[fluff fluff fluff. room descriptions. cozycore. cross posed on ao3]
-
There was something about your apartment that always made him sleep better. Mark never could put his finger on it.
Perhaps it’s the jade colored sheets that are always soft to the touch. Or the way your place always smelled suspiciously like vanilla, even without a candle in sight (he had found out later about things called wax warmers.) Maybe it’s the pile of books sitting on your nightstand, dog-eared in the middle of the foreword because you never could pay much attention when reading new genres.
Mark thinks about the way you decorate your walls. There are no vintage faces to leer at him. No contemporary faces either. You’ve got a calendar hung up by a magnetic board. Mark can make out his own handwriting: a note he left you not long after your five month anniversary. He marvels at the fact that you still have it there, untouched by your eraser like it’s something sacred, and not just a silly note to make you laugh.
There’s a picture of him taped to your bed frame, and it’s the sweetest idea in the world, Mark thinks, that you keep him so close to you. Along the walls you play with different textures, like embroidered quotes, hanging beads and fringe, photos he’s gifted you, and photos you’ve taken when you thought he wasn’t looking.
He thinks about the drawer in your dresser: his drawer, with his own dividers and his own deodorant, and his own clothes that smell like your laundry detergent. He thinks of the bright pink toothbrush settled beside your red one. He thinks of his shampoo sitting beside yours in the shower. Even though he doesn’t live here, you still make it home.
Thoughts like this overwhelm him when he fits his key into the lock. You gave it to him awhile back, almost too nonchalantly. Mark keeps it as safe as he can, unwilling to lose something so significant to him. Something that feels like a part of you.
And he never knows how to thank you enough. Even now, as he pushes the door open, grabs your mail on the way in and sets it on your table, he feels a little lost. The grocery bags feel almost pointless when he sets them on the counter.
He’s not a good cook — and he doesn’t pretend he is. So he got a kit prepared at the store, one you just stick in the oven and kind of hope for the best. He got wine that one of the workers told him would pair well with it, though he can’t be certain they knew what they were talking about. And for dessert, he got your favorite pastry from a bakery that’s always too far away for you to just drop in whenever you have a craving.
He wants to spoil you. He wants you to come home to something warm and good and safe.
Mark knows your schedule. He knows you like to shower as soon as you come home, because it soothes your bones and helps you prepare for the evening. So when you do come home, with the sweetest smile on your face, he ushers you into your bathroom and tells you to take your time.
When you return, soft in your sweatpants and old t-shirt, he can smell his body wash on you, like maybe you ran out of yours, or simply decided to wear his, but it fills him with pride. Like you’re a part of him. Like you want to be closer to him.
Mark is kissing you before he can stop himself. Just a soft peck on your head, and then your cheeks, and then your eyelids, chin, and nose for good measure. “You’re so lovely.”
You preen under his gaze, and Mark wonders why his opinion means anything at all to you. How he ended up with someone so gentle, he can’t begin to fathom.
You eat and sip the wine, and Mark tries not to be obvious in watching your reactions, ready to dial for pizza the moment you seem displeased. But you finish your plate and ask him where you can buy another kit just like it, because you liked the flavor he picked.
When he reveals the pastry, your squeal of excitement warrants a beam of joy to shoot through him. Making your day makes his, and watching you tear the pastry into two equal pieces to share with him makes him love you even more.
He washes the dishes, refuses to let you help. So you sit on the counter and tell him about your day. His hands are still wet with grape-scented suds when he wraps them around your waist and pulls you into him.
You’re sweet. You’re so sweet, so good. Your arms and legs wrap around him like you know he’d never do a thing to hurt you. Like you trust him to carry you.
Mark squeezes you until you begin to laugh. Then he’s carrying you to bed, dropping you on the blankets and smothering you with as many kisses as he can before you’re pushing him off, telling him to wash up so the two of you can cuddle.
Sometimes he holds you. Sometimes you hold him. Sometimes, like tonight, the two of you face each other, legs tangled and pinkies linked together. Mark nudges your nose with his. “I love you,” he says, even if it’s not even half of what he feels. Even if he could write essays expanding on and explaining why. The thing is, you know. You know, but you’re tired, and Mark knows when to rest in silence with you.
“I love you too,” your voice is soft with slumber, like you’re already falling, and Mark squeezes your pinky just a little tighter, a wordless promise between the two of you to keep this love, and home, forever.
[mark tries to relieve some stress. romance. interior decorating. alt version on ao3 is also mine]
-
It’s not hard to notice that you’re stressed. Mark doesn’t need to be a superhero to notice the bags under your eyes, the tenseness of your shoulders, the way you always do things without being asked. Things that someone else should be doing.
You’ve confessed it to him before, in little fragments when you didn't think it was a huge deal like “My mom expected me to have the house cleaned by the time she got home from work, even though I had a job too.” and “I got sick of staring at my roommates’ dirty dishes so I just did them.”
Mark has always done his best to remind you that it’s not your job to save others from their own doing. But still, you insist, this fear pricking it’s way up your throat that you may be held responsible for the doing of others. And it’s not without reason: you’ve been held responsible before.
Now that the two of you finally have your own place, Mark has done his absolute best to lift the burden, but you’re so damn stubborn. By the time he returns home from his classes or his job, you already have the house clean, and his laundry washed, and for God’s sake you’ll even reorganize the kitchen if you're antsy enough.
This week has been interesting. You and Mark have been in the process of unpacking and decorating. After a Christmas bonus from your boss, you and Mark had purchased new decor for your shared space, so that the two of you could make it your own. See, even with your own money, you spend it partly on someone else.
Mark wants you to be selfish. But he knows there’s not a selfish bone inside of you, so he’s going to have to beat you at your own game.
The house is slightly cluttered with moving boxes, old decor, and the new decor you’ve just bought. Tomorrow is your first day off for the first time in a while, and you’ve casually mentioned to Mark that you’re going to spend it unpacking and cleaning the house.
Mark Lee is going to die before he lets that happen.
He waits until you’ve left for work, and then he’s turning on his favorite 90’s r&b playlist. He labels the boxes, takes his time between organizing what needs to go on shelves and what needs to be sent off for donation. He leaves the decor the two of you had bought in a tidy box on top of the coffee table, because he knows decorating is something you wouldn’t want him to do without you.
He vacuums the rugs, and refills the cat's food bowl. He cleans out the fridge and takes out the trash. There is an entire drawer of candles you’ve picked up, having liked the scents, so Mark picks up one he recalls liking and lights it, setting it on the center of the table. He straightens the placemats (he finds it adorable that you leave the table set every night, even when the two of you usually take your dinners to the couch.)
He wipes down the counter, using minimal products the way you like to. He cleans the toilet. He gathers all the trash in your shared bedroom and makes the bed. He folds the orange throw blanket you got him and sets it on the edge of the bed, so your cat can cuddle against it the way she likes.
When he’s sure you’re on your way home, he orders pizza. He turns on the television and sets your favorite show on pause. He’s so giddy and excited for you to get home, he thinks he could burst.
The house smells of garlic and vanilla when you walk in through the door. You pause in the doorway, bundled so sweetly in your scarf and jacket. You look at the lack of clutter and furrow your brows. “I thought– I thought you worked late today.”
“I took the day off.”
He rushes up to you and helps you take off your jacket, quick to hang it on the hook. Before you can take off your scarf, he grabs the frayed edges and pulls you close to him, so that your forehead presses to his.
You hum warmly. “You’re so sweet, Mark.”
Mark grins, flushed with praise. It's almost embarrassing, how much he likes pleasing you. And yet, he can't find it in himself to change. "I left the decor out so we could decorate tomorrow. I figured you’d rather spend your day off decorating than unpacking.”
Your eyes tear up. You look at the sleeves to see that he’s taken down everything you guys have decided to give away or get rid of. “Mark… You work so hard…”
“No,” Mark swiftly kisses your cheek. “You work hard. And you take on too much. I want you to start leaning on me more, okay? You’re not carrying this alone.”
You nod, shyness washing over you. When you wrap your arms around Mark’s middle, he can feel the tenseness leave your muscles. “Thank you so much.”
“Hush,” he orders. “No more thanking me. Don’t ever think you don’t deserve this, okay? I want to take care of our home. I want to take care of you.”
The two of you eat pizza, and while you watch the tv screen, Mark watches you.
The sweetness of your laugh. The way you munch on your food. Your hair and your clothes and the way you wipe your fingers on a napkin. “C’mere,” he says.
Selfish, he knows, but he interrupts your eating to draw you into his lap. Your weight atop his thighs grounds him like noticing else. He peers up at you, and he knows he’s got that look in his eyes that you always make fun of. You’ve often told him that he looks lovesick, and that’s exactly what he is. He tucks your hair back behind your ears so he can see your face. “You’re incredible. And I know you can do things by yourself, but you don’t have to, okay? Not with me.”
You nod, bowing your head to avert his gaze. “Yeah, I know.”
He holds your face, and rubs his thumb across your jaw. Your eyelids flutter closed. “I’m not fussing at you. Promise. I’m so proud of you, and I’ll be just as proud of you if you take time to rest.”
He pulls your face to his and kisses you sweetly, reveling in the softness of your mouth and the lovely, lovely sounds that escape you. He loves the way you melt against him, the way you trust him to take care of the burdens you’ve held onto for so long. He’s Mark Lee after all, he can handle it.
