine-flavored whipped cream to get a little extra kick out of your treat.

#peterkirihara #peterkirihara #Chefpeterkirihara

[maximuswolf]

What is your dumbest coffee story?

What is your dumbest coffee story? I'm sitting in a car rn now thinking about how crazy my caffeine withdrawals get and reminiscing about how it all started. I was never a complex coffee drinker in high-school. I would dump about half a container of creamer and apound of sugar in one of those mega sized thermos' before putting in the coffee, filling what ever room was left. Well, I went to my first college orientation with my mom l, who has a terrible case of sleep apnea. Needless to say, I suffered after a 6 hour drive, laying in a motel room with one bed, and getting up at the crack of dawn just to go listen to faux pep school spirit lectures. This was the turning point where slight coffee enjoyment would become a crippling addiction. I never had Starbucks before, but my mom who swore she was struggling as much as I was, pointed out to me that the campus had one in the lobby. I asked her what she got and she said something along the lines of a double espresso shot. I can be a very literal person, so along with naiveté, I took this as very black and white. Splitting away from my group, went up the Starbucks counter, overwhelmed at the menu because I had no idea what a venti was? Was it Spanish? Maybe Italian? Like hell would I have known. With the confidence of a cougar in a frat house, I looked a the barista and said, "I'll just get a double espresso." That confidence was shattered when the barista looked at me with confusion and said, "Is that all?" I'm sure he knew I had no idea what I was doing but just accepted that there was a lesson to be learned here today and I was gonna learn it. They served my double especially shot and I scurried out with my teenie tiny cup. There walls were glass, so I know they watched me take a sip of my tiny cup and scrooch my face in disgust. There was never something so bitter. I believe that was the day my soul died. Or maybe I sold it to the devil. But never again could I live without atleast two shots of espresso in my coffee. Once a day. Everyday. Submitted March 25, 2023 at 09:24AM by Sucrose_Peaches https://ift.tt/NbqZlAm via /r/Coffee

[lpfreakification]

Long Version: 4 coffees + 3 cupcakes later...

Let's start from when feeling super refreshed this morning.

I can tell I was talking in my sleep again. I distinctly remember dreaming of trying to take a phone order. I could only whisper despite my efforts trying to speak up. Once I caught myself sleep-talking, that was when I knew I was dreaming again. There are moments where I can tell that I'm dreaming. That + when the dream feels strangely longer than usual (due to oversleeping +/or technical difficulties with my alarms). I felt super refreshed than these past two weeks. Blame depression? Idk. Idk...

I felt guilty for not watching GDT's Pinocchio like I wanted to on Wednesday. I had the time in the morning to do so with my 1st coffee of the day :)

I could share my thoughts but I mostly wanna talk about work. Basically, very entertaining + captivating X)

After the movie, I played some Super Mario 64 gameplay in the bg as i played with watercolors. I didnt feel satisfied enough with my coffee so i made another. Thru-out the afternoon b4 work, i was painting multiple LP Freaks.

As I was getting ready for a potentially busy day ahead, I was saying to myself,

"Any last words, Perla?"

"Tell Chris + Paloma I'll see them when I get home."

I saw so mentally prepared for today that I thought yesterday was Friday.

I didnt feel like physically dying of exhaustion today at all either. I was able to grab a grande White Chocolate Mocha AND a venti caramel crunch frappuccino from Starbucks b4hand. (Even rn as I'm typing this, I'm like, "Damn Perla! That's too much!")

The time came. Work mode. The very 1st thing I did was set up tables for a group of 20, a group of 14, + a group of 7. Luckily, I was able to request more silverware from our manager bcuz we were short on them again. That was my main concern + it worked out!

Those coffees from Starbucks helped me pulled thru XD A lot of people saw me in action serving food, taking plates out of the way, + cleaning after them. It's like a turn-based battle? A video game. I look the part (super sash + bandana, particularly) + I feel the part (like a bad@$$) X)

Overall, everything went SO smoothly! No issues from deliveries for once, very manageable parties, + restuarant was nicely packed X3 It was strangely peaceful. A very rare feeling, especially on a Friday night o.0 Better yet, it went by so fast!!!

I skip the one customer's pettiness over a dollar difference in wings + go to the part where I got super hyper XD

It was towards the end of the night + I finished last of the frappuccino. I felt myself slowing down.

"No not yet, Perla. No not yet! I cant leave coworker alone with this many people. I need to stay + help. I gotta pull thru."

The group of 20 were offering cupcakes for their party. Heck, they offered me one too. I stood at the bar, in my own little world, happy dancing as I was eating the bluey goodness. (Yep. My teeth are still blue rn as I write this.)

This was revving me up towards a whirlwind of destruction. Destruction... of... plates, napkins, silverware, empty beer glasses + bottles, + pizza pans. It was a dream come true (sort of, but not literally), stealing/taking items out of the way. Kinda like a scavenger hunt. I find an empty plate + boom! Burst of dopamine or adrenaline? Whatever it's called, it gave me a boost of energy XD

"Stealing is fuuunnn!"

With plates in my hands, especially those heavy pasta plates,

"Super strength, super strength, super strength..."

