Harriet

❧

She manages the fifth floor, where books on arts and humanities (academic and literary alike) are housed, and isn't that a funny prank pulled on you by fate? Every moment you spend your time on this floor, you find yourself laying your borrowed books on a table that provides an unencumbered view of her doing work on her station. And as you're on your twelfth paragraph in your current read your eyes drift upwards and towards Emma talking to a confused freshman who doesn't know how a library operates. Oh, how you want to drag that student into a corner and impress upon them the force of your intent: Do not inconvenience her! Work it out on your own! But you know Emma would gladly help any student in need without judgment and prejudice. You've been a recipient of that kindness—and that smile, the sort of smile you cradle and tuck in between your heart and your ribs, secret like a love letter.

The yearning has become so implacable that in one of your assignments, Professor Arthur is forced to talk to you after class and asks, “Why don't you try other genres, like detective fiction?”

“And then have the detective fall in love with the murderer?”

His face contorts; his hand twitches like it's looking for a cup of coffee—or a bottle of alcohol.

“No romance of any sort,” Professor Arthur says. “Can you do it?”

“I can’t promise anything.”

He sighs and mutters, “I should have you talk to Dazai—he might know how to handle you better.”

❧

Your crush on Emma has persisted up to your senior year, and it's a miracle that it hasn't reached her awareness at all, because you're being so obvious about your pining that your roommate Mai and her best friend Sasuke had staged several interventions throughout your college years. It came to a point where Sasuke had to set up a trap in the library and Mai had to tackle you onto the floor to prevent you from picking a fight with an MBA student who's flirting with the librarian.

“Let me go,” you had said. “I can take him.”

“No,” Mai had replied firmly, clinging to you like both your lives depended on it. “We don't want to spend the whole night at Pirate King Captain’s office.”

“Shh! Don’t say that name! What if he’s actually lying in wait here and he heard us?!”

And if Emma had any inkling about your longing for her, she never showed it; she always has that sunshine smile and a cheerful greeting for you, and always—always—you hope, and you dream.

❧

“I’m doomed,” you lament on your bed, face smushed against your fluffy pillow. Across the room, Mai looks up from her sketches and angles you an unimpressed look.

“No, you’re not.” The staccato of the rapid clicking of a mechanical pencil, a brush of papers, and the drag of chair-legs, and Mai is striding towards your bed, plopping down next to you. Your face refuses to leave the pillow, but you can feel your roommate’s judging stare. “In fact, I think this is for the best.”

Now you lift your head to glare at her. “Why? You don’t want me to see her anymore?”

Mai rolls her eyes. “No, dummy. We’re graduating this year! That means you can face her equally from then on.”

“But I’m not going to see her after I graduate!”

“Says who?”

You bite your lip. Mai has a point: there’s really nothing stopping you from staying in town after you graduate. It’s just your sense of responsibility urging you to go home—at the other side of the country—and seek work there. On some occasions, you miss your family and want to see them in person. Zoom calls aren’t enough; you long to hug them and feel their warmth. But on other occasions, you’re perfectly fine with living here, where more opportunities in your field come a-calling.

After a prolonged silence Mai sighs aloud. The bed shifts again, and she’s standing over you, frowning like you’re an incomplete puzzle and the last missing piece has been found to be eaten and digested by a hungry golden retriever. “Fine!” she spits, and you recoil, genuinely surprised at the vehemence of her reaction. “I’m going to need Backup Number Four.”

You blink, bewildered.

“Excuse me?”

❧

Just before finals week, you return the borrowed books to the library. Emma's back is on you, but she turns with a bright grin as she hears your footsteps. “Good morning to my favorite book lover!”

You could have proposed then and there, your heart swelling until it's screaming for the emergency room. It's an exhilarating feeling, to know that you're her favorite. But you try to act all nonchalant as you hand her the books. Most of them are monographs on literary criticism, but a couple of them are romantic poetry and compilation of love letters written by famous authors to their spouses.

“Next week's finals, yes?” she continues, updating your records. She looks up and gifts you an encouraging smile. “Good luck!”

“Y-Yeah, thanks.” And then, out of nowhere: “I'm also graduating after the semester's over.”

Surprise shifts Emma's whole expression. Her fingers pause and hover over the laptop keyboard. A breath, inhale, exhale, then a brief bite of lip; she recovers with another grin. “That's wonderful! Congratulations! Time sure does fly, doesn't it? I still remember the first time you borrowed a book here. I'm gonna miss you for sure.”

She remembers, and something unclogs within you. You blink back the threat of tears, valiantly ignore the ache in your heart, and soldier on with, “Yeah, I'll miss you too.”