You tuck your face against his neck, cuddling as close to him as you can. “I love you,” you mumble sleepily.
He kisses your head, feeling accomplished. “I love you more.”
[mark takes care of u when ur sick. roommate au. pure fluff. alt version on ao3 is also mine]
-
So, you’re sick. It’s just a small bug, nothing you can’t handle. Sure, you can’t keep food down and you’ve got this chill you can’t shake, but you’re not dying or anything. This is the disclaimer you gave to your worrywart of a roommate, Mark, when you had asked him to bring home some plain crackers and gatorade.
You’re sitting on the couch during sundown. The house is clean, save for the plastic bag of used tissues leaning against the couch. There’s a documentary about some obscure cult in the sixties on the television, and you’re wrapped up in your most comforting blanket. It happens to be Mark’s, taken from his room. The weight of it feels like a hug, and it smells of him, like that vanilla lotion his mom ingrained into his head to use after showering.
With the volume of the television, you barely hear Mark walk through the door. When he sets a takeout bag onto the coffee table, you finally look up, “Oh hey, Mark. What’d you get?”
“I got you soup, Dork,” Mark says. He sits on the table, long legs causing his knees to brush against the edge of the couch and subsequently, your sock-covered toes. When you look at him, you realize he’s pouting. “You said it wasn’t that bad.”
“It isn’t,” you assure him, but you follow it with a cough to your elbow. You wonder what you look like to make him think it’s worse than it is. “I’m fine.”
“You’re sweating.”
“But I’m cold.”
Mark hums. His cheeks and nose are rosy from the winter air, which makes him look even more adorable than usual. “Tell you what: eat your soup before it gets cold. I’m gonna go set up the bathroom and run a bath. I’ll put some salts and oils in there that are good for congestion, and when you’re ready you can come warm up. Maybe it’ll draw the fever out.”
“I don’t have a fever,” you argue.
Mark opens the soup container and hands it to you, along with a spoon. “Whatever you say.”
You try to take your time with the soup, but it takes you a little less than ten minutes to drain the bowl. You're left with a weight in your stomach that chases away the nausea you’ve been feeling all day. You dump the bowl in the sink and head into the bathroom.
Mark had grabbed a pair of your comfiest pajamas and underwear, and set them on the sink counter along with a fluffy towel. The overhead light is off, replaced with a lavender scented candle on the rim of the bathtub. The water is practically steaming, and he’s set up one of those bath pillows so your neck won’t get tired. You’re so thankful the two of you ordered that thing one drunken night.
“Don’t undress yet,” he calls from down the hall. He comes in with his tablet and hands it to you, along with the stand he usually uses when he wants to watch videos. “You can finish your documentary on here!”
Thank God for shared accounts, because Mark sets the tablet up so that it’s right where you paused it in the living room. You watch him work, fiddling with the buttons and fitting the stand on the closed toilet so that it won’t fall into the tub. With fondness, you realize he hasn’t even shed his coat yet, his only goal to make you feel better. He’s often doing that: sacrificing his needs for yours.
And it warms you from your head to your toes. Even more so than the fever, you’re dizzy with the realization that Mark loves you, in whatever way that may be, enough to do all of this for you. You want to repay him, but it will have to wait until you get your energy back.
You do what you can, though. When he stands up, you hug him tight, loving the small sound of surprise that escapes him.
-
Mark turned down your blankets while you were in the bath. There’s a bottle of water on your bedside table and two small pill capsules. You take them, thankful he didn’t get the liquid medicine your mom used to make you drink. You end up draining the water bottle, not realizing how thirsty you were.
You’re almost ready for bed when you realize you still have his tablet, so you make your way across the hall and knock on his door. A sudden shyness overcomes you and has you averting your eyes when he opens the door, finally dressed for his own comfort. “Here’s your tablet back. Thanks for taking care of me, Mark.”
“Always.” Mark isn’t smiling like usual. He’s got this sincere look on his face, furrowed brows and straight mouth, just daring you to defy his gestures of love. “I’m always here for you. You know that.”
“Of course I do,” you assure him with your own look of surety. Some voice in the back of your head is calling it love.
He leans down to kiss your head. “Get some sleep, okay? I’ll keep my ringer on in case you need me.”
summary: time makes you bolder. even children get older, and i’m getting older too.
words: 7.1k+
category: teacher!mark, single parent!reader, fem!presenting!reader, graham is the sweetest kid, mark is that teacher that lets kids pick earthworms during recess, friends to lovers, mark’s apartment is flooded so now he has to live in domestic bliss with his secret crush oh nooooo
warnings: talk of absent fathers
author note: it’s my birthday tomorrow so i wanted to give u all a present for supporting me for so long!! here’s to you <3 (cross-posted on /honklore)
Mark helps one of his kids press their palms onto the wall. When they release their palm, pink paint remains, making a sort of leaf to the tree branches painted onto the wall.
“Now write your name,” Mark advises another kid, whose orange paint had already dried.
“G-R-A-H-A-M,” the boy writes out with a large permanent marker. “Can I take a picture? For my mom?”
All the rest of the children begin to shout their agreements, also wanting to bring home a picture for their parents. Mark grabs his yellow Polaroid camera and takes a picture of each handprint.
He keeps all of the pictures in the chest pocket of his denim jacket. “Okay, guys— to the sink! Whoever has the cleanest hands gets to help me pass out snacks!”
“Why are we having snack time so early?” It’s Graham that asks, the little one always eager to be around Mark.
Mark ignores the boy’s paint covered hands poking at his clean jacket, and answers him as politely as he can. “Mr. Lee forgot his lesson plans today, so we’re going to watch a movie instead.”
“A movie?” Graham’s eyes widen.
“Yep,” Mark giggles. He crouches down to Graham’s level and whispers, “You wanna pick it?”
“Nature Nut!” Graham cheers almost immediately, causing Mark to wince.
Ah, yes, the wonderful little DVDs of a lonesome man teaching the watcher about bugs and weird types of slugs. Mark actually has the entire collection, and Graham happens to adore them just as much as Mark did when he was a kid.
“Alright, go wash your hands and I’ll get it started.”
It’s a little girl named Hana who cleans her hands the best, so she passes out organic fruit gummies to everyone while Mark puts in the DVD.
While they watch the video, Mark checks his text messages.
There’s one from Taeyong: “I’ve already got Haechan on the couch. Sorry, man. You can have the floor, but it’s not gonna be comfy :(“
Right. Mark forgot that Haechan lives in the same complex as him. His apartment is probably just as flooded as Mark’s is. Now if the landlord would just answer his calls and help him... maybe this situation wouldn’t be so stressful.
Mark didn’t forget his lesson plans; they’re just submerged in his bedroom with everything else Mark has left lying on his carpet. And maybe it’s his fault for not buying more storage bins, but a studio apartment can only hold so much stuff.
Serves Mark right for doing his lesson plans at home instead of at the school like most of his fellow kindergarten teachers.
He lets out a quiet sigh, careful not to disturb the children. He only has a short list of friends left to ask, and while he doesn’t think they’ll mind him asking, he really hates to put anyone in that position.
Besides, most of his friends have roommates or significant others and Mark doesn’t want to ruin their routine. He’d hate to intrude. And he could always sleep in his car for a few days, but the amount of stuff he had to pack because of the flooding has barred any chance of a good night’s sleep.
The video ends, and Mark gets the kids seated with coloring pages until their parents arrive.
One by one, he I.Ds the parents and tells the kids goodbye, helping them put on their coats and take home whatever library book they picked out earlier.
Finally, there’s only one kid left, and Mark is a bit embarrassed of his hyper-awareness to Graham. It’s not even his fault, really. Graham just has a beautiful mom, who happens to be Mark’s beautiful friend, and sometimes Mark gets eager to see you during pickup time.
Whatever. It’s no big deal.
The kindergartener already has his coat on. His curly brown hair is almost unruly as he continues to work on his coloring sheet.
Mark pulls at the hem of his sage sweater sleeves and wonders if his hair looks okay. Maybe he should invest in a little desk mirror; or maybe that’s vain.
“Hey, Mark! Sorry I’m late!” You rush in, holding on to your leather messenger bag. You fix your glasses before they fall off the bridge of your nose, and Mark is so focused on the movement that he almost forgets about your child.
Until said child is scolding his mother. “Mom! You have to call him Mr. Lee! It’s rude to call him Mark!”
“Your mom is an adult,” Mark reminds Graham (as soon as he finds his voice.) “Since she isn’t a student, it’s okay for her to call me Mark.”
Graham pinches his lips together, and then shrugs. “Fine. Mom, we watched Nature Nut today.” He runs up to you and wraps his arm around your middle. “Can we go to the park and look for slugs?”
“Sure,” you giggle. “But we need to get home soon, okay, Bud? I have to make dinner and then we have to clean up the mess we made last night.”
Graham turns to Mark and smiles naughtily, like the trickster he often is. “Mom said I could tear up her papers last night. She said it’s There-pee.”
“Ther-a-py,” you emphasize for the five-year-old.
Mark studies your face, and he can tell that you seem a little more stressed than usual. “Therapy, huh?”
You smile sheepishly. “Well, when your son catches you tearing up old love notes, you have to let him in on the fun, right?”