What a mantra X)

When I wipe the tables:

"Let's... wipe to build up hype! Wipe to build up hype!"

Trust me, I have *so many* more work quotes I say X,D

Back to the cupcake. I was doing fast feet in place. All charged up + went hyper-ballistic. (I debated for the rest of the night if that was a real word: hyper-ballistic). The group of 20 saw me in action as I picked up as much after them as I could. I kept running in small circles to release excess energy. I live how my coworkers tolerate that + are so used to it over the years. (If I did that at home, I'd get a "Perla, calm down!" or "Control yourself!" in a harsh tone). Its days like today where I love my day job bcuz I can be me X)

As I took some breaths to calm myself down, i slowed down again. Rats. Luckily, the group said I could have more cupcakes. Heck, they even encouraged me to squish them together into a sandwich. B4 I took the bite I said to them,

"See you guys on the other side."

I took a big bite.

I felt the power within.

The moments I can recall the most was grabbing them boxes + bags, them tipping big, + thanking them:

For coming

For the company

For the cupcakes

For the tips

The rest of the time cleaning felt like a blur. I do remember cleaning but it's like a smeared image.

...

I am becoming one with my inner cartoon.

Oh snap!

I began yawning as I clocked out late at around 10:30.

I drove straight back home safely, stripped, + on the phone for the past hour (aka here rn) :)

I hope everyone else had a good day today too X)

Time for dilly-dally on the phone some more as I fall asleep for the night.

Just in case,

Nite y'all!

[shy-violet-soul]

Heroes Make Me Tired

Summary: I’m just trying to do my job - keep my team safe, keep my bosses out of court…and myself out of the looney bin. One of those is too tall an order.

Characters: a very, very tired HR person (female), and assorted Avengers. Mentions of other fandoms (gold star to those that find them!)

Warning: Avenger shenanigans, and possible bad language words.

Word Count: 2,700-ish

A/N: This piece of ridiculousness is 100% inspired by and written for @thesassywallflower. As someone who’s worked in HR for over 20 years, and has dealt with more than my share of ridiculousness, I can personally attest to the fact that the struggle is REAL. 

++++++

It’s only 7:45am, and I can already feel my blood pressure rising. 

I cricked my neck to keep my phone against my ear as I juggled my laptop bag, security access card, and glasses. Finally swiping the card against the access plate, I jammed my elbow against my floor button and sagged against the wall as my coworker screeched out the latest calamity.

“...and now they want us to pay for a new set of tires. An entire set - four freaking tires - AGAIN!”

“No. Absolutely not. I don’t care what monster did it this time. You go back and tell them that the benefits handbook clearly states that damages to personal items in the course of performing your job duties are only eligible to be reimbursed up to an annual maximum of $1,000.00. Total. Not each incident. TOTAL. They used all of that up with that thing, that monster in Oregon? With the pennies?”

Julia’s sigh groaned through my ear. “A Nachzehrer.”

I closed my eyes, dragging in a deep breath. “Whatever. You know what? I don’t even care. If they would have taken the stupid company car, just like everyone else, they wouldn’t have to stress so much about their precious Impala. Tell ‘em ‘no’.”

“Will do. You on your way upstairs to your 8:00am?”

“Yeah.”

I could feel Julia’s shudder from here. “I’ll be all ears when you get back. The meetings with that crew are always…entertaining.”

The elevator doors opened as I snorted my agreement. I paused to collect myself in the entryway, silencing my phone before tossing it in the bag and pushing my glasses up my nose.

Okay. You’ve got this. Don’t let them rattle you. Stay calm, stick to your talking points. Think positively - maybe they’ll be actually sorry this time.

So buoyed, I strode into the hall and towards the waiting conference room.

Avengers division employee Agent Natasha Romanov stood waiting for me, her face as fathomless as usual. The smile I offered her faltered as she extended a Starbucks drink in my direction. The smell of chai spices wafted upward. If this troublemaker came bearing gifts, that only meant one thing. This meeting was going to suck.

I grasped the venti-sized life saver, took an eye-watering gulp, and silently cursed the complete and utter imbecilic moron who proposed gathering all superhero, crime fighting, general population saving teams under one umbrella, which led to the creation of my department.

Human Resources to the Heroes.

It sounded so rewarding on LinkedIn. I couldn’t believe it when I made it through the first round of interviews. Meeting with the liaisons for the major players was nerve-wracking to say the least. Nick Fury is everything he’s rumored to be. Bruce Wayne is actually a little bit boring. And Mr. Singer is my favorite. Not that I would ever tell him. And truly, the job is rewarding…

But sweet baby Moses in a basket, some of these people have lost their damn minds.

I didn’t blink at the assembly before me as I entered the conference room, smiling professionally as I sat down. Sam Wilson practically radiated frustration where he sat with his forehead in his hand. I love Sam. He knows the way to an HR person’s heart - consistency and documentation. God bless the Army.

And then there were these three: Clint Barton. James B. Barnes. And Steven f-ing Grant Rogers.

Steri-strips ribbed across the bottom right of Barton’s forehead, I fervently hoped holding what’s left of his brains in. Barnes sat with his arms crossed over his chest, looking somewhere between nonchalant and put-upon. Rogers looked like he’d been caught stealing from the cookie jar.