This time, you don't linger. You hurry to the exit, ignoring Emma's call of your name.

❧

You're watching Yves Kloss, president of the Graduate Students Association, slice the chocolate truffle cake with delicate care and thoroughness. Sitting across from you the young man, with his fancy outfit and accessories, couldn't look more out of place at this campus cafe, with its cheap furniture and its whimsical air conditioner, which malfunctions every now and then, but with its admittedly delicious pastries, thanks to that one part-time working student who comes from a line of bakers. As an undergrad, you don't know why Yves suddenly materialized before you and dragged you off to this coffee shop and ordered a set of cake slices and the most expensive coffee on the menu (which isn't really saying much; it's just white chocolate latte). Just as you were about to declare to put it on Professor Arthur's tab, Yves had his wallet out already, and when he glanced at you and saw your expression, he scowled and told you to look for a vacant table.

“Here,” he pronounces, pushing the plate of black velvet cake in your direction. This is followed by a large hot double chocolate latte. You wonder whether Yves intends to spike your blood sugar with this chocolatey assault. “Enjoy them. I can't have you starving while I'm explaining the mechanics of poetry reading we're organizing this end of term.”

You do a double take.

“I'm sorry, but what are you talking about?”

A chunk of cake dangles close to Yves's mouth. The fork is returned to the plate. He frowns.

“What do you mean, what am I talking about? Didn't your friends tell you?”

“About what?”

“About your entries to the poetry reading event.” Yves squints. Then his expression smoothens into understanding. Then, for an inexplicable reason, pity. “The GSA is organizing a cultural event the week after finals. There's an art exhibit, musical performances, and poetry reading. Everyone's invited to participate. Your friends—Mai and Sasuke—submitted your poems for the reading, and a couple of them qualified. So now, I'm orienting you about what to do.”

“They did what.” You rifle through your memories about any hint of their betrayal. Then you narrow your eyes at Yves. “Don't tell me you're Backup Number Four!”

“Oh dear.” Yves sighs, and gestures at the coffee and cake. “So they really didn't tell you. In any case you just have to show up at this time and venue and read your poems. The audience will be a mix of undergrads, grad students, and even faculty, but I doubt it will be a large crowd. No need to get nervous.”

“I still don't understand how reading my lovesick poetry to an audience will benefit me.”

Curiously enough, Yves grows visibly uncomfortable. “Well, about that ...”

And as he reveals the event location, your soul cartwheels away from your body and drowns itself in the carafe of black coffee a group of sleep-deprived architecture students two tables from your left have been worshipping upon.

As consolation, Yves offers, “Go on. The cake's delicious. Nothing like sugar to soothe your worries away.”

Accepting his revelatory kindness, you despondently demolish your cake, and let yourself get distracted by somebody sobbing by the window. What is that person going through, you mildly wonder. Maybe the two of you share similar problems, and a part of your heart goes out to that person in quiet commiseration …

—until a hot guy who looks like he came straight from a gentleman’s photoshoot approaches the crying person and suddenly you feel alone in your struggle.

❧

By the time your turn comes up the lobby of the library has been filled with people. Your palms begin to sweat, and you almost trip stepping into the makeshift stage. Mai and Sasuke are sat on the floor by the edge of the stage, wide-eyed support and cheer. You've forgiven the two of their betrayal, after a screaming match (with Mai) that evolved into a heartfelt conversation (with Mai, but with jokes contributed by Sasuke here and there). There was tears and snot and astrophysics puns and a hug that lasted thirty seconds because Mai had reserved a spa package that lasts an entire day for you, free of charge. Apparently Mai's occasional model has some connections to all kinds of things.

You can spy Professor Dazai in the crowd, and next to him is Professor Arthur. Suddenly a different anxiety manifests inside you, and the urge to edit your poems right then and there overtakes your previous concerns.

Yves, who’s emceeing the program, introduces you to the audience. And when the polite applause winds down, you clear your throat and grab the microphone.

“I come in the library for books and / I come out leaving my heart ...”

During the first few lines, your voice trembles, still nervous, but eventually you gain ground, and confidence fuels you to use your hands to gesture the words and the emotions intertwined in them. You feel your face rearrange according to the sentiments of your phrases. In a surprise twist you've come to appreciate the pleasure of performing your poetry to a curious but welcoming crowd.

“... fingers in want of entwining / oh! must I braid my longing into your hair—”

At the far end of the hall, where the reception counter is, stands Emma, who's watching you in rapt attention, book clutched to her chest.