“You are a team,” Mark acknowledges. He wants to ask more; wants to dig into your heart and extract whatever is hurting you, but your son is standing between the two of you, waiting for him to say goodbye. Mark clears his throat and picks at his sweater again. “Anyways, uh, text me tonight? Let me know you two got home safe. And, I’ll see you both tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” you breathe. You smile at him and then take Graham’s hand. “Thanks, Mark. I’ll text you.”
Mark spends the night at a motel down the road. He texts a few of his friends and hopes for good news in the morning, or at least a confirmation from his landlord.
When you text him, a little selfie of you and Graham, holding up what looks like microwaved s’mores, his heart grows fond, and he forgets about his own problems for a moment.
-
Life has never been very easy for you. From the get-go, you have always been destined to fail, growing up with an absent father and an overworked mother. With a dead-end dream like yours (writing, of all things), it’s no wonder you clung to what little breaths of freedom you had.
He was handsome and bold, with a carefree smile and brown eyes that mirrored the sun. The lead singer of a band, with a voice like chimes. And you fell just as hard as one of your many protagonists. Perhaps the mistake always lay in the fact that you put too much fantasy into reality. You have always romanticized the littlest things, and that comes back to bite you more often than not.
You never expected one: to get pregnant your senior year of high school, and two: have to go through it alone.
Of course, most people you come to love leave eventually. It’s something you have always remembered; something that sticks in the back of your brain like gum to the bottom of your child’s Spider-man skechers.
Graham is the only constant in your life. Though you’ve been blessed with a decent job editing for a webazine company, and you can work from home more often than not, Graham is the real thing that keeps you alive.
He’s the most precious boy, with brown curls and big brown eyes. He favors his father, and though that should deter you, it reminds you of innocent days, and it gives a new meaning to brown eyes. Graham is not his father, and he never was.
Graham certainly got his love of learning from you. Though he likes science more than writing, you adore how eager he is to always get to school. It helps that Mark is his teacher.
Mark’s been your friend since freshman year of highschool, when the two of you both took the same creative writing class the local university offered. Though the two of you had differing end goals, you often studied together and encouraged each other. He was there when you found out you were pregnant, and he was there when you found out you’d be raising your child alone.
Now life comes full circle, and you see him twice a day. You could go out on a limb and say he brightens up most mornings, but you would still give that slot to your son.
Mark is standing at the doorway now, greeting all of his students and helping them take off their book bags and coats. He’s wearing monochrome today: red pants, a red sweater, and red shoes.
Graham lights up almost immediately, and you are thankful today that you decided to dress Graham in his red t-shirt. “Mom! We match!”
“I know,” you grin, squeezing his hand.
Mark glances at Graham, and then you. His cheeks showcase that same pink hue they always do, and while it should clash with his red garments, it doesn’t. “Hey, Mark.”
“Hey,” he grins, cheeks full at the sight of you two.
Graham spreads his arms and waits for Mark to help him take off his jacket. “Do you see that we match, Mr. Lee?”
“Yo, that’s awesome, Little Man!” Mark gives Graham a fist bump that seems to appease him, and you wait for Graham to run to his friends before addressing Mark.
“How have you been?”
Mark sighs. He brushes his hair away from his eyes. “Okay. My- uh- my studio apartment flooded so I’m staying at a motel until my landlord can get me estimates on when I can come back home.”
“That sucks,” you frown. “You know, if you need a place to stay, I have a pullout couch in my office. And obviously, Graham wouldn’t mind.”
Mark pales. “Are you serious? I didn’t mean to suggest anything, Like I know you work from home and you need your office.”
“And you’ll be at school until three,” you say. “I’ll work then. C’mon, Mark. I don’t like knowing one of my friends has no place to stay.”
Mark bites his bottom lip and scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll drive over after I check out of the motel.”
“Great!” You smile. “I’ll order pizza.”
-
"Graham, clean your room," you say, struggling to push your desk against your office wall. "We're going to have a guest for a few weeks."
"Mom," Graham whines, "They aren't going to look in my room."
You begin to take the cushions out of the spare couch to start setting up the pull-out bed. "Mr. Lee is coming over, Graham. Don't you want to show him your collections?"
Graham's brown eyes grow wide. "Mr. Lee? You didn't tell me he was coming!"
"He's going to be staying with us for a little bit, okay? So I need you to be on your best behavior."
“Can I show him my worms?” Graham asks, alluding to the compost bin in the small backyard of your townhouse.
“Yes,” you say, thankful that he isn’t putting up much of a fight toward cleaning. You’re also thankful he isn’t asking any questions, as Graham always seems to have a few at the top of his tongue.
Graham cleans up his room quickly. You know for a fact that he’s just shoved all of his toys under his bed, but it’s enough until the weekend, when you’ll have more time to help him organize.
The little guy hoards rocks like no one’s business. You curse the day Mark decided to teach the kids about geodes.
“Wanna help me make up Mr. Lee’s room?” You half-yell, while grabbing spare bedding out of your linen closet.
Graham’s little footsteps are heard before he answers, and soon he’s at your hip with a quick, “He can have my Frozen pillowcase!”
You hesitate to tell Graham that his Frozen pillowcase is currently on one of your pillows, and you can’t give your guest a dirty pillowcase. “That one is in the wash, Buddy. Why don’t we give him your Spider-Man one?”
“So he matches my pajamas!” Graham is easily pleased, and he even takes one of his stuffed bears to add to Mark’s made-up bed. (“So he doesn’t get scared at night.”)
By the time the pizza arrives, Mark is just behind, so you keep Graham busy with a slice of cheese and a glass of diet pepsi (only half of a can, and only because it’s a special occasion) while the two of you bring in Mark’s stuff.
He surprisingly didn’t bring much, and when you ask about it, he grimaces. “My studio is pretty small so a lot of my stuff was on the ground and got mildewed. Other stuff was in bins so I just left it there. I only need clothes and my lesson plans, anyway.”
“Well, here’s the desk and bed. It’s not much, but there’s a lock on the door in case Graham ever gets too inquisitive — bless him — and curtains so the stupidly bright sun won’t wake you too early.”
“Those both sound like personal experiences, Y/n,” Mark teases. He takes off his jacket and throws it on the bed. “Yo! Spider-Man?”
“Graham picked it out,” you say. “He also relinquished one of his bears to keep you safe in the middle of the night. His words, not mine.”
“He’s so cute,” Mark mentions offhandedly. The fondness in his tone takes you back a bit. Not because the phrase isn’t true, it’s just that most people find your son annoying before they find him endearing. The change of tone is nice.
“He is,” you say. “And he’s dying to show you his room after we eat dinner.”
Mark gives you that same lopsided smile he often had in high school. Part of your brain shifts to his personal life, and you wonder why Mark himself isn’t in a romantic relationship. Not that he has to be, but the both of you are getting older, and Mark has always been one to express a fondness for having his own family one day. Maybe he just hasn’t found the right person.
It isn’t until Graham is peacefully in bed — after a very chaotic reading of Goodnight Moon by yours truly, and an argument that Mr. Lee cannot, in fact, sleep in the same room as him — that you actually have a chance to show Mark around the house.
“Here’s the guest bathroom. Graham almost always uses the bathroom in my room because he likes looking at the big tub. He will beg you to play with him, but if you’re busy don’t feel guilty telling him no. He knows what no means and he’s good about playing by himself.”
Mark giggles. “Okay. I don’t mind playing with him, though.“
You show him around the kitchen, where you left little spaces for him in the pantry. You show him the garbage bags and the T.V. settings and the list of compostable ingredients. “And also, please come and go as you please. Like, I completely understand that you’re here temporarily and you aren’t a babysitter or anything like that. I don’t expect you to be in charge of Graham any time outside of school.”
Mark blinks. “But if you ever need time away, you can ask me. I don’t mind babysitting.”
“I know,” you smile. “But Graham is my kid. I don’t need time away from him.”
You’re lying. Mark knows it. You’ve been in this single parenting thing for five years and you aren’t about to reach out for help now.
“Anyways, if you have any questions just ring me or ask me,” you say. “I’ve got to get to bed. Goodnight.”
“Thanks, Y/n.”
-
Mark thinks it’s sweet the way Graham insists on making his own breakfast.
You’re already up when Mark gets out of his (temporary) bedroom with his clothes tucked under his arm. You’re busy arguing with Graham. “You can’t fry your own omelette for the last time.”
Mark quirks an eyebrow at your exasperated face. You look stressed beyond belief, even though the day has just begun.
Mark tosses his clothes back in his room and walks into the kitchen. “Hey, Graham! Do you want to show me your rock collection?”
Graham spins on his sock-clad heels, eyes bright at the thought of seeing his teacher. “Mr. Lee! Yes! Let’s go!”
He grabs Mark’s hand with ease, leaving you room to finish making breakfast.
Graham’s room is fairly simple. The small wooden bed is covered in a green quilt, and beneath that, frozen-printed sheets that certainly don’t match. He has a tub of stuffed animals shoved against a small dresser.
Mark gets distracted by the framed picture on top of the dresser. It’s a picture of you and Graham’s father, a few months before you got pregnant. He’s smiling, and you’re holding up a peace sign. It makes Mark feel a bit sad, knowing that Graham’s dad never stayed around to see how wonderful he turned out to be. Then again, a lot of people in your life left as soon as they found out. In high school, no one wants to be friends with a teenage mother.