“Good morning, gentlemen.” I dug out my legal pad, two pens, and a file folder.

“Good morning,” Sam and Steve replied. From Barnes, I got a chin lift. Everyone’s gaze turned to Barton. The famed archer sat reclined in his chair, head resting against the high back. 

“Mr. Barton.” Nothing. My blood pressure ticked up a notch. “Mr. Barton,” with a little more volume, and a perfectly natural, not at all fake and threatening smile. Nothing.

Barnes banged on the table in front of the man, his metal fist clanging against the surface. Barton and I both jumped, my pen flipping out of my hand and flying across the table.

“Turn your fucking hearing aids on,” Barnes barked, pointing at his own ear when Clint turned confused eyes towards him. Sam sighed , eyes closing, as Steve slid my pen back to me.

“Sorry about that.”

I nodded my thanks, then folded my hands over my notepad once I had all their attention.

“So. Mr. Barton.” The file folder whispered as I flipped it open. “According to this incident report, it looks like you violated the same policies. Again.”

He scratched his head thoughtfully. “Which ones this time?”

My left eye wanted to twitch so bad. “Accessing secured areas without authorization, Employee right to privacy, and Sleeping while on duty.”

“Firefighters sleep on duty and no one gives them shit,” he groused. Twitch.

“Mr. Barton, we’ve discussed this. Firefighters are on duty overnight. This was at 1:13pm on Tuesday.”

“We do the life saving thing, too, you know!”

“It was your first day back from vacation!” I exclaimed, then sucked in a breath, trying to settle down. “All you were required to do that day was visit the armory and assess your equipment. And I’m not going to engage in a back and forth with you on that. Now - you’ve been counseled on the following occasions about your lack of compliance in these areas.” He glared at the list of dates I slid across the table to him. “With these additional incidents, we are officially placing you on a Performance Improvement Plan-”

“Hey! What about him?” he thumbed in the Sergeant’s direction. “He’s the one who shot me!”

This time, a muscle in my jaw tic’d.

“And I will address that with him in a moment. Right now, I’m going to ask you to review this document. Please sign and date it where indicated, and you can add any comments in the space below.” I chose to ignore the mutterings that followed as I fixed my gaze on Barnes.

“Sergeant.”

“Warden.” Twitch. Tic.

“You have also been counseled on the discharge of firearms on premises not in the course of your job duties.”

He rolled his eyes so hard, I’m sure he saw the inside of his skull.

“I thought it was an intruder!”

Reserve your chaos. Reserve your chaos, I chanted, pulling in another very deep breath. Calmly, I opened the folder again and withdrew a stapled packet.

“Sergeant Barnes. According to this file, your hearing is approximately 27% more acute than an average male of the same age, and your sense of smell is approximately 14% more sensitive-”

“Yeah, like a dog,” Sam murmured under his breath, earning a reproachful look from Steve.

“Is that from my medical file? What about the hippie law?” 

I blinked at the righteous indignation on his face before the dots connected. “That’s HIPAA, not hippie. And as HR, I’m entitled to have access to the personal health information that demonstrates your ability to do your job.”

“Whatever. What’s your point?” 

“My point, Sergeant, is that your physical abilities demonstrate that you did, in fact, know it was Mr. Barton. No intrusion alarms had been activated - I checked!” I cut off his budding interjection. “There’s no other way to interpret the evidence but that you knowingly chose to violate this policy and shoot him.”

“I don’t see what the big deal is. They were rubber bullets.” Barnes flopped back in his seat like a scolded kid, arms crossing sullenly over his chest. While from my seat, shock at the ridiculousness of his response nearly had my eyeballs falling from my skull.

“Seriously. You don’t see the big deal that you shot your coworker, injuring him, causing the ceiling tiles to break and him to fall through said ceiling, causing more injury?” I barely tracked Steve’s wince as my volume increased with each word, too focused on maintaining my slippery grip on sanity.

“Hey! At least they weren’t real bullets. He’s the one who told me to switch to the rubber ones.” With zero hesitation, he threw Steve under the bus. Friends till the end of the line, my ass.

Whatever Steve saw on my face…I literally watched him try to choose between defensiveness, betrayal, groveling, and ‘kill me now’, all at the same time. 

“That might not be entirely accurate,” he stumbled out. Bucky turned on him like a top.

“‘Not entirely accurate’? You bought me the damn box! You even said, and I quote, ‘you don’t want to technically,” he air quoted, “violate the policy again ‘cuz that HR broad will be pissed and get all up my ass’!”

I heard a sound that I was fairly convinced was one of my blood vessels bursting. Or a molar cracking. But no, it was just Barton cackling as he scribbled his signature on his stupid PIP. Sam was trying to clandestinely scoot himself as far away from the potential strike zone as possible. Bucky looked like Steve was single handedly responsible for everything up to and including global warming. And the look on Steve’s face? Apparently he’d finally picked an emotion, settling on ‘whattya gonna do about it’ defensiveness.

My pen clicking sounded like the pin being pulled from a grenade. Fire in the hole, bastard.