The freeze is so abrupt, your mouth clamping shut, that it has the front row murmuring in confusion. But Mai's sudden whisper of your name snaps you back, and you scramble to salvage the remains of your blunder. Your heart is hammering inside your ribs, you're sweating like you just lost a volleyball game; but you swallow the nerves and continue onward as if the woman you're in love with isn't watching you recite love poetry about her.

And when you finish to a modest applause (Professor Dazai's clapping above his head and Professor Arthur whistles twice), you robotically turn around and march off the stage and out of the library.

Except Mai and Sasuke are barring you from leaving, their arms snaked around yours, rendering you immobile.

“Betraying me again, Mai, Sasuke?” You struggle against their solid grip. Sasuke, for all his lankiness, is shockingly strong. “Not satisfied with submitting my poems behind my back?”

But Mai is undeterred. “Don't forget—that spa package includes hot bamboo massage, sauna, facial treatment, and sugar scrub!”

That is truly a strong argument. “Dammit!”

Once the program ends, you endure several minutes of congratulatory greetings from your professors, a box of cake from Yves and the GSA, and praise from some of the audience.

When you peer over the reception counter, Emma is no longer there. You exhale quietly, unsure whether to feel disappointed or relieved. Mai senses your unease, and she lays a hand on your shoulder.

As the audience files away and the GSA members begin cleaning up, you offer Yves some assistance but he adamantly refuses. “I'm not letting an undergrad do our job! Go home and enjoy the cake!”

A tap on your arm catches your attention, and you turn to see Emma behind you, killing you inadvertently with her daylight smile.

You could have run away. You could have. But your feet feel like lead and you're unable to lift even one toe.

Yves, sensing the weird tension in the air, stealthily slinks away.

“Do you have time?” Emma asks.

Gaping at her, you can only nod in affirmation. A few paces away, you can see Mai hitting Sasuke in excitement as they watch you and Emma locked in a confrontation.

“Follow me.”

She leads you outside the building where flowerbeds line the walls and a lamp is alit at a corner. Under the tungsten light her complexion seems warmer, more ethereal, and the curve of her mouth more open and approachable. You want to kiss her, like this. The dusky sky and the yellow-warm tinge of the lamplight, and you want to kiss her, like this.

“So,” she begins, “those poems. They're good.”

“T-Thank you.”

“They're also romantic,” she continues, ignorant (or oblivious?) to your mounting, visible panic. “Those chapbooks you kept borrowing finally paid off, huh.”

“I—guess ...”

“I particularly like the second one! There's a larger window to the speaker's thoughts and emotions toward their object of love.”

“Y-Yeah ...”

“The image of braiding your longing into one's hair is striking.”

You gulp, wiping away the sweat pooling on your collar with the back of your hand.

Then Emma pauses as if in thought. A quick glance at your expression and she tilts her head, and says directly: “The poems—they're about me, am I correct?”

Every nerve in your body bursts and you clutch your face and sob, “I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I wasn't planning to show them to anybody, much less read them in public!”

Emma startles, not expecting your reaction, but then she tentatively takes a step towards you and brings a hand near your shoulder. “It's okay,” she soothes, “it's okay. I'm not angry at all. You're very good; don't hide your talent.”

An embarrassing sniff. “But ...”

The hand finally descends and makes contact with your shoulder. Emma pats it consolingly.

“Aren't you uncomfortable with me, now that you know I'm in love with you?”

Eyes widening, Emma halts. “'In love'?”

Fuck.

Your sobbing comes back in full force. Emma, now herself in panic, resumes consoling you, which is ridiculous and mortifying because here you are, in front of the person you're in love with, being calmed by the very person you're in love with, because you basically announced to the world that you're in love with said person, and you don't even know if said person loves you back.

“Hey, hey,” Emma hastens, another step forward. Even in the midst of your chaotic emotions, you can still smell her perfume. A light rosy spring scent; it fits her. “It's okay! I'm just surprised. I didn't expect you to feel so strongly about me.”

“Do you—” a sob “—want me—” a hiccup “—to go away? Leave you alone?”

It will be devastating, but you'll understand.

“I've been in love with you for years, you know,” you say, because fuck it, you might as well confess this way. What is pride after all that's happened? “I know I shouldn't, and I tried my best to control my feelings but I failed, and I'm graduating in a couple of weeks and I will never see you again.”

You rub away the remaining tears in your eyes, and you refuse to look at Emma for fear of seeing something dreadful in her expression. She's also quiet, and it is a quiet that you don't want to examine. Ultimately, you decide to bow out after gathering your leftover dignity, thanking Emma for her kindness and wishing her all the best. You resolve not to look back because you've never been a strong person in matters of the heart, and this has always been a battle you're fated to lose.