Mark reckons that if he had a family like this, he’d never take them for granted.
Graham pulls out a gemstone. It’s a murky green one that Mark has let him take home from class. “Do you remember this, Mr. Lee?”
Mark grins. “Yeah, bud. Thanks for keeping it so safe for me.”
Graham beams. He grabs Mark’s hand and pulls him towards his dresser. “Can we match? I want to look like you.”
Mark feels his heart swell. He wants to smother the young boy in affection, but he doesn’t want to cross a line. He’s your friend, sure, but he’s also Graham’s teacher. He can’t coddle Graham more than the other children. He already has a godchild to coddle. “I’m wearing yellow today. Do you have any yellow clothes?”
“Let’s look!” Graham yanks open one of the drawers and begins pulling out the articles of clothing one by one. “No, no, no... Here!” He finds a pair of yellow overalls, folded amongst the mess he made. “I’ll wear these!”
“Let’s clean up first, okay?” Mark grabs the overalls. “So it’s clean when you come home from school.”
Graham, looking like the last thing he’d ever want to do is disappoint Mark, begins to pick up each shirt with obvious intent. He tries to fold them, and does a somewhat decent job, so much so that Mark leaves it, thinking you’ll find it endearing rather than annoying.
He really loves that about you. He likes your patience with Graham. You’re so young, and in reality, he squashed so many early dreams of yours. No matter your lot in life, you never blamed your child. Mark thinks that’s why Graham is so open, so adaptable, so endearing.
He helps Graham get dressed and leaves him in his room so that he, himself, can get ready.
When he emerges from his shower, hair wet and clothed in yellow, he smells something amazing.
He doesn’t want to intrude on your morning with Graham. He already feels too indebted to you already.
“Have an omelet,” you say. Wisps of hair cover your face. You place a plate down in front of him.
Graham is already eating his omelet, slowly, while flipping through a picture book. He sounds out words he recognizes, but stays silent the rest of the time.
Mark takes out his phone and scrolls through his instagram feed just as your own phone begins to ring.
“Shit,” you curse, and then immediately apologize to Graham. You press the red button and tap anxiously on the tabletop.
“Everything okay?” Mark asks.
You run your hands over your hair and let them rest on the back of your neck. “Yeah is just—“
The phone rings again, and this time you pick it up. “What do you want? ... Why would you tell me that? ... Why should I care? ... Please stop contacting me, okay? Goodbye.”
You slam the phone down and leave the room. Mark watches you disappear down the hallway, sniffling.
“Mommy is upset,” Graham says. He looks at Mark, lip quivering. “At me?”
“No, Buddy! Of course not!” Mark reaches over the table to ruffle Graham’s curls. “Never at you.”
“When we tore up paper, she was crying.” Graham fiddles with his book page.
Mark wonders why your ex’s actions are being brought up five years later. Last he heard, you had fully healed from the breakup long before Graham’s first birthday. But now he’s about to be six, and you're suddenly upset?
He’ll have to ask you about it soon.
“Are you ready to go to school, Buddy?”
“Yeah!”
-
You cradle your face in your hands and try to ease the tears back in. You’ll never get this article proofread and sent if you can’t see the keys.
The door opens, and Graham runs in just in time for you to finish wiping your eyes. “Hey, kiddo! How was school?”
“Mr. Lee let us finger paint!” Graham holds up his palm, covered in dried paint, and grins brightly. “Can I have gogurt?”
“Yeah bud. Why don’t you put something on the T.V.? You can have your snack in the living room today.”
“Yes!” Graham takes blueberry gogurt out of the fridge and — after getting you to tear it open — runs into the living room. Sneakers and backpack still on.
Mark trails behind, clutching a messenger bag to his chest. “What’s going on?”
You sigh and close the laptop. The manuscript will have to wait. “Ben called. About a week ago. His girlfriend is pregnant. Called me to tell me he wasn’t going to leave her— like that would heal what he did to me. Then he called this morning to tell me they’re engaged.” You burst into tears then, and you feel so pathetic for doing this in front of your old schoolmate, that you hide your face behind your palms and allow your shoulders to shake. “Why weren’t we enough? Why wasn’t I enough?”
Mark scoots one of the chairs in front of you and sits, leaning his elbows on his knees. “Hey. Look at me.” With gentle hands, he grabs your wrists and pulls them away from your face. “It is not your fault he left.”
“But it has to be me in some way,” you retort. “He must not have loved me. Something, because now he’s going to raise her child after he left mine. Graham deserves a dad.”
Mark places his forehead against yours. The two of you used to do it all the time in school, mostly with immature giggles in the spaces between, but now it’s heavy with intention. “Graham has not felt even a little bit unloved in your care. You are all he needs, okay? You’re amazing.”
You nod, head still pressed to Mark’s. “Yeah. Okay. Sorry for getting too emotional, there.”
“Be as emotional as you want,” Mark says. “I’ll be here to balance you out.”
Your heart stutters at the words, like maybe they mean something more than he’s letting on. Of course it’s stupid to think Mark Lee would ever even consider you, but just the knowledge that he cares makes your soul feel a little lighter.
“I’m a mess,” you stutter, bringing your fist up to wipe at your nose.
“Nah,” Mark grins. He runs the pad of his thumb across your cheek and grins. “You’re alright.”
-
“It’s snowing!” Graham wakes Mark up by jumping on his chest.
Mark sucks in a breath, winded at the sudden weight, and grabs the boy, lifting him off of his chest and onto the mattress. “Hey, Buddy. Let’s not jump on sleeping people, okay?”
“Okay,” Graham says. He’s already lost interest in Mark, now crawling off of the bed to open the blinds. “Come look at the snow!”
“I see!” Mark rubs his tired eyes and checks his watch. “We might have a snow day, Graham.”
“Yes!” Graham pumps his fist into the air. “Let’s go tell mom!”
You’re sitting on your bed, chewing on a red licorice rope and flipping through a fashion magazine. You look up when Mark and Graham enter.
Mark likes seeing you like this: the domesticity of you in the morning, lazy and true. His chest sparks when he thinks this may be one of the only moments he can capture you like this, so he intends to commit the sight to memory.
“Did I hear snow day?” You grin at Mark, childlike wit in your own eyes — the same as your son’s.
“Looks like it.” Mark rolls up the sleeves of the sweater he slept in. “You want pancakes? I make some mean chocolate chip pancakes.”
You shift your gaze away from his arms and clear your throat. “Uh, yeah. Just let me get dressed and I’ll help—“
“No need,” Mark insists. “Enjoy your quiet time. Graham and I will make the most delicious pancakes you’ve ever tasted.”
“With lots of chocolate chips!” Graham shouts.
You give him a pointed look. “But not too many.”
Graham huffs. “But not too many,” he repeats.
-
Momentary splashes sound from your bathroom, followed by Graham screaming “It’s a dragon! Run for cover!”
Mark giggles from his place on the couch. He’s got mushroom-patterned socks on, and he’s tucked up into the cushions, nursing a can of Monster. “How does he still have so much energy?”
You sigh and pull your beanie down over your forehead. “You’d think a snow day would tire him out. Thanks for constantly carrying him up the hill, by the way. I know you’re a teacher, but sometimes I forget how good you are with kids.”
“I do have a godson,” Mark reminds you.
“But Mikey is a baby,” you say. You only know the baby’s name because of Mark’s constant snap stories about him.
“Most babies and kids want the same thing. Affection and attention.” Mark scoots over to the edge of the couch and pats the cushion.
You sit next to him. “I guess that’s true. You’re really good with Graham. He’s not this open to other adults.”
Mark is clearly blushing now; you can see his pink cheeks even in the light of the television. “He’s great in class, always helping the other kids.”
“He wants to impress you,” you say. You pop open a can of orange soda and take a sip. “He thinks you’re just the coolest guy.”
Mark laughs and shakes his head. “Didn’t you hear, Y/n? I’m handsome and cool.”
“Oh, of course,” you nudge his shin with our own sock-clad foot. “How could I forget? Mr. Ladies Man in high school.”
This makes Mark blush even harder, because he most certainly was not a ladies man in high school. In fact, he was a nerd in all senses of the word, part of the debate club with a few other boys. He had a few dates here and there, but nothing ever stuck.
“Shut up,” he mumbles. “My time is gonna come.”
“Hasn’t it already?” you ask before you can really process your own words. But of course he knows that he’s grown into his face, right?
Mark is positively handsome, eyes bright and lashes long. He’s so warm and comforting to you. He must be just as comforting to everyone else.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re handsome, Mark,” you say plainly.
“You mean that?”
“Of course I do,” you say. “Why would I lie?”
Mark opens his mouth, perhaps to call you out. To tell you you’ve been too honest, but he’s interrupted by your son.
“Mom! I’m ready to get out now!”
“I should go,” you say, still looking at his eyes.
“Yeah,” he says. His sweater has small spots on the shoulders where snow has fallen and since melted. He shivers.
“You should take a shower. You’ll catch a cold.”
“Okay,” he whispers. “Yeah, I’ll do that.”
-
Haechan comes over the following Saturday night to hang out with Mark, and you’re surprised at how much he truly hasn’t changed since high school.
He’s still got infamously perfect eyebrows, and his voice is still high despite its blunt sarcasm. “Nice place.” He raises his brows as he looks around.