“Tell me something, Captain. When the battlefield on which you’re engaging the enemy is rugged terrain, who has your six?” Any other normal person wouldn’t have caught the flick of his gaze towards the Sergeant. Good thing I’m not normal. What HR pro is? “Because you need a trained sniper watching your back. Correct?”

“Affirmative.”

“And when the unfriendlies are aerial, who’s your six then?”

“That would be me,” Sam carefully interjected. I didn’t so much as blink my straining eyelids as I stared down the Captain.

“Because having someone with countless hours of training and operational experience is critical. Isn’t that right? Captain?”

Barnes’ spidey-sense must have finally realized how perilously close to death they all were as he unfolded his arms and straightened in his seat. Rogers, apparently, was dumber than I gave him credit for.

“I think the answer’s pretty obvious. Even for a civilian.”

The sag of Barnes’ shoulders at the unmitigated, galling sass of his bestie had the weariness of decades behind it. The weariness of a bestie who routinely chose death as his destiny. But that’s fine. 

Captain Rogers knew not with whom he fucked.

“And when you’re not on the battlefield, who has your six?”

Captain Sass-pants blinked at me.

“Ma’am?”

Slowly putting my pen down, I got to my feet with blessedly unusual grace. “Suppose that a recruit in the new agent training class alleged that you stole funds from the organization?”

If Barton snorted any harder, his sinuses were going to hit the table. Rogers looked horrified. Saint Sam smirked.

“I would NEVER-” came the barking indignation. 

“I’m sure you wouldn’t. But let’s say she did. Who has your six? Or, let’s say Wilson here says he hasn’t been compensated at the appropriate overtime calculation for the last year? OR,” I cut off the Captain before he could think about interjecting, “what if the Rumlow family sued you, stating that former S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent Rumlow had been harassed during his tenure, leading to emotional distress that caused his change in philosophy. Who’s got your six, then?”

“What, harassed him into those ugly-ass scars?” Barton chortled out. 

“Shut up, bird brain!” Barnes hissed at him, scooting both of their chairs away from Steve. I would have laughed, but I was too busy realizing that the whole ‘vision going up in a red haze’ thing was real.

“I have a Bachelor of Science in Psychology, a Master’s degree in Organizational Behavior. I have certifications in benefits administration, training and development, and change management. I’m required to do hundreds of hours of continuing education every year. And I have over fifteen years of experience in Human Resources. Technically speaking, I have more education and operational experience than Torres. A team member you trust your life with.”

Now, Steve was squirming. That’s right, squirm, you star-spangled ass! But I wasn’t done yet.

“Oh, and then there’s the matter of all the agencies. The Department of Labor, OSHA, the Wage & Hour Division, the Employee Benefits Security Administration, the Office of Workers Compensation Programs, the Equal Opportunity Employment Commission. And those are just the big ones. Then there’s all the insurance laws, compensation requirements. And, since some of our divisions are tied to the government, we have whole different record keeping requirements. Did you know that, Captain? That the records I keep for you and your team are different from the ones I keep for the supernatural division?”

He didn’t even bother speaking, just mutely shook his head. I plowed on, my blood pressure pounding in my temples as I slipped the leash on my chaos.

“No. You didn’t. Because all you need to worry about is a battle strategy, right? Mr. Star Spangled Man with a Plan?” My volume increased with every word, as did the size of Rogers’ eyes. “All I’m asking, Captain, is that you try, for the love of all that’s holy, TRY to follow the damn policies just once in a while. And trust that this ‘HR broad’ might actually know what she’s doing. And realize I’ve got your fucking six everywhere BUT the battle field. OKAY?” 

My rage-sweating hands slapped against the conference room table as I leaned forward, shouting at the man. Months, months of diplomacy in the face of his and his team’s mulish obstinance went up in a flaming glory. 

They could hear Steve’s gulp of terror out in the hall. He nodded jerkily in the silence that followed.

“Do we all understand each other?” The chorus of instantaneous ‘yes, ma’am’s’ did their mamas proud. I yanked myself to stand straight, knees trembly. Wow, post-battle adrenaline really is a thing.

“Excellent.” Bucky flinched - actually flinched - as I snapped my folder so hard, the paper bent. I snatched the PIP out of Clint’s hands so forcefully, the paper ripped, and I didn’t even care. That’s why God made tape. I stuffed the innocent document and the folder into my bag with a crunch that would have Julia hating me later when she had to scan it for filing. 

“Is…is that all, ma’am?” Captain America just about cowered.

“Yes. No,” I swiveled back towards them, causing the three troublemakers to reel back. Clint actually fell out of his chair when he rolled back with a touch too much fear. “Captain. Pick three federal laws from Section 2 of the employee handbook. One for you, one for the Sergeant, one for Agent Barnes. Each of you will write me an essay on why that federal law is so important to your division. I want it in my email inbox by 8:00am tomorrow. Any questions?”

“Why doesn’t the other birdbrain have to do one?” Bucky asked with tentative sullenness. My left eye twitched in time with the vein bulging in my forehead.

“Because, Sergeant,” I tossed at him as I tugged my bag over my shoulder and snatched up my precious comfort chai, “he knows how to follow policy.”

