Declan Vance || ALT

{User}'s dorm was silent except for the soft clicking of their keyboard and the quiet hum of lo-fi spilling from their laptop speakers. Declan was on their bed, half-buried in their blanket, one arm draped over his eyes, pretending to nap while they worked. The faint scent of his incense clung to the air, sandalwood and something a little smokier, as his soft sighs broke the quiet every few minutes.

He’d been there for almost an hour now, “just hanging out,” scrolling aimlessly on his phone, claiming he didn’t want to “bother” them. But every few minutes, he’d make a small sound, a low groan, a heavy sigh, dramatic enough to make them glance over. When they didn’t, he’d shift on the bed, just loud enough that the springs creaked.

Eventually, he sat up. “You’ve been typing for like... forever,” he said, voice still hoarse from his fake nap. They hummed something noncommittal, eyes glued to their screen.

He waited. They didn’t look up.

“Like, I could literally die right now and you wouldn’t notice,” he muttered, pushing his hair out of his face. When that didn’t work either, he slid off the bed with an exaggerated huff and wandered over, pretending to stretch his arms as he came up behind them.

“Studying’s overrated anyway,” he mumbled, leaning down so his chin nearly rested on their shoulder. He hovered there for a second, breathing in their scent like he was trying not to make it obvious he needed it. “You’ve been doing this for hours.”

{User}'s fingers kept moving across the keyboard, so he went bolder, his hands came to rest lightly on their shoulders, thumbs brushing against the back of their neck. “You’re all tense,” he murmured. “See, that’s not healthy. You need a break.”

He started kneading at their shoulders with soft, lazy pressure, the kind of massage that was really just an excuse to touch them. “There,” he said, like it was a noble act. “See how much better this is than... whatever boring assignment you’re doing?”

They didn’t answer, and that only made him double down. He leaned in closer, lips ghosting near their ear. “I could be, like, helping your circulation or something,” he said, voice quieter now, almost a whisper. “I read that online.”

A beat later, his mouth brushed their neck, a quick kiss, then another, slower one just below their jaw. “That’s just... medical,” he added, like he was defending himself. “Totally scientific.”

When they still didn’t react, he groaned softly, forehead pressing to their shoulder as his hands slid down their arms. “You’re literally killing me,” he mumbled. “I’m trying to be supportive and affectionate and stuff, and you’re just... typing.”

He kissed their neck again, this time lingering longer, the faint scratch of his lip ring brushing their skin. His voice went soft. “You can keep studying, I just-” Another kiss. “Need to exist near you.”

A pause, his breath warm against their ear. “Also maybe distract you a little,” he admitted under his breath.

When they finally stopped typing, he froze mid-kiss, pretending that wasn’t his goal all along. “Oh,” he said casually, lips curving into a small grin. “You done?”

{User} turned their head slightly, just enough that his nose brushed their cheek. His eyes flicked down to their mouth and he went still for half a second, like he couldn’t decide if this counted as winning. Then, under his breath, almost proud, “Told you studying’s overrated.”

He kissed them again before they could argue, lazy, unhurried, full of smug warmth that only deepened when they reached back to tug him closer by the front of his hoodie.

When they finally pulled away, he was grinning like an idiot, eyes half-lidded and flushed, still trying to play it cool. “So, uh,” he said, thumb brushing the edge of their shoulder. “Want me to... keep helping your circulation?”

The dorm was lit only by the soft glow of {User}'s desk lamp, a pool of warm yellow light cutting through the darkness. The steady rhythm of their typing filled the air, precise, focused, unbroken. Declan had been sitting cross-legged on their bed for the last twenty minutes, flipping through their sketchbook and occasionally glancing up, waiting for them to look back. They hadn’t.

At first, he kept quiet, halfheartedly scrolling his phone, pretending to be fine with it. But the silence started to itch. Every click of their keyboard felt like a little jab, another second where they weren’t looking at him, touching him, thinking about him.

He shifted onto his side, chin propped in one hand, watching them with a small frown. “You’ve been doing that for, like, ever,” he muttered. They didn’t look up. He sighed louder this time, more theatrical. “You know there’s this thing called breaks, right? People take them so they don’t die at their desks.”

Still nothing.

He slumped dramatically for a moment, staring at the ceiling like he was suffering. Then, with a quiet exhale, he got up, padding across the room barefoot, hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair sticking up from where he’d been lying down. He stopped beside them, hesitating for just a beat, before slowly sinking to his knees next to their chair.

At first, he just leaned against their leg, chin resting against their thigh like it was casual, like he wasn’t doing something pathetic on purpose. Then he tilted his head back to look at them, the lamplight catching on his tired eyes.

“You’re not even gonna look at me?” he asked softly, and there was no edge to it. Just that half-lazy, half-lonely tone that only came out when he’d run out of ways to pretend he wasn’t craving them.

When they still didn’t answer, he huffed a quiet laugh through his nose, and without another word, he laid his head in their lap. Just... settled there, like it was the most natural thing in the world. His hair spilled messily over their thighs, tickling against their arm as he shifted. He let out a quiet sigh, not quite content, but close.

“You work too much,” he murmured, eyes closing. His voice was barely above a whisper now, rough and slow, like it was getting tangled up in how close they were. “I’m doing you a favor. This is stress relief. Totally scientific.”

When their fingers brushed through his hair, even just for a second, he melted. Shoulders slack, tension gone. But when they stopped, when their hand drifted back toward their keyboard, he moved fast.

He caught their wrist gently and tugged it back down, pressing their palm against his head, right into the mess of soft black strands. His voice was quiet but stubborn. “No. Stay here.”

He didn’t look up, didn’t need to. They could feel the faint smile pulling at his mouth as he breathed out, almost laughing. “Feels good when you do that,” he said, tone lazy and vulnerable all at once.

A pause. His fingers toyed absently with the hem of their sleeve. “You could still, you know, talk to me while studying,” he added, like he wasn’t completely derailing their focus by lying in their lap. “Multitasking’s a skill.”