“Who are you?” Graham is sitting at the kitchen table, watching Minecraft playthroughs (kid-friendly ones you’ve watched through yourself) on your phone to entertain himself while you clean.
“I’m Haechan, Mark’s friend.”
“This is Mr. Lee’s friend from school,” you say, detailing your words so they’re easier for your son to digest.
Graham stares at him for a moment, not quite judging but not quite accepting either. “Okay. Do you want to see my rock collection?”
Haechan looks genuinely excited, and accepts before you can come up with an excuse for him. Graham tells Haechan to stay in the kitchen while he grabs all of his rocks.
“How have you been?” you ask the taller man. “Like, with the flooding and everything?”
“Well, I’m on a couch at Taeyong’s, which is good since he doesn’t charge rent. But that means I’m near Mikey, and that baby has some lungs.”
You laugh. “I remember when Graham was a baby. I was so young, and my mom told me it was my responsibility to wake up and take care of him whenever he cried in the middle of the night. I was so pissed at her for making me do that, but those were some of the best nights to bond with him.” You realize you’re rambling and shake your head. “Whatever. Baby screams are loud as hell.”
“You can say that again. I’ve been talking to my friend Johnny about taking his spare room and paying rent. I dunno how many more sleepless nights I can take.”
“Why would you need to pay rent if you’re just crashing?” You wipe down the kitchen table to keep yourself busy.
“Didn’t Mark tell you? Our landlord is in heaps of trouble because the pipes weren’t up to code and that’s why they busted. The damage is basically too expensive to fix, so we’ve got to find new places.”
You stop cleaning. “Mark didn’t tell me that.”
“Oh.” Haechan scratches his brow. “He probably didn’t want to worry you. He feels really bad that he’s stayed with you this long.”
“It’s only been a month or so,” you counter. “Besides, Mark’s a great housemate. He cleans and keeps Graham occupied. Plus, now I have someone to watch corny game shows with.”
Haechan grins. “Oh. Okay, I get it.”
“Get what?” Mark, finally out of the shower, steps into the kitchen and immediately tackles Haechan in an energized hug.
“Nothing!” Haechan’s voice cracks
You shoot Haechan a weird look, and change the subject. “Where are you guys going?”
“To play video games at Johnny’s.” Mark says, and the thrill in his voice makes you think of high school. Of the debate team bus rounding the corner. Of you standing there, waiting to congratulate him with a big hug and a frosty from Wendy’s.
You miss it. “Have fun, okay? I’m probably going to tuck in as soon as Graham does, so just let yourself in.”
“You’re leaving?” Graham comes in, and his arms are filled with smooth and rough stones and gems he’s both found by himself and bought at random general stores while traveling.
“Not before I see your rocks!” Haechan says with so much enthusiasm, you think he’s telling the truth.
Graham giggles and drops the rocks onto the ground. Of course, he wants your guest to sit on the floor and count rocks. You’re almost embarrassed.
“ ‘ Okay, Y/n?” Mark laughs at your expression. Then he places his arm on your shoulder, thumbs the skin of your upper arm.
And once again, it’s high school. It’s senior year graduation and Mark is the only one who congratulates you. It’s his comforting touch, him coming over in the middle of the night after you texted him a picture of your first sonogram. It’s that same comforting touch. That little “I’m here,” and it melts you on the inside, leaves you in the shell of an eighteen girl again. Scared, and worried, and a little less alone.
“Yeah,” you manage. “I’m okay.”
-
The television plays Cartoon Network reruns on a low hum. Mark is curled up in a blanket, nursing a bottle of water and thinking over Haechan’s words.
You’ve liked her since high school, dude.
Which is a complete lie. Seriously, Mark didn’t have a crush on you in high school. He would know if he had a crush on his best friend. You’ve been his friend since freshman year, and that’s all you’ve ever been.
Now in college, it was different. In college, Mark was alone in a dorm with Taeyong, and you were one of the only people from high school he stayed in contact with. In college, he would bring you your favorite snacks and drinks, and other things you would forget to buy because you were a part-time student and a full-time mom. In college, you would pull all-nighters with him, working on your exams while Graham was asleep, then using energy drinks to get through the next day.
Mark even remembers the time your mom caught the three of you fast asleep on your rug, with unopened monster cans and an empty milk bottle beside you.
Throughout your entire pregnancy he was warned not to stay friends with the pregnant girl — it’d be too much for him, he wouldn’t want to become the new father, and all kinds of other stuff people would mumble to him when you weren’t around.
But you never expected him to be anything other than your friend. You never asked him for the help he gave — though you thanked him always — and you never once assumed he’d take the role of Graham’s dad.
And now… now he finds himself wishing you would.
“Mr. Lee?” Graham creeps up without him even realizing.
Mark jumps, sets his water — and thoughts — aside. “Hey, Bud. It’s really late. What are you doing up?”
Graham sniffs, and Mark realizes that the boy is crying. “I had a nightmare.”
Mark holds out his arms before he can think, and lets the five-year-old crawl into his lap. He wraps them both in his blanket and turns the television up just a little more. “Was it scary?”
“You left.” Graham says, voice less watery, like he doesn’t know the weight of his words. He’s focused on the rerun of Adventure Time that’s playing. He’s not even remotely interested in his nightmare now, with his tears dried up, and his eyes drooping back towards slumber.
“I’m going to leave one day,” Mark says, because he thinks it’s important that Graham knows.
“You should stay with me and Mom,” Graham says. He yawns. “We like you so much!”
Mark’s heart stutters. He tries not to think about it.
-
When Graham’s bed is empty the next morning, you freak out. He’s always in his room in the morning. Even if he wakes up before you, he stays in and plays with his toys.
You’ve already got your phone out, and your mother’s number called, when you walk into the living room.
Relief floods your system. Mark and Graham are asleep on the couch, snuggled up serenely like they didn’t just cause you to have a premature heart attack.
You hang up before the call to your mom can go through and stand there, watching the two boys sleep. Graham has both his arms wrapped around Mark’s forearm. It’s such a sweet picture that you take out your phone and snap one.
The flash is on.
Mark scrunches his nose and winces. “What the–”
“Sorry!” You whisper. “You both looked so cute, I couldn’t help it.”
Mark smiles, still sleepy, and finally opens his eyes. He peers at you, copper brown under fluttering lashes and you’re almost intimidated into looking away. “He had a nightmare.”
“Oh?”
“About me leaving.”
“Oh.” You frown. “I’m really sorry about that. I keep telling him that you’re moving out soon, but I don’t think he fully understands.”
Graham stirs. You reach down and pick him up. Your knuckles brush across Mark’s warm, sweater-clad chest and you suddenly wish you could cuddle with him, too. You shake the thoughts away and focus on your drowsy son. “You’re staying at Grandma's for a few days, remember?”
Graham rubs his eyes and perks up. “And I’ll see her cat?”
“Yes,” you confirm. “But we’ve got to get you dressed because she’s coming in a few minutes.”
-
“Mark Lee!” Your mom’s voice embarrassingly rings through the apartment, and you realize Mark has taken it upon himself to open the door. “Y/n told me she had a temporary roommate but I never thought she would finally ask you!”
“Oh my gosh…” you mumble, buckling Graham’s overalls and hauling him up into your arms. “Mom! His apartment flooded so he’s staying here. Don’t be weird about it.”
“But he’s so handsome,” your mom coos. You’re concerned she might reach forward and pinch Mark’s already ruddy cheeks.
“Thanks,” Mark laughs. “But she’s right, I’m just squatting until I can find a new place.”
Your mom harrumphs. “Well, I don’t see why you can’t stay here forever. Y/n doesn’t even use that office room. And even if she did, the two of you could just share a room.”
“Mom!” You plunk Graham into her hands and grab his overnight bag. “You have to leave.”
“Did I say something wrong?” She sounds worried, but there’s an undisclosed mirth in her eyes that makes you think of your freshman year, when you did have a crush on Mark.
“You said everything wrong,” you say, kindly pushing her out. “Have a good time, Graham. I love you! As always, Mom, call if you need me to come get him.”
“Yeah, right!” She yells over her shoulder. Graham is already giggling, so you close the door with confidence.
You turn back to your roommate. “I’m sorry about that, Mark.”
“It’s fine.” He smiles, but it’s reserved. “But speaking of me finding a place… I know Haechan told you that I can’t go back to my own apartment. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”
“It’s okay,” you say. You want to say “You can stay here as long as you want, and long as you’ll let me keep you,” but that would reveal too much, and you don’t want to lose the one good friend you have.
“And I was thinking I should move out soon anyway.” Mark pulls his sweater sleeves until they cover his hands. He’s hiding. He’s shielding himself the same way he did in junior year, when he got turned down by his crush to go to the prom. “I don’t think it’s good for Graham to get this attached to me if I’m just going to leave.”
“Oh,” Your sleeves are too short, but you want to shield yourself too. “Yeah, that’s… that’s probably a good idea.”
Mark stands there for a beat, like he’s waiting for you to say something more. Like he hasn’t just taken your heart and pushed it aside. Like this hurts a lot less than it actually does.
But any word out of your mouth would be tearful. It would be honest. It would ruin everything. “I’m going to go on a run.”
-
There’s a cricket outside that won’t stop chirping against your window. You blame it for your insomnia, choosing to ignore the anxiety of eventually losing Mark. It feels so horribly childish, since you’ll see him when you drop Graham off at school. And you’ll see him whenever the two of you go out for coffee on weekends.