I didn’t see Agent Romanov’s impressed gaze or the dinner-plate-sized eyes of the other employees hovering in the hall. I didn’t hear the elevator bell that heralded my floor. All I knew was the onslaught of chemicals in my body as I flopped into my chair - fight-fueled cortisol, and victory-induced dopamine. 

There just isn’t enough chai in the world to make up for my need for a vacation.

A tentative tap-tap-tap at my door heralded Julia. “Um - you okay?”

My throat burned as I chugged back some latte, then sighed huge and straightened up to look at my comrade-at-arms. “No.”

“I…I really hate to tell you this, especially now. But the bard from the convergence division called again. He wants to file another harassment complaint on that mage.”

All my stalwart battle-readiness left me, and my spine Slinky-d forward until my brow thunked down on the desk blotter before me.

“What’s our motto, Julia?” I mumbled out with a groan. My colleague and fellow-sufferer sighed.

“Heroes make us tired.” Rubbing my temples, I avoided thinking of the likelihood that Captain Rogers’ potential tattling on me would result in my unemployment.

“So. Fucking. Tired.”

[tsuy4n]

Hii! Can i request a headcanon or scenario (whatever is better) where ran’s with this girl and keeps on convincing her to make the relationship an open one where they can basically sleep with other people but like only love each other (ygm?) and the reader finally agrees because ran’s always flirting with other girls so she wants to give him a taste of his own medicine and basically thats when Ran realises that his girlfriend is getting wayyy more attention than he anticipated and actually bags 10x more :D

Warning/s: NSFW, semi-proofread, fem!reader, pet names, rough sex, degradation, toxic relationship but it worked out in the end. (Ig)

A/n: HI, HI! sorry that it took me a while to post this, anon. I hope you like this, and thank you for the request <3

“If that’s how you’re gonna be why don’t you just ask for a break up.” You huff out, exasperated at your lover who went behind you to hug your form. “I love you too much to let you go.” Ran whispered as he kisses the top of your head.

“You say that yet you’re asking me to agree to you to fuck other women.” The male pouts when you pulled away from the hug. “But I’m letting you do the same.” While pouring yourself a drink, some expensive wine, you shift your head and looked at him with a questionable expression on your face.

"Alright, fine." you finally agreed, a small sigh coming out of your mouth as Ran walks to you and peck your lips. "No falling in love with your sex partner or partners, okay?" in a sweet voice he asked.

"You know what'll happen once you do," he trails as he gently swipe his thumb across your lips. "right, sweetheart?" you hum and nod your head.

"You too, sweetheart." you giggle with a smirk on your face making Ran chuckle and lean in to kiss you for real this time. His tounge swirling against yours and dominating over you as usual.

"Yeah, you know that'll never happen." he says in the kiss as he picks you up to make you sit on the counter. "Mhm, I believe in you." you reply, giving his lips one last kiss before reaching for your wine and drinking it, a little dripping down by the corner of yours which Ran licked after you set the glass down.

After that agreement with a side of good fucking that night, two weeks had already passed since that happened and you already got quite a line of men and women begging for your attention or whatsoever.

“For someone who strongly disagreed with this so called ridiculous idea of mine at first, you do sure seem to be enjoying yourself.” Ran chuckles as he stood beside you, peppering your neck with soft kisses. “How’s it going with your partners?” you giggle as his lips tickled you.

“Great.” He answered. “You?” You flash him a smile after turning around and putting your arms on top of his shoulders while he had his hands settled on your hips. “Oh, you already know the answer to that, sweetheart.” You say in a sing song voice.

“Right.” His lazy eyes looked at the necklace that was wrapped around your neck. “Who’s that from this time?” He ask, his slender fingers playing with the little chains. “Lemme guess. Satoru? Sukuna? Hmm, That guy whose name is a starbucks cup size, Venti? Childe..? Have I ever told you that their names are weird?” You snort and held the rest of your laugh back while already imagining the two person: Venti and Childe being whiny.

“None of them, huh? is it one of my co-workers? Sanzu? Kakucho? My boss???” A little laugh came out first before you answered Ran while making eye contact in a playful gaze.

“Koko.” You noticed how his eyes turned dark and cold but decided to brush it off as you intended to see this kind of reaction. “Huh, aside from your colleagues I’m actually surprised you know the names of my sex partners….” You narrow your eyes.

“No one better be dead or missing, Ran Haitani.” He nods his head, chuckling a little as he found you cute right now, but his eyes went back to look at the pretty necklace on your neck.

It was obvious to you that your lover was jealous and he always get that way whenever you’d receive gifts from other people yet he still tries to mask it with a smile and leave the place, saying he has a hook up with one of his girls.

And of course, you’d wish him well with a beaming smile on your face while informing him that you also have a plan with one of yours despite knowing what he’s feeling.

You also know that he’s trying too hard to have girls swarm him just for his attention. You know that because whenever the two of you would go out, he’d let the girls gather around and entertain him while Ran would simply smile and glance at you back and forth just to see your reactions, only to witness people slowly gathering around you like bees that was drawn towards this beautiful flower.

His friends already knew from the very start since you both informed them about the relationship turning open just to avoid misunderstanding as they once witnessed Ran let a man flirt with you while he was busy flirting with another girl so openly. Honestly, they thought you both had an argument and broke up but then they heard the news from you two.