But then, you hear Emma's voice, wonder in her tone:

“You are graduating soon, aren't you? Isn't that a good thing? What will you do after? I hope you don't stop writing. I really like your poems.”

A beat.

“It would be nice if you keep writing and publishing your poems. I'd also love to read stories by you! By then you're no longer a student, right? And you'd have a few more years of life experience. I'd like to see you again, when that time comes.”

And it's as if the world snaps into focus. Everything turns silent, Emma's words echoing in your head. You look up and she's smiling, all sunlight, blinding, despite the benighted sky.

“That's ...” You swallow, afraid but also emboldened. “... not a no.”

Laughter, prismatic. “That's not a no.”

You breathe, closing your eyes. “Okay.”

A smile blooms in your own lips. For once, it’s all right to hope, to dream.

“Okay.”

⇼

Endnotes:

After your graduation, you went back to your hometown to look for work. You're sad that you're separated from your friends and Emma, but you keep in touch through social media. You chat with Emma every now and then, even video calling her occasionally. Eventually you find a job as an editorial assistant in a magazine. You also continue writing fiction and poetry in your free time. After one year of working and writing, one of your poems got published in a well-known literary journal. You excitedly send the news to Emma, who congratulates you joyfully. This goes on for two more years, until you and she decide to meet up. You've slightly mellowed out, a little more mature, and can now provide for yourself. When you finally reunite with Emma face to face, you give her a bouquet of roses (bought at Vlad's flower shop) and formally ask her out. She says yes. (btw Emma's older than you by 4-5 years. She started her first year as a librarian just as you started your first year in college.)

He's not your thesis adviser, but you and Professor Arthur are close, in the sense that he sees much talent in you and he wants to nurture it. You're close enough that you can get away with telling the campus cafe barista to charge your order on his tab whenever you're annoyed with him.

Mouri Motonari got his nickname of Pirate King Captain when he caught a group of senior undergrads vandalizing then-President Yoshiaki's statue. With his manner of speech and his rough persona and his choice of punishment (a thorough cleaning of the whole campus), he was called Pirate King Captain meanly by the undergrads. Some freshman passing by heard it, and it stuck ever since. Motonari loathes that nickname. Legend says that when you say his nickname three times he will appear behind you and force you to clean the main building.

After your conversation with Emma outside the library, you return to Mai and Sasuke to relay what happened, and you three went to a bar to get hammered as celebration (you're all of legal age now, don't worry).

When I finally break from my trance and look up at him—having felt like all of this happened in slow-motion despite not even being a minute’s worth of time—I find myself caring a lot less than I would have if I'd just spilled coffee over… well, just about anyone else.

“Oops,” I ooze sarcasm, shooting him the most obvious of fake smiles, fully intending to just keep walking past him. Silvio quickly moves to grab my arm, exasperated by the cold shoulder he was given after something he didn’t even cause. This time, anyway. The sound of jewelry jangling is all too familiar, akin hearing war drums the moment it's within the vicinity.

Was there really any one solid reason I hated Silvio? I pondered. No.. it was hard to narrow it down to just one, actually. The way he always seemed to carry himself, especially around me, had never quite rubbed me the right way; let alone us not having gotten off on the right foot to begin with.

It had all started when I'd made the grave error of sitting next to him one god-awful Monday for a sociology lecture I'd been late to after having overslept. Silvio made sure it was absolute torture for me; relentlessly teasing everything from the pajama pants I'd forgotten to change out of to the night before’s smudged mascara still somewhat stuck to my cheeks.

But it was the little things about him, I think, that piss me off the most. How arrogant he was, how much of a know-it-all he was, and how he always seemed to be bragging about his money and status, flaunting it endlessly despite my scowls and disgust.

So as I come back to the moment, watching as Silvio prattles my ear off, it dawns on me that he's expecting an answer to a question I'd never even heard. The entirety of his monologue had sounded to me much the way a fish in a bowl would hear anything, truthfully. (And the mental imagine of his face on a fish's head, fins at his hips, is a priceless one indeed.)

“Come again?” Not bothering to hide my disdain, my eyes lazily flick from Silvio's ruined jumper to the crease in his brows. I secretly have to bite the inside of my cheek just to hide the laughter that once again threatens to spill past my lips at the reminder of his sorry state.

Silvio begins to repeat himself, but not before ocean blue eyes roll to high heavens, dramatically running a hand through his dual-toned hair and— Wait, since when had his hands looked that nice? The sunlight caught his eyes just right and— I mentally slapped myself to try and focus; something it was starting to feel like I was incapable of today.