But you won’t see him in the kitchen, reaching for the pancake mix so his shirt rises up and you can see the dimples in his back. You won’t see him humming along to the radio while he works on his lesson plans. You won’t feel his warmth when the two of you stay awake, nursing spiked lemonade and giggling at the commentary videos you find on YouTube.
He’ll just be Mark again. He won’t be home anymore.
Startled by the realization, you get out of your covers and rush to your door.
It opens before you can even reach for the doorknob, and there’s Mark in his pajamas, biting his lip and avoiding your eyes.
“I don’t want you to leave,” you say.
Mark confesses, “I love you.”
You open your arms and he dives in, face pressed into the space where your neck meets your shoulder. Warmth envelopes you and the scent of pine fills your nose.
Mark is timeless. Youthful glory and childish pride. He’s a pinch on the side and a push on the swings. Like a rock that actually skips on the first try. Like shoes that you can slip on when they’re still tied. And he’s here, in your arms, squeezing you like you’re something valuable enough to lose. He’s confessing love like you aren’t the worst possible candidate for his heart.
“I can’t offer you much,” you start, but Mark bumps his forehead against yours, boyish and playful — football fields and bright red lockers and secret notes on bathroom walls.
“I’ve known you for years, Y/n,” Mark’s voice is a low rumble. Copper eyes blinking at you like you’re something to second glance at. “I know what I’m getting into. I want you. I want Graham. I want everything this is, and everything we’ve been for the past month. I don’t want this to end.”
You close your eyes, because his are too honest. He’s open and vulnerable and gentle — a child on the first day of school, ready to make friends. You take a deep breath, try to remember what you were like on your first day. Rosy cheeks and shy glances. Knobby knees and a trusting heart. You reach out for whoever you once were — the Y/n with a heart open and willing to be loved. “I don’t want this to end either. I’m in love with you, Mark.”
His grin lights up your world in its entirety. Gold flecks in onyx black disappear as he smiles, too thrilled to keep his eyes open. And when he kisses you, warm lips against cold ones, you feel like a puzzle has just slotted into place.
It would only make sense that you would grow to love the boy you grew up with.
summary: if there’s something left to be learned, then my time is running. why would i waste it all, wasted on you?
words: 2.3k+
category: librarian!renjun x tutor!reader, fem!presenting!reader, adventure au, a bit meta, what’s going on idk ur guess is as good as mine, some sections are written better than others, reader is a tutor for prince jaemin, this sucks so bad i’m so sorry.
note: this was a commission for @yrb-reads who donated to a charity of their choice. thank you :) i’m terribly sorry it took so long and it's definitely not up to par the way it should be. if you want something else written to make up for it let me know. there was depression, full time job, and a death in the family i would like to blame, but i should’ve prioritized this story more for you, and for that i’m sorry. thank you so much for donating, and i hope this serves as a holiday gift for you. again, sorry about the short length
To Renjun, libraries feel like home. Especially the castle’s library, located just west of the kitchen; a hidden gem unknown to most people. Really, only known to Prince Jaemin and Renjun, if he really thought about it. Perhaps a few tutors and scholars as well.
But these factors don’t make it home. Instead, it is the wooden walls of thick cedar trunks, built long before the castle walls were put up; when the builders didn’t have the heart to tear such a piece of architecture down. It’s the way it smells like a forest at all times, and how the inside walls are chipped and falling onto the bare floor. It is the large shelves, made just decades ago, crammed up against each other and overflowing with the royal family’s books. Each piece of literature is practically an heirloom, save the small shelf in the corner where the prince hides his new romance novels he gets delivered straight from the village of Rubin.
The library feels like a bridge between the kingdom and the village. Inside these four walls, wooden and chipped, Rubin feels like one entity, undivided by classes or rank.
It also happens to be the one place Renjun is allowed to hang his paintings.
Ever since he was younger, it has been Renjun’s dream to be a portrait artist. To be able to place his thumbprint in Rubin’s history by painting the royal family or a few important nobles, is all he has ever wanted. But the King and Queen prefer a man of nobility to do the work, so Renjun was shot down. Since he sold everything he had to come and shoot for his dream, the royal family had offered him a pity job.
Correction: Prince Jaemin had begged his parents not to turn Renjun away empty-handed and convinced them to let him earn his pay here in the castle.
Prince Jaemin does a lot for Renjun. He had introduced him to his friend and closest servant, Donghyuck, who has a sharp tongue but no real malice to back up anything he ever said. Renjun had moved in with him, and used his side of the house as his painting room. Donghyuck barely even complains about the scent of oil paint anymore.
Prince Jaemin also got him his current job as a bookbinder. Which, in itself, is a very lonely and tedious job. Perfect for a boy like Renjun who only wants to work with no outside distractions. Aside from his friends in the castle, that is. Or the prince’s tutor, who comes in for study material.
Most importantly, Prince Jaemin lets Renjun hang up his portraits in the library. He had said that they deserved to be hung up, even if it couldn’t be hung up in the royal hall. Renjun had nearly burst into tears in front of the hyperactive prince.
They had met during a touchy time in the prince’s life. He had just returned to the castle after a trip to the village. There, he was hiding from potential assassins, but for some reason, the prince seemed more upset about coming back.
It was in the quiet of that library that Jaemin let Renjun, a complete stranger at the time, in on the secret that he was in love with a girl from the village. For the young artist, it wasn’t hard to imagine. Prince Jaemin was known for his free spirit and hyperactive personality. There was no way he could become attached to a noble raised under discipline.
Of course the prince was raised under the highest of discipline, but he somehow found a way to rebel against it all and stay true to himself, even if it meant hiding the portraits he liked the best in a forgotten library, or befriending the healer and servant of the castle instead of the lords.
He was wonderful, and Renjun couldn’t wait for him to be king.
The library was home because Prince Jaemin made it home. He had crafted a place between the castle and the village — a place of seclusion — just for Renjun and his thoughts.
-
“I just want them to listen to me,” Jaemin moans, dropping his chin onto his open romance book. “I’ve been asking them for almost a year and a half to let me go back to the village, but they refuse to listen to me.”
Renjun hums non-committedly. “Chin up, please. I’m not finished.”
Jaemin glares at Renjun through his eyelashes but obliges, a pout still evident on his face. He returns to his casual pose of leaning his cheek against his fist and turning the pages of his book. “Anyway, I really want to go back to the village.”
“I know,” Renjun sighs and dips the tip of his paintbrush into the copper-colored paint he had mixed. “Right now, you have to obey them. You may be the prince but obviously they’re the king and queen.”
“I’m about to be nineteen,” Jaemin mumbles angrily.
“And when your coronation arrives, you’ll have more freedom to do things like visit the village.”
“Her grandmother died, you know,” Jaemin says, morose. “I could’ve been there for the funeral, at least.”
Renjun grabs a slimmer paintbrush and begins to note the details of Jaemin’s face. “I know, Your Highness. But if she’s anything like you’ve told me, then I’m sure she understands.”
Jaemin bites his lip and looks at the book sadly. “I just miss her.”
“It’s your duty to stay here. I’m sure she realizes that.”
Jaemin rolls his eyes, albeit sadly, and goes back to posing.
“Your Highness! I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” Renjun’s brush shakes slightly as his mind registers the new voice. It is Jaemin’s tutor. You, a servant the same age as the prince, seem to be the only one he will actually listen to. Perhaps because you entertain his many ideas. Perhaps because Renjun had begged him to keep you around.
Because you not only entertained Jaemin’s ideas, you also praised Renjun’s art. You are a no-nonsense tutor, but as a friend, you have had neverending praise and encouragement to the two boys.
Renjun longs to be around you as much as Jaemin is. In fact, you are the only real reason Renjun finds himself being jealous of the prince. He often wonders how Jaemin could even think about a villager he only knew for a week, when you are right there beside him, every day.
Just the blossom of your smile could make Renjun’s mind freeze in all it’s concerns. Suddenly, the portrait in front of him means little to nothing, and all he could really think about was how many different shades of pink and brown he’d have to mix before he matched the color of your lips. “Hello, Y/n.”
“Good day,” you greet, bowing slightly. “What are you painting today?”
Renjun almost forgets to breathe when you walk toward him and lean your head over his shoulder to inspect his art. He can smell the amber musk on your collarbones and feel your soft hair tickle his cheek. “J-Jaemin.”
“You always paint him,” you murmur, almost in boredom. “Say, do you do favors?”
“Come again?”
“Like, if I paid you, would you draw a portrait of me? I think my mother would really like it— she’s always asking me to get a portrait done.”
Renjun feels his tongue rest heavy in his mouth. Before he can speak, Jaemin grabs your arm. “He can do it! Now let’s get to my lessons!”
And that was that on that.
-
The stream trickles loudly, leaping down and over the rock formations and falling into the pool with grace. This is where Renjun comes to find inspiration. It’s also where he comes to practice his art.
It’d be nice to do it into the library, but Renjun knows that he would abandon all his actual duties — the ones that he gets paid to do.
He eyes his oil paints, color coordinated from lightest to darkest shade. He dips his brush in pure white, to lay a foundation coat atop his canvas.
Truth be told, he could paint you from memory. But if he told you that, he’d have to admit to his crush on you, and that’s far too embarrassing. No, thank you.