That’s why Sanzu became your very first sex partner as he instantly made a move on you. He can’t help it. He’s been eyeing you ever since he first you, you know! He’s gotta grasp this opportunity to fuck you and feel you.

So he invited you to this party and Ran was away, you were bored that day so you couldn’t help but agree. Both of you got wasted then the next day, you woke up, felt the ache in your body instantly, and you couldn’t even get up!

Sanzu had the audacity to make fun of you after you woke him up with that loud thud. Nonetheless you could tell you had an amazing night even if the memory was a little blurry here and you felt guilty from sleeping with a man that isn’t Ran. Don’t worry though, Sanzu helped you get over it.

He was also the one who urged you to go ahead and try getting more partners as Ran was doing it. “But you’ll never find someone who’s great as me, baby.” Was he said in a cocky voice before leaving the apartment and giving you a kiss that time before you could retort.

Memories kept coming until it came to the latest person. The one with Rindou. You remembered how much you begged for his dick to enter you and make you cum which he did with a couple of degrading here and there.

“What a fuckin’ whore.” He groans out as he pounds into you from behind. “You takin’ another man’s dick so well.” Rindou chuckles as he roll his hips against yours, the action made you clench around his shaft and cum as your eyes rolled to the back of your head.

“I wonder how many had already fucked this dirty cunt of yours.” patting the cheeks of your bottom, Rin starts to thrust his hips in a brutal way. “Fuck.” He cursed under his breath. “You feel so good.” He turned you around just to catch your lips in his. “ So damn good than what I imagined.”

“I heard something happened between you and Rin.” He said, snapping you out of your thoughts, but you just wished he had done that sooner as you felt the wetness on your underwear and ache in your core.

“Yes.” You simply replied as you pull away from him to organize the gifts Kokonoi has sent, acting like you weren’t feeling hot or anything at all.

“You slept with my best friend a couple of days ago yet you didn’t hear me say anything about it. ‘cuz you didn’t let me.” You mutter the last part making Ran to let out a small sigh. “But Rindou’s my brother, that’s different.” He says making you hum.

“My best friend was basically like my sister, so.” You shrugged your shoulders then grinned as you went towards Ran to peck his cheek. “It’s just sex, sweetheart.” You say, the words sounding familiar to him.

“It’s not like I love the man or anything.” You cup his cheeks with pouting lips. “You know you’re the only man I’ll ever love, right?” You finish with a coo as he finally remembered those words. He said those to you when you found out about it and before you could utter a word, but he could still tell that you were still angry because you’ve been distant to him lately.

“Anyways, don’t you have work to do?” You ask while fixing his tie. “[Y/n]-” before he could continue his, your phone rang. “Go on, sweetie. You’ll be late.” You urge him with your phone now in hand.

“Hello?” You answer the call while waving your hand at Ran who seemed reluctant to leave but you didn’t saw it as you had your back facing him. “Chifuyu?” Was the last thing he heard slip out of his lover’s mouth, calling another man’s name in a sweet tone when he finally stepped out of the apartment.

“You want to meet up tonight?” You giggle when you heard him stammer on the other side of the phone as you already imagined his red face. “Alri-” You let out a hum of confusion when your phone got snatched out of your hand.

You huff and quickly turn around, only to feel a hand cover your mouth as purple eyes stared straight into your in a piercing way.

“Sorry but she’s gonna be busy.” Ran answered on your behalf making you furrow your brows and ask him in a hush tone on what the hell he’s doing. Ran only glanced at you in an icy way and that was enough to shut you up.

“Oh, and she’ll never meet you again.” Was the last thing he said while the other male was stunned and blinking his eyes as his friend started to ask if he was alright.

“What are you doing now this time?” You heaved. “Deleting numbers.” Ran answered casually making you frown and reach for your phone. “The hell’s up with you? Give it back.” He scoffs and pushes you down on the sofa, one hand holding your hands above your head making you squirm and try to get out of his hold.

“That’s a lot.” He mutters to himself before looking at you. “Let me go.” You grumble. Ran throws your phone on the wall, smashing it and making you gasp. “Oops. I’ll buy you another one.” He said, his smirking face making you want to just punch the leaving shit out of him.

“You crazy-” before you could even finish your string of cursing words at him, Ran shuts you up with a kiss while undoing the tie on his neck. “You’re not leaving this place unless I say so. I’m gonna fuck you senseless.” He states, voice dropping an octave as he uses his necktie like a rope to tie your wrists.

“Not even letting you ever sleep with another guy again.” Your face heats up and you could feel your pussy throbbing again. “Ran. Untie me. I’m serious assho-” You gag when you felt his thick length suddenly enter your mouth all the way down to your throat causing your eyes to water.

“Let’s put that mouth to good use.” He groans, slowly thrusting his hips as he forgot how good your pussy like mouth felt around his dick. “My dick’s the only thing that you’ll ever taste and feel, sweetheart.” Ran moans when he went fast and came without any warning. “And in return, no one’s also gonna taste and feel my cock. S’ gonna be all yours.”