“I asked ya," Silvio scoffs, "what you were gonna do to remedy the situation.” He arches a brow and crosses his arms expectantly, instantly regretting it and uncrossing his arms as his sweater sticks to his skin in all the wrong ways.

“Oh, that.. I was planning on remedying my mood by walking away from you entirely,” I chastise, mocking his sour attitude with a petulant huff.

As if he wasn’t already tired from a long day, running into me had apparently been the cherry on top; Silvio was about ready to tear me and my smart mouth a new one by this point. Getting on his bad side was a social death sentence for most—yet somehow, I have yet to experience the horrors other students still whisper about. No one's sure why, but it feels like everyone's waiting for the moment the other shoe finally drops.

“Look here, Lady.” His words quickly fall flat, his expression morphing as if it had burned his tongue to even call me anything less than offensive. “Listen to me, and listen damn well. I couldn’t give less of a shit what ya wanted; much less if ya rathered I drop dead right now, bitch. You fucked up and spilled your coffee on me." Silvio's hands shake slightly, but it goes unnoticed with all the words being thrown at my face in rapid suggestion.

"Get it together and fix the situation now, or I’ll fix you my damn myself. And trust me, it won’t be pretty,” Silvio spat, turning red in the face by the time he’s finished yelling at me in the near-desolate campus parking garage.

“I hate to break it to you, but the situation will never be pretty. Not as long as it somehow involves you, Silvio,” I snort, leaving him to stew in a puddle of blind rage and coffee stains.

It isn’t until about two weeks later that I even see Silvio again—but you can be sure that he hasn't forgotten about his revenge for even a minute since. The opportunity had all but fallen into his lap, and Silvio was never one to say no to a "good deal". Catching sight of me in his peripheral, my attention was glued to the notes spread before me, spending another day at the library studying for final exams. It was just his luck that I'd picked today of all days to wear a white top—one of the boldest fashion choices in a bustling campus. To Silvio, revenge was a dish best served old. But to me, karma was about to be a royal, bling-covered bitch—and I was about to find out its name took on the form of Silvio Ricci today.

Just as I'm turning the page to answer one of the final questions in my psychology course's study guide, I see someone trip out of the corner of my eye, noticing a second too late to dodge the oncoming downpour of an entire bottle of red Gatorade.

Once again in slow motion, I watch what looks and feels like a murder scene of both my hard work and innocent shirt. All the meanwhile Silvio has the audacity to smirk at me before acting the victim. As he gets up to go clean off his arm in the bathroom, I grab onto it and glare daggers into his thick skill. (Thirty-six of them, to be precise.) If looks could kill, Silvio would have already been at least halfway through his own funeral service by now.

“There somethin' that seems to be the matter, Lady?” He grins cheekily at my shivering form, lips upturning further victoriously when I can’t seem to find an answer fast enough for his liking. “Suits ya, bein' quiet for once. Hah, looks like ya got all wet for me, too.” Silvio’s gone before I can blink twice, satisfied with having been able to even the score.. for now.

And so the childish war between two grown adults began in full; with either of us attempting to trip one another, or steal a parking spot from the other, or just screw each other over at the campus cafeteria somehow. Both of our friend groups were honestly sick and tired of the way we would act when it came to the other, and had decided upon a revenge of their own. They'd begun preparing a mouse trap of sorts, meant to get us both two dispel the underlying tension that had allegedly gone unnoticed to everyone but the both of us. And by gods, did they pray it would work.

One of my closest friends had invited us over to a dorm she’d claimed was having a party, and after finals were over, I was more than happy to oblige. (Phase 1 complete.) Meanwhile, Silvio's friends had lied through their teeth, managing to convince him that they were bringing over a sampling of rare liquors for everyone to try. (Phase 2 complete.)

It wasn’t until I was forcibly shoved into the bathroom of said dorm upon arriving and heard the door lock from the outside that I'd noticed Silvio sitting against the sink, having already been locked inside before I arrived. He may not have been Einstein, but he was certainly no idiot; and now that he knew what his friends’ plan had been all along, he was absolutely furious.

“Are ya fuckin' kiddin' me?! So what, this was their master plan? Lock us both in a room and hope we don’t kill each other?” Silvio runs a hand through his messy hair for the umpteenth time since being stuck in the small room, feeling as if his roots would be tugged out any minute now. Just what he needed to get his mind off another fight with his asshole of a father, of another week of busting his ass for results no one cared about—yet always expected of him.