Renjun takes off his sandals and plants his feet on the soft grass. The blades tickle his toes, so he tries to relax his muscles. He has the canvas stretched out on his knees, which is a bit unconventional, but it works. He looks up at the afternoon sun; his straw hat scrapes the trunk of the tree he’s leaning against.
“Sorry I’m late. Jaemin needed help with Latin...” You wander in and trail off, looking at the pool in wonder. “This is beautiful.”
You’re dressed in silver shades — Renjun wonders if you intentionally made yourself look extra beautiful, or if that’s you, in the reflection of the water. He clears his mind and his throat. “I figured It’d be a nice background for a portrait.”
“How do you want me posed?” Your lips are upturned, soft, and Renjun starts a mental list on how to keep you smiling.
“Whatever you’re comfortable with,” Renjun hurries. “We’ll be here for an hour or so each session until it’s finished.”
You sit in the grass, atop your knees, and smooth out any wrinkles in your garments. “My Mother is going to be so thrilled, Renjun. Thank you so much for doing this.”
His tongue feels heavy at the compliment, so he settles for a simple nod. The foundation coat is still drying, so Renjun pulls his sketchbook and a pencil out of his bag. “Do you mind if I start with a few sketches?”
“Of course not,” you say. Your eyes clip to his, bright and clear, and Renjun thinks this is going to be a lot harder than he initially thought.
(The next session, Renjun is so focused on getting the outline of your back right that he doesn’t even notice you moving towards him.
“You’ve got paint on your brow,” you say.
Renjun reflexively wipes at his face, feeling himself blush at your observation. “Is it gone?”
You grin — looking straight at him — and reach up. Gently, you use the pad of your thumb to scrub off the paint. “Now it is.”
Renjun thinks he’d rather melt into the floor than finish the rest of this session.)
-
Renjun threads the spine of his latest project: scribe records from the recent knighting tournament and ceremony. Even as he pulls the last thread tight, his finger raw and screaming, he’s thankful that he wasn’t the one editing these records.
Jaemin hasn’t been to the library in awhile. His current betrothement has him in a frenzied mindset, and Renjun is sure he has more important things to do than hang out with his friends.
Still, he misses the company.
He sets the glue along the spine and aligns the pages with the leather backing. He’s so busy focusing on making sure the lines are straight that he doesn’t notice someone walk into the library. “Hello, Renjun.”
Renjun jumps, and the spine of the book misaligns. He leaves it on his table, and when he turns around, you’re there smiling at him. “Hey, Y/n. I didn’t know you tutored Jaemin today.”
”I don’t,” you admit. A bashful look overtakes your face and you focus on one of the books in Renjun’s return pile. “I wanted to thank you for the portrait. My mother loved it.”
“I’m glad!” Renjun says, brightening up. He notices that you still look rather distant. “Is something wrong?”
”it’s just...” you bite your lip. “Do, um, do I really look like that?”
Renjun wants to ask what you mean. But he sort of knows. “Your portrait? Is it not to your likeness?”
You furrow your brows. “I just... You made me look very beautiful.”
“You are very beautiful,” Renjun replies, voice low and steady. “Surely, you know that.”
Embarrassment paints your face and you shrug. “I dunno...”
“I know,” Renjun says, surety building in his voice. “Whether you believe it or not, it’s a fact that you are very beautiful. I hope my painting portrayed even an inch of your beauty.”
You look aghast at his words, mouth open in shock. “Are you… Are you serious?”
Renjun stares at the way your lips look, pursed in confusion. “Why on earth would I lie to you?”
“I don’t mean to insult your integrity,” you say, eyes wide. “It’s just that no one has ever been so upfront with me.”
This is it, Renjun thinks. This is my chance to confess. He takes a deep breath, steps closer to you. Toe to toe, so that your chest is brushing against his. And the outside air lessens it’s chill, so that Renjun is sure he’s sweating, nervous and hot and wanting.
His luck hasn’t run out yet. “Can I be upfront again?”
Your breath hitches, leaving Renjun’s own words isolated, suspended in the air between you. “Yes,” you finally say, honeyed lips nearly brushing his own.
“I’m in love with you,” Renjun allows himself to say. “And I want to kiss you. Selfishly.”
“Then do so.”
Your lips are honeyed; candied peonies against his own cruel briars and thorns. Renjun wonders if he’s good enough for you. If book binding and tutoring go hand in hand. If he’ll be stuck forever in the royal library, giving you books to read to the prince. He wonders if this is the life of a peasant, always one step behind the nobles.
Two people in service to a prince can never truly serve each other.
But Renjun doesn’t hold on to that thought. Instead, he surges forward, holds your body like it’s falling, kissing your mouth and your chin and your neck and your skin and—
“Hey,” you cup his face in his hands. “This isn’t the last time you’ll have me. There’s no need to be urgent.”
So he slows down. Gentle touches and warm gazes. Tastes you as much as touches you. All lips and no teeth. Memorized the palm of your hand against his jaw.
category: jaehyun x gender neutral reader unless i slipped up, in which pls tell me so i can fix it, coworker au, fake dating au, fluff, jaehyun wears sweaters, pillow fights, mistletoe (but not in the way you’d expect), jaehyun sees reader holding a baby and short circuits, this is the softest thing i’ve ever written and i’m proud of it
warning(s): christmas is explicitly mentioned as opposed to any other holiday, this is based off of a more southern/american style christmas that i’m used to, some drinking but no one gets drunk
When your co-worker, Jaehyun, approaches you a day before winter break, you think little of it. The two of you are the only teachers in the school less than forty years old, so you often hang out together.
You figure he'll wish you a gentle happy holidays in that soft voice of his, and be on his way.
Instead, he looks nervous, wringing his beanie through his fingers. "Heading out?"
"Yeah," you sigh. "Two full weeks of no pay, and all of my family has planned a Christmas in the Bahamas without me."
Jaehyun whistles lowly. "That sounds a bit..."
"Sad?" you stuff your books into your box. "Yeah, but it's whatever. I'll find something to do."
"You could come home with me," Jaehyun says. "I mean, my family thought I was bringing a significant other anyway, so it kind of works out."
"Huh?" You glance up at the fellow teacher in his stupid teddy bear cardigan. It makes him look soft and cozy. "What works out?"
"I need you to pretend to be dating me during break."
"Why?" you ask. The only reason you aren't more surprised is the fact that Jaehyun is always using weird anecdotes to get out of things, and you assume this is nothing different.
"Like I said, my parents think I'm bring home a significant other."
"Why don't you just tell them you don't have one?" you ask.
Jaehyun pokes at the miniature globe on your desk. "If I told them that, they'd try to hook me up with one of their picks. Listen, when I lied to them, I didn't think they'd insist I bring my significant other to family functions."
"That's kind of what happens when you're dating someone," you say. "Anyways, so what? I pretend to be dating you, and in return I get free food and board for the holidays?"
"My mom will buy you a present," Jaehyun adds on.
You hand Jaehyun your box of things you have to take home during break. "Here. Carry this to my car, and you have a deal."
(It's only on the way to his parent's house when you realize that you might have to buy all of his family presents, too. When you voice these concerns to Jaehyun, he reaches over the console and pats your knee. "Not to worry. I just put our names on everything.")
-
Jaehyun's mother's hugs are a lot like Jaehyun's. She squeezes you tightly, as if she's a boa constrictor and you are merely the innocent prey.
Jaehyun doesn't save you either, he just giggles at your disheveled appearance and fixes your hair. "Mom likes hugs."
"Oh, so do you," Mrs. Jung swats at Jaehyun's arm. "Anyways, tell me about the two of you."
"Oh!" You clear your throat and move closer to Jaehyun. You actually have no idea what he's told them about you, and you also didn't make up a cover story, so you're a bit out of luck.
Luckily, Jaehyun lies like a politician. He wraps his arm around your waist and laughs. It's fake, you know, but his mom seems to believe it. "We're at the same school, mom. I've told you about Y/n before."
"Oh! The third grade teacher?" Mrs. Jung finally makes the connection. She turns to you. "He used to gush about you all the time. I never realized you're the one he asked out."
Jaehyun's grip on you tightens just briefly, so you figure Mrs. Jung has said just a bit too much. Still, you have to play into the facade, so you lean into him. "I gushed about him a fair bit, too. And then one night I asked him out, and he said yes."
"Oh, you asked him out?" Mrs. Jung's eyes sparkle with interest. She has the same adorable dimples as her son.
"Only because he was too cowardly to do anything about his massive crush on me."
Jaehyun snorts. "Yeah, right. We both know I'm braver than you."
You turn to face him, eyes narrowed as he steels you with his cocky gaze. "Oh yeah?" You say, eyes drifting down to his lips, curled into an attractive smirk. "Prove it."
You see the moment Jaehyun short circuits. You see it as clear as day, the way he loosens his grip and opens his mouth, but no words come out.
His mom snickers. "I think Y/n is braver, Jaehyun."
Jaehyun can only sulk as he shows you to his room.
-
Mrs. Jung told you to take a nap to recover from the traveling, since the actually holiday festivities don't begin until everyone arrives tomorrow. Since you and Jaehyun are early, you get the privilege of extra sleep.
Jaehyun eyes his full-sized bed from his college days. His room is now a guest room, since he hasn't lived at home in years. But it's still got traces of him in it, like the baseball trophies from college (you try not to think of Jaehyun in a baseball uniform), or his high school diploma framed over the bathroom door.