“And I already cut ties with the whores. All of ‘em. No need to worry anymore.” Ran pecks your cheek while let out a whimper. “I’m gonna be all yours from now on, you got that?” He starts to work on his clothes after gently moving you to your shared bedroom then does yours next.

“And you’re gonna be all mine.” He gives your neck wet kisses then slowly went down, marking you with every chance he gets as your moans were like music to his ears. Oh, how He missed seeing you like this under him, and of course you also felt the same.

You both missed each other’s touch and warmth but was too prideful to admit it that’s why Ran finally decides to break it as he was the cause of all this in the very first place. It may not look like it, but he’s scared of losing you.

“That’s how it should’ve been from the very start.”

[obetrolncocktails]

Bitter | Sam Kiszka X Reader Part 1

Warnings: Explicit language, angst, sprinkle of fluff (though smut is not included in this part, this series will be NSFW: Minors DNI!)

A/n: @dannythedog its been a minute since I have written for Sam, so here's me jumping back in. Glad you asked for some bratty, cocky smut. Because promise me when I tell you, it's coming.

Also thought it would be helpful to explain somethings about working at Starbucks for context: We have two bars (where each espresso machine is): one for drive through drinks, and another for mobile orders and cafe orders. They are usually placed next to each other. Partners are another word for employees.

Word Count: 1.9K

Summary: Working at Starbucks, you'll always run into shitty regulars, but none as beautiful as this one. Such a shame he wastes all of it by being a grade A piece of shit.

“We lose Beverly in five minutes. It’s going to get crazy and we are down a shift manager. I need you guys to stay on top of it. Got it?” Avery said, his macbook in hand to view the schedule. 

Avery was the new store manager at your Starbucks location, and though you liked him, he was an outside hire and was poorly trained at making drinks and organizing the positioning of employees. To make matters worse, your shift manager was sick and Avery would have to serve as the shift for the day. He’d need more time to learn through experience, but today was the fucking worst day possible to do that. Every partner on the floor was new and lacked the confidence required to handle such a difficult task. 

The funny thing is, your morning started out wonderfully. You had a full team with someone at each position; drive through times were great and tips were surprisingly high. That was, until the shift turned over and the experienced baristas clocked out. 

“Y/n, you’re drive through bar. Good luck,” Avery said with a sympathetic smile. You could almost laugh at the pity in his tone, but you put your head down and got to work immediately, pulling labels out of the printer and putting them on cups. Venti Iced White Mocha. No whip. Easy enough. You pumped the appropriate amount of white mocha into the drink, queuing the proper amount of espresso shots and began steaming your milk. 

“Um, Y/n. How many pumps does this get?” A partner asked as you worked on your drink.

“It’s a grande, so four, friend!” You offered, kindly. She nodded to you before completing the drink. Before you knew it, you were becoming swamped with questions that these partners should have known. It was concerning to you, because you could tell how long the rest of the shift was going to be. “So, uh. We’re out of black tea. What do we do?” Someone asked, turning to you for an answer.”

“Ask the customer if they would like green tea instead. If not, brew a new batch and have them wait.” You were getting frustrated, but you would never let your co-workers know. They were trying their best, despite the lack of leadership. Every time you looked over, Avery was busy making mobile orders, which would have been helpful if the drive through weren’t so backed up with cars ordering four or more drinks at once. 

“Ahem–uh. Did you forget my drink?” Looking up from the espresso machine in front of you, a man leered over the glass, staring at you. He was unbelievably attractive; tall and thin, with long brunette hair pulled into a loose bun. His eyebrows were raised in a positively condescending expression. Instantly, you didn’t like his attitude.

“Hey there! We’re working on it right now, sir. Should be out in just a minute.” You were excellent at managing your tone with customers, but today was testing you. “It’s already been a minute, sweetheart. I’m already late.” He scoffed, sucking his teeth and showing you the time on his phone. “I’ve been waiting for seven minutes.” And? Not your fault he decided to risk being late in the first place.

“Sir, we’re short staffed and we have cars looped around the building.. It will be just one more minute. I will be sure to take care of you if you’ll just wait for me at the end of the bar.” Without another word, he sauntered off, but the feeling of guilt remained with you.

Of course no one was covering bar two, and everyone in the lobby was waiting for their drinks. You’d have to cover both bars at once. Pulling the first sticker from the machine, you prepared the next drink. Venti flat white, blonde, extra shot, extra hot, no foam, toffee nut. You think to yourself: No, Y/n. Who were you to ever think you could ever get off easy? You sigh and begin to make the drink. As the shots poured and the milk steamed, you stepped off to return to another drink on the drive through bar. 

“Fuck,” you whisper under your breath. It’s a venti caramel ribbon crunch frappuccino made with heavy whipping cream, two extra shots of espresso and extra caramel drizzle. You ran to the cold bar, seeing that there’s no one available to take the drink. Of course Avery. I can do it all. No problem at all. You can go home. I’ll run the store. Shitty thoughts filled your mind as you worked on the drink. Usually, you would never assume this type of mindset, but it was unbelievable to you that Avery would have let this happen in the middle of a Saturday, one of the busiest business days for the company. You finished the drink, placing it at the drive through before returning to the drink on bar two, ‘Pretentious Asshole’s’ flat white. You finished it and all of the extra add-ins before walking it to the end of the bar, setting it down. “Here you go, sir. Sorry about the wait.” You said with a genuine smile. Though he gave you a hard time, you still wanted him to be satisfied.