“Or maybe they were hoping you’d confess your undying love for me already! Aww, how romantic..” I gasp theatrically, hands over my mouth and heart while I feign hope even at his deadpan expression in response. With a roll of my own eyes, I move to look around. “Did they at least leave us any food or drinks?” Taking in the bare-bones bathroom that feels more like a prison cell, I'm grateful to at least still have my phone with me, if nothing else.

“I’d sooner eat a whole cake in one sitting.” Silvio stands upright to each over and once again attempt to open the door somehow. I simply watch him struggle, taking a seat atop the sink and trying to lie to myself about totally not checking out his nice ass from here. Perhaps one could loathe someone’s entire being and yet still think that maybe, just maybe, they weren’t completely unattractive. (And other lies I'd tell myself as I absolutely did not imagine scratching up his broad shoulders. Nope, not even for a second...)

I hadn’t even realized I was busy daydreaming until Silvio had snapped me out of it. “The hell are you thinkin' about that you’re bitin' your lip like that for?” he muses, wondering why I'd seemingly been eerily calm instead of trying to bite his head off by now. “Ya must be real hungry or somethin' if you’re even more of a space case than normal.”

“Yeah, starving.” Lying seems to be all I can do today, and it’s all I can do to keep myself from losing my grip on the last thread of my sanity.

“You’re always welcome to eat my ass,” he retorts, grinning triumphantly as if he’d been dangling a treasure in front of me I couldn't have. Fine, then. It's not like I cared about his nice ass anyway.

“First of all, what ass? And second of all, fuck you.” I picked at my nails, starting to feel boredom hit. Not even our fighting felt like it had any of the usual fire to it when we were cramped in this dingy little broomcloset of a dorm washroom.

“Fuck me? Well, if that’s how you’d like to kill your time in here. But don't come cryin' when no one else ever comes close.” Silvio teases back, curious as to how far he could push the boundaries, wanting to finally see me break under pressure.

“The nerve– To think I would ever fuck you. In your dreams, Ricci!” I scoffed at the proposition, as if I hadn’t just been wondering what it would sound like when I'd make him moan my name and beg for more mere moments ago.

“In my dreams or yours, Lady? Is that why there are always bags under your eyes? Are all those wet dreams of me leavin' ya restless?” I felt my jaw drop at his shameless statements, racking my typically witty brain to come up with any sort of retort. But any conscious thought left my brain when Silvio leans in and purrs indecently at my ear. His rich, spicy scent envelops me just before the warmth he exudes presses against me, an arm snaking around my waist. “Why not make your dreams a reality then? I'll let ya.. just this once.”

I'm unsure of just how it happens or why I go for it—but before I know it, I've pulled Silvio in by the collar, sucking on his bottom lip, then dragging it with my teeth as I pull back. Interestingly enough, Silvio had gone stiff as a board, pink in the cheeks and looking anywhere but at me.

“The.. The fuck was that for?” he asks, incredulous, hoping to mask the tremor in his voice. "Now you've really gone and–"

“Don’t start what you can’t finish,” I murmur as I lean back into my seated position, almost falling deeper into the sink before his arms reflexively shoot out to catches me. Silvio's arms around my waist as he stands between my legs has me feeling some kind of way.. And belatedly, I realize it isn’t long before I've found myself devouring his lips in another kiss. Silvio shudders and lets out a stifled groan when my lips move down to kiss across the expanse of his throat, pausing to suck at his Adam's apple and making his hips buck in the process.

“You’re all talk, aren’t you?” My eyes sparkle at the realization, watching as Silvio freezes in fear of being caught. “You act tough, but you get flustered so easily.. Hah, bet you'd let me boss you around in bed– No, actually.. You're already getting off on this, aren't you?” The newfound confidence seemingly oozes out through my pores, a wicked grin playing upon my lips as my nails scratch lightly along his spine and over the thigh fabric of his silky top, forcing a shiver from him.

“So tell me, are you gonna be a good boy for me.. or am I gonna have to punish you like the little bitch who's always barking at me?” My words don't falter, eyes gleefully registering the way his mouth runs dry, swallowing hard.

“A-as if I would ever– Oi, watch your hands! Ngh..” Oh, this will be fun. I've only gotten to be the dominant party a handful of times to date, but I'd been craving the feeling and power that this kind of intimacy brings for awhile now. Let alone the fact that I'd just managed to get the Silvio Ricci—current bane of my existence—on his knees for me, in every sense.

I remain seated at the edge of the sink, having tugged my dress upwards just enough so that Silvio could properly eat me out. He wasn’t bad at all, I had to admit, but it wasn’t his tongue alone that had impressed me, no, it was his fingers. He had long, slender fingers that curved just right inside me, making me clutch at the edge of the sink until my knuckles paled. As I watched his free hand reach down to coax his length through his pants, I reached for his hair and pulled him away from my core, a shimmering string of my arousal still connecting us.