You pull back the green-striped sheets. "I am not going to disobey your mom. I'm going to sleep."
"Ditto," Jaehyun says. He heads over to the window and drops the drapes so that the room is coated in darkness despite the afternoon sun still outside. "I'll take the floor."
"Why?" You ask, and you're already burrowed under his covers in your lounge-wear.
Jaehyun's eyes drop to your thin tank top before he looks away. His ears are a suspicious shade of pink. "I mean... wouldn't it be weird to share a bed?"
"Are you going to pull a move on me while I'm trying to sleep?" Your blunt question sends Jaehyun into a fit of coughing, which causes you to laugh out loud.
He glares at you and shuffles over to the other side of his bed. "I hate you."
"You can't hate me; you're my boyfriend," you mock.
Jaehyun tackles you then, covering your body with his own as you giggle in shock. "You're so annoying. I should've taken someone else."
"Right," you fight back, grabbing his arms and pushing him up until he's just straddling your waist, holding onto your hands. "Who would you ask? Meredith, the secretary?"
"Her red hair is pretty sexy," Jaehyun says as if HES thought about it before."
"She's like, fifty," you laugh.
"Or Taeyong from high school math," Jaehyun says. "He's cute."
"Honestly? Yeah." You let go of his hands and glance up at the ceiling. "If Taeyong had asked me, this entire day would've gone so differently."
"Oh, shut up," Jaehyun grabs his pillow and gently shoves you with it. "You can't even look him in the eyes."
"Neither can you!" You protest, voice muffled beneath his pillow.
"It's not my fault he's cute!"
"It's not my fault either!"
Jaehyun lifts the pillow and raises his eyebrows at you, causing you to laugh.
"Are we arguing over Taeyong from high school math?"
"Who doesn't even know we exist?" Jaehyun answers. "Yes, I do believe we are."
"You're heavy," you grunt. You attempt to push Jaehyun off of you, but in seeing your discomfort, it only spurs him to place his full dead weight on top of you.
"Goodnight," he says, voice right beside your ear.
You know he's teasing you, because the two of you are pretty close and it's not weird. Still, you can't help but like the feeling of him being so close to you, even if it isn't as intimate as you'd like.
You sigh; give up. "Goodnight, Jaehyun."
-
Jaehyun's family is wild. His uncle (from England, apparently) brings stories about his weekly bar crawls. He also brings Christmas crackers, and you and Jaehyun steal a few extra when no one is looking, if just to get a few extra goodies.
And so explains the paper crown atop Jaehyun's head, nestled within his chocolate curls.
He looks adorable as always, but more radiantly so, and you wonder if it's his family that brings this out in him, or the mulled wine.
I want to kiss him, you think, and it's not the thought that scares you. He's an attractive man, and it's been bound to cross your every now and again.
What scares you is the thought that comes after. I could fall in love with him.
And you really aren't sure if it's the wine in your own belly, or the disorienting sound of Mrs. Jung's staticky radio, playing a distorted version of Santa Claus is Coming to Town.
However, Jaehyun has been holding your hand the entire day, absentminded rubbing his thumb across your knuckles. It shouldn't make your heart beat faster because it's all a show, but you find yourself playing into the facade, if just to make it last a little longer.
Jaehyun and you are sharing an armchair while the children beg the adults to let them open their gifts already. You've got your head on Jaehyun's chest, and he's covering you with a gaudy reindeer-themed blanket.
It's then when the door opens, and a woman and man walk in, the man holding a baby in his arms.
"Jina!" Jaehyun shouts. "Henry! Erin!" Then he whispers to you. "That's my sister and her husband. And their little baby," he says softly.
Erin is around one or two years old, and she seems in good spirits despite the bow tightly clipped to what little hair she has.
You get up so Jaehyun can hug his sister, and when she sees you, she gives you a hug as well. "You're the Y/n Jaehyun has told me so much about."
Jaehyun's ears go red again, and he ignores Jina's statement in lue of showing her to the presents around the tree. "Thank God you're finally here. I think the kids were going to riot if they couldn't open any presents yet."
Jaehyun settles back down with you, and you remind yourself to ask him why his family seem to already know about you.
But then the kids open whoopee cushions from Uncle Jaehyun, and all is forgotten as they begin to force everyone to sit on top of them.
-
Jaehyun truly thinks he's going to go insane. In retrospect, perhaps asking the person he's had a year-long crush on to be his fake date wasn't the best idea, but it was his only option.
And now he likes you even more, as you make an effort to get to know his family.
You don't have to, but you're wearing the sweater his mom bought for you, and you've got a stupid paper crown on your head that perfectly matches his.
And when Jaehyun rounds the counter to make some hit chocolate for the two of you, he watches you approach his brother-in-law and ask to hold baby Erin.
And now Jaehyun is truly going crazy, because you've got a baby on your hip and you're dancing to the staticky radio, singing in goofy voices with Jaehyun's younger cousins.
And he knows, knows he's in love with you.
He hopes to God this isn't a one time thing.
-
Your head feels a bit fuzzy when everyone is sent off to bed.
Jaehyun grabs your hand and pulls you into his room. "Come on. Anyone who survives a day with my family deserves a prize."
You're not sure where he had hidden it, but Jaehyun grabs a small wrapped box and hands it to you. "Merry Christmas."
"Merry Christmas," you say, a bit distracted as you open it.
Inside, it's a small charm bracelet. The charm? Mistletoe.
You snort, and pull the bracelet over your wrist. "How subtle, Jaehyun."
Jaehyun's ears are red again. "Actually, I was just teaching my kids about mistletoe. The druids believed it had healing properties, and could bring the holder good luck—"
You wrap your arms around Jaehyun's shoulders and lift your hand above his head. You kiss Jaehyun before he's finished talking.
He gasps against your lips in such an innocent way that you have to wonder if he actually didn't mean to give it to you as incentive. Before you can worry, however, he's got his hands bunched in the sweater his mother bought you, and he's pulling you flush against his body.
His lips are soft and warm, and they taste like cinnamon. Every touch he gives you sends a lick of fire across your skin, and it's only when Jaehyun puts his hands beneath your sweater that you realize just how cold his hands are.
You shiver against him. He nips at your lips, smiling at your offended gasp. He moves away, places one kiss atop your forehead, and then presses his forehead to yours. "I didn't give you the mistletoe so you would kiss me, but I'm glad you did."
"Me too," you say, warmth flooding your chest again. "Now, how about you explain to me why your family keeps saying you've talked about me before."
"Actually," Jaehyun moves away from you. "I'm pretty tired, so we should just get to bed."
You tackle him again, laughing with mirth when he catches you and hugs you close to him. "I've liked you for awhile, okay?" he says.
"Now was that so hard to say?" you tease, just before receiving another pillow to your face.
does medieval fantasy wizard!ten attract your attention... are you compelled by the idea.... because i would like to request it <3
OKAY i am thinking respectfully
of wizard ten my beloved
we’re going with the assumption that a wizard is a mage who goes on magical quests and uses spells to combat as well as just for daily tasks
lives in a HUGE cobblestone tower with overgrown ivy and wisteria. it’s got three levels and he uses a spiral staircase to get up and down
basically the bottom level is a cozy living room, overflowing with spell books and weirdly enchanted objects like a broom that sweeps constantly or a clock that floats around
the second story is his bedroom/library, with even MORE spell books and a cauldron, for when he feels particularly inventive
and the third story is a watchtower with a open ceiling, so he can study the stars
okay to his looks..... just. leather pants and a loose cotton shirt with various potion stains on it. he’s got talismans painted on his skin, usually on his chest and arms, to protect him from evil
wears a HUGE green cardigan/robe over that, with large pockets that he shoves his spellbooks and quills and journals into. he also wears a purple scarf, and a HUGE pointy brown hat to keep the sun out of his eyes. his round glasses always slip off his nose and he sometimes uses a spell to keep them in place
magic is a part of him,,, leaves a trail of magical dust everywhere he goes. like lil golden particles float around him and settle in the places he touches
smells strongly of spice and ink
always trying to invent new spells, which is why he can often be seen with charred sleeves and singed eyebrows
goes into town a lot just because he wants to visit his friends and see where he can help
sometimes he performs too many spells and has to recharge before he can make the journey home
just... ten curled up under the shade of hanging wisteria...... sleeping with his scarf covering his eyes......
he makes lil talismans out of things he finds in the woods, like grass and moss and acorns and beetle shells. they’re a lil creepy and he makes it worse bc he likes to leave them on his friend’s doorsteps without warning
plays the pipeflute
tells scary stories to his friends and uses his magic for special effects
similarly, reads fairytales to the village children and uses his magic to conjure pretty pictures for them to feel immersed
has no time for romance but all the time in the world for flirting
a genuine genius like he’s a hot mess but he’s successfully created 10+ spells and is always working on more
goes on quests for village people all the time
like his mailbox is full bc he’s the only one who knows what such and such herb looks like and he’s good at negotiating with dragons
has a pet cat who follows him around
it’s not a familiar it’s just clingy
one time ten tried to give it wings and he accidentally made it bald so he refuses to make spells for pets anymore
anyways this is the cutest picture in my head i hope it makes sense
look up @/redbeanporridge’s art on insta that’s the kind of vibe i’m getting here