 “Ugh, you couldn’t even remember to ask for my name? And my drink isn’t hot like I asked for.”

Is this guy fucking serious? “I’m so sorry, sir. What’s your name so I can get this fixed for you?” You pulled out a new cup and a sharpie to write with. He watched as you prepared to scribble his name on the cup.

“Can I borrow that?” He said, nodding to your marker. You hesitated but nodded, handing it over. You watched as he dug into his impossibly tight pocket to retrieve a single dollar. Using the countertop, you waited as he scrawled with sharpie across the dollar bill. “SAM.”

Capping the marker and handing it back to you along with the dollar, he had the nerve to say, “Would have been more if the service wasn’t so shitty. Have a good day, princess.” You would have liked to jump over the countertop and deck him directly in his jaw, ruining that pretty face of his. 

The rest of your shift was absolute shit, but you let relief wash over your body as you clocked out. When you took off your green apron, the worries of your shift fell away too, but the interaction between yourself and “Dickhead” Sam remained far into the evening. How could someone so beautiful be so shitty? Such a fucking waste of an irrestible face.

***

Six thirty came much faster this morning than you wanted, but you couldn’t say that you didn’t expect it either. You woke up with aching muscles and the worst case of cottonmouth. Five more minutes, you decided, setting a new timer before rolling over. You lied there, skimming the surface of consciousness for the next two minutes, deciding reluctantly to cancel the timer and sit up. As you set your feet off the edge of the bed and on the floor, gravity became your enemy as you became aware of how compressed your muscles felt. Slowly, you stood up, facing the day. Rubbing the sleep out of your eyes, you stumbled blindly to the bathroom to pee, wipe the sleep out of your eyes and assess how unfortunate you’re going to look today. Hair? Frizzy. Face. Tired and pale. Great. You spent a few seconds tying your greasy hair into a bun on the top of your head, choosing to go with the easy option rather than the responsible one. On the rough mornings, you always slept as much as you could so you’d arrive at work just before seven. You made sure to lay out your clothes last night so you could jump into them, grab your keys and your purse and head out the door. 

You arrived at work at 6:55. Luckily, the drive through wasn’t clogged yet. The day was young and you knew that the shift on duty would ask you to work the window because you were good at getting drinks out fast. It got busy quickly, but there was no trace of the chaos that you had experienced during the last shift. 

“Good morning.” looking out the window, you see “SAM.” driving up in a black Tesla. His face was still puffy from sleep and his hair hung limply around his face and shoulders.

 “Is it?” He said with a smirk. “Looks like you and I had the same idea this morning. Doing the absolute least to get out of the door.” He flashed you a beautiful smile, his eyes camouflaged by a pair of Raybans. You were learning your way around him, even if he annoyed the living shit out of you. 

“I am deeply offended. I have you know, this look took me a total of thirty seconds.” You gestured up to your hair.

“I can tell, babe. Still gorgeous, though.” You were sure that you heard him wrong. 

“Uh-your to-to-tota–” you began, completely fumbling the sentence. “I can’t speak today. It’s gonna be seven sixty eight.” His grin only widened as he handed you his phone.

You stared at him with an empty impression, not sure why he was giving you his phone. “Apple pay.” 

You swallowed, reaching for the scanner for him to hover his phone over. “Thanks, lovely,” he responded, taking his phone back and shoving it in his pocket. What the fuck is up with this guy? 

You handed him his overly-expensive flat white. You watched as he took a sip, as if quality checking it. “Absolutely delicious this morning. Thanks, Y/n.” 

“You’re welcome, Sam,” You offered with a gentle smirk. “You got it!” Another grin and he’s gone, speeding off from the window. 

***

“Y/n,” Avery addressed you during a shift that next week. “Wanted to chat for a second.” Oh God, what did I do… “A customer called in–said he came in a few days ago…early in the morning I think. Said that you looked super tired…” Oh fuck, here it is. Give me my severance check and kick me out without making a scene, I fucking beg you. “Anyway. They said that you were super sweet and helpful and they also saw you working saturday–I agreed with them when they said that you took charge and were super supportive of the team.” You stood there, leaning against the counter, not sure what to expect. “I think I want you to apply for shift manager.” You weren’t expecting him to say that.

“Oh wow–I thought I was in trouble,” you said with a surprised chuckle.

“Are you feeling guilty?” Avery looked at you with a smirk, before coming beside you and elbowing you. “Seriously, Y/n, I want you to consider it. It’s yours. The application is a formality for all partners in the company. Think about it.” He stepped off to the opposite counter, handing you a sheet of paper, describing the duties of a shift manager including the pay and benefits involved. 

“Did the customer say who they were?” You asked out of sheer curiosity. 

“They said that they were the flat white guy–said that you’d know exactly who it was…” He walked off towards the Back of House leaving you to sit in disbelief. Sam. It was difficult to remove the stupid smile plastered on your face for the rest of the day.

--

End of part 1

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