“Did I tell you you could touch yourself?” Silvio grunted and furrowed his brows, lightly glaring up at me as if it would be enough change my mind. He felt as if he was going insane from ignoring his throbbing length, desperate for some relief himself. “You’ll only get to come if you play nice and make me come first.. So if I catch you touching yourself again, you're gonna regret it,” I scold, clicking my tongue with a light tug at his hair.

Silvio's fingers ram into me with speed and force unparalleled, sucking at my clit and ravaging that spongy spot deep inside that has me seeing stars. He makes me come around two of his fingers, lightly nipping at my clit, and my hands can’t decide whether to pull him closer or push him away entirely. I end up opting for the latter as it all becomes too much, breaking away from him to catch my breath as he pants from the intensity of his efforts.

“Should I be nice and let you have some fun now?” To which Silvio's hands grip my thighs a little tighter in his desperation, unconsciously letting out a small groan at just the thought of release, aching and weeping from the start.

I guide him to sit on the floor with his legs stretching out as best as the small space allows, straddling his lap and unbuckling his belt before tugging his jeans and briefs down just enough to free his throbbing shaft. I slowly take the thick length in my hand, just barely grazing at first and luring him into a false sense of security. Silvio closes his eyes and leans his head against the wall behind him, a string of profanities leaving his mouth as my own now sucks at his tip. My thumb runs down his sensitive shaft, deeming him more than hard enough by now after all my teasing.

“Ah ah, open your eyes, I want you to look at me,” I command all the while peeling his arms away from my hips, allowing them to settle on my lower thighs instead so he wouldn’t be able to control my movements. Weakly, Silvio opens his bleary eyes to look up at my face, wondering when the little devil in front of him suddenly became the angel on top of him, holding the key to a paradise of pleasure.

I grab his cock as my hips slowly sink downwards, running his length through my wet folds. Relishing in the whimper he unconsciously lets out before I completely lower myself onto him, I slide down until my thighs make full contact with the denim beneath my own. Short, jagged breaths escape past Silvio's lips, his vision blurring as his glassy eyes try to fathom the pleasure of my tight, wet heat encasing his needy cock.

“Fuck.. C'mon, do somethin', anythin', already,” Silvio mutters, worried about what might happen now if he disobeys, but too horny (and too Silvio) to stay quiet, let alone outright beg. Smirking at the state he's been reduced to, I shush him by teasingly slipping my tongue past his lips, beginning to ascend off his shaft before lowering back down again, repeating the process in a tortuously slow manner. I bask in every single one of Silvio's moans that are swallowed by the kiss, a few grunts of my own mixing in when my self control begins to slip.

Grinding against him every time I descend and meet the added friction of his pelvis against my clit, the uncomfortable feeling of rough denim and pointed zippers digging into my thighs doesn't even register. Chasing my second orgasm, I remind him that he can’t cum until I give him the ok, rubbing furiously at my clit until I'm seeing white and the coil in my belly snaps taut.

The world goes dark for a moment until I come to again, my ragged breaths fanning against the sensitive skin at his neck. My lips curl into a cheshire grin at the sight of Silvio's jaw tightening, fingers digging into my thighs as he struggles to hold back his release. After just having finished coming all over his cock, I pull off him and climb off his lap, leaving Silvio bewildered. He was more than likely wondering why I was tucking him away and zipping his jeans back up.

“The fuck? This wasn't part of the deal! I made ya come, so where's my–” Silvio growls, grabbing at the hem of my dress with a mixture of frustration and confusion, chest heaving and eyes wide with disbelief. But despite the hunger and his desire to claw at me, Silvio hesitated, unsure if he'd be left hanging for pushing too far.

Being this pent-up wasn't something Silvio Ricci ever had to deal with. As a matter of fact, he didn't feel like he was acting himself today at all. Silvio had never been in this position before, and he almost hates that he's enjoying it as much as he has, especially given who's the one holding the metaphorical leash. (Metaphorical for now, perhaps..)

Why the hell was he letting anyone put him through this level of humiliation? Perhaps all the in-family fighting and stress was getting to him, and not having to make decisions for once felt.. surprisingly more pleasant than he'd expected. Though he'd definitely like it a lot more if he actually got to finish..

“Sshh, it’s ok, you’ll get to cum. We’re just.. doing something different now.” Silvio's too wrapped up in finally being allowed to come that he thinks nothing of my devious grin, his brain practically mush at this point under the heavenly feeling of contact once again. I stroke his length over his jeans, placing open-mouthed kisses across his stomach as I wait for the exact moment to enact my revenge, a flawless victory. And I get my wish just a few short moments later when he’s coming hard and fast. A large, dark, wet spot forms across the front of his light blue jeans as I'd neglected to pull his briefs back up, allowing for all of it to seep right through.

While Silvio rides out the waves of his release, I stand up to fix myself up with the aid of the bathroom mirror, making sure I'm presentable when I reach over to jangle the doorknob. And sure enough, it finally gives way this time. Looking back at Silvio who still looks blissed out on the floor, I bend down to wish him farewell.

“Thanks for the orgasms, I guess.” The corners of his lips quirk in return, a surge of pride flowing through him, thinking he's won by making me admit he'd gotten me off; more than once, even. Until...

“Have fun rejoining everyone looking like.. that.” I let out a dark giggle, sadistic glee in my eyes that drink up the view one last time before walking out of the washroom and out of the dorm altogether.

Only once I was fully out of sight and Silvio had gotten over his post orgasmic bliss did the meaning of my words sink in… I'd gotten my revenge by leaving him with an even more questionable stain than coffee or Gatorade could ever leave, making it look like he’d just finished jerking off in the bathroom by himself.

Silvio attempts to quietly leave the restroom and flee his friends' dorm room, but is unsuccessful as he runs into all three roommates, eyes widening comically upon their collective laughter. It looked like this war was far from over, but perhaps a truce could be called in the form of the age old system of enemies with benefits?

Deep down, Silvio didn't exactly hate my guts.. but he did hate losing, he'd always been a sore loser—and a real petty one at that. The only thing more sore than Silvio after taking an L was going to be my body after a night of his own payback, he was sure of that. So why did the thought alone have him growing hard again? It was just spite, surely.. But no amount of alcohol that evening could get his mind off the way I'd looked, sounded, and felt earlier. Fuck... this was gonna be the longest night of his life.

There was an event a while ago where MC drank that weird liquid so that she'd temperately become a vampire or something. She wanted to know what it was like, plus Leonardo seemed to be avoiding her for some reason, which is all I'm thinking about when I'm thinking of this prompt.

He explains to her that he wants to bite her. CAUSE DA VINCI BE IN LOVE. But this pussy ass bitch won't bite. But simply drinking her blood won't turn her, depending on the theory of how a vampire can change someone that you go by but for the sake of this we'll ignore that

So he has an idea. He's always wanted to try it. What if he drank from a cut of yours. That could at least satisfy him. But he doesn't want to hurt you. Not even cause a single scratch on your body. How would he be able to bare cutting you enough to get enough blood out.

While you're laying in bed with him, he has to tear himself away so he can get the smell of your blood out of his thoughts. He knows if he does this once he'll just want to do it again and again. But having you around him like this is driving him crazy, he doesn't want to chase you away, he just wants to have a taste, a small taste.

After a few days he asks if you would be willing to try it. You agree without much hesitation. You know it's hard for him, plus that sounds kinda hot. You trust him with your life so you know that he will be careful and not cut you too deep.

In fact, at first he didn't cut deep enough. But he was so scared to do it. You didn't think you'd have the guts to cut yourself so you left it up to him.

He had a small knife he grabbed from the kitchen and made sure it was clean and sharp. He knew your body well. Well enough where he knew where it would hurt the least.

The cut wasn't more than two inches long, and it was only deep enough for some droplets to come out. He licked them off your skin and moaned. You tasted so much better than he could have ever imagined. But now he wants even more.

He gives you another cut, deeper this time. It took a few seconds for blood to come to the surface but once he did he lapped it up with his tongue and put his mouth on the wound to get more from you.

You didn't even feel the cuts. They wouldn't even scar for you, and watching Leonardo being so hungry for you was oddly sexy.

After doing it that first time Leonardo got addicted to the way you tasted, even more so now that he knows how sweet you taste, but the fact that he can't always taste you.

There's no way he would bite you, but he doesn't want to graze that knife across your body too often. He doesn't want to leave you with cuts on your body for days.

You told him you didn't mind it, and that you actually found it hot, which didn't help with his self control. He started to get more daring about where he cut you. He'd go to more sensitive areas where he didn't have to cut as deep, and hearing you moan as he touched your body while he lapped up your blood made it seem like it gave the same effect as biting you.

Eventually his favorite place to cut you was your inner thigh. Having his head between your legs while his fingers were knuckle deep in you. It made you squirm. That also happened to be his favorite view of you.

He made a deal with himself that he can't do it more than once a week. But you found yourself going straight to Leonardo if you had a cut anywhere on your body that was bleeding.