#Anyway there is actually a story behind this

[limethefirst]

Hello! I've read you're shadow fanfiction and it's just absolutely amazing!! Can I request a shadow x teen reader(platonic) where the reader stays with robotnik and stone but isn't related like they just decided to keep them because they were useful and when shadow comes around he grows an attachment to them and constantly wants to protect them

Please and thank you!!!!

Guardian Hedgehog

pairings: Shadow the Hedgehog x teen!reader (platonic)

warnings: slight sonic 3 spoilers

summary: Shadow finds himself getting attached again, but maybe this outcome will be different from the rest

a/n: thank you so much for being patient and enjoying my other stories! Here’s your request, I hope you enjoy it as much as the others!

When you first met Shadow, he quite literally jump scared you. You were walking down the dark corridor with Knuckles the Echidna, he was letting out a nervous mumble about supposedly not being scared but you could tell he was from his shaking. You didn’t blame him though, this place was creepy that’s for sure, you wanted to go with Robotnik or Stone but Sonic had very little faith in you three so instead you had to pair up with Knuckles.

As you walked with him, your arms crossed you let out an annoyed groan, sure this place was creepy and weird and actually somewhat scary…but nothing would get you, so why make a big fuss anyway.

“Boo”

And that is how you met Shadow. By getting unintentionally scared and jumping behind the smaller echidna.

From that point forward it seemed as if he wanted to just stick by your side, which you didn’t really mind. It was actually quite funny; when Robotnik would reprimanded you for messing up a task, Shadow would give him a mean glare, which happened a lot in the short amount of time he was with you.

Even Gerald noticed it, although he didn’t say anything about it. It was you and Shadow’s little thing, like he was your little guardian.

Currently you were in London, inside The Crab, watching the novela on the T.V.

“Gabriela should kill them both, she’s not a prize to be won,” Shadow grumbled, his focus on the show in front of him. You let out a small nod, not turning back to look at him, disgustingly engrossed in the show.

Stone only let out a chuckle, telling Shadow not to be so negative before he called out to you, “Hey, could you slice up these avocados for me while I use the mortar to grind them?”

You gave a quick glance back before standing, eyes lingering back to the show every once and while. Shadow watched the interaction subconsciously moving a bit closer to where you were.

As you stood next to Stone on the counter you weren’t paying as much attention to the knife in your hand as you should’ve as you suddenly cut the tip of your index finger.

“Ah shoot,” you hissed out, dropping both the knife and the avocado in your hand onto the counter. Within a second Shadow had immediately teleported to your side, his head raised to get a look at what happened to you.

Stone also turned, putting down his bowl and taking a look, “Just a small cut don’t be so over dramatic,” he sarcastically said.

“If it were the Dr you’d probably already call an ambulance…” you replied with a snarky tone, teasing him a bit. He gave you a short glance before grabbing a first aid kit and handing it to you.

Shadow watched you the entire time, his face as stoic as ever, but his moves precise. He would check the cut then your body language seeing if you were in anytime of pain. Honestly it was a bit of an over exaggeration on his part but he felt the need to protect you and in that moment he sensed it was like he failed you.

As you took the first aid kit you turned over to Shadow, before you even got the chance to open it he’d already taken it from you, “What are you doing?” You questioned him.

“Fixing your cut,” he plainly replied.

“Awe you’re like an angel sent from above!”

“Don’t call me that.”

You chuckled before sitting down on the ground so Shadow had an easier time helping you. Shadow didn’t want to admit it but he found your banter with him endearing and tolerable compared with most others.

As you sat there, you watched Shadow disinfect the cut, drying it once he was done.

“You’re good at that, have you done this before?” You asked him, watching as he grabbed one of the kiddy bandaids in the kit.

“I have experience,” was all he said, not feeling the need to go into detail, most of his focus currently on making sure your cut was secure.

Slowly he unwrapped your bandaid, Patrick the Starfish was the one you got, they were all little kid bandaids since you were in charge of making sure all the first aid kits were packed.

You watched as he put it around your finger, his eyes very focused on the task at hand. Quietly he gave a curt nod once he was done, signaling that you could get up now.

As you stood up you took a look at your bandaid, you gave a small smile, “Thanks Shadow,” you quietly said, patting the hedgehog on the head.

He didn’t tell you anything, his job was done, you were okay now and he could relax.

Shadow wouldn’t do what he had just done for you for most people, but even he knew it was a little different when it came to you. The longer he’d been around you, the harder it was to detach himself, in fact, he’d found himself growing more attached.

Maybe it was okay for him to finally get attached again, maybe things wouldn’t be so bad this time. Everything would be alright.

[cuubism]

Do It Scared

While he's in the middle of being overstimulated and miserable at a wedding, Dream's meager attempt at finding peace is disturbed by the intrusion of a drunk man from the party across the way. But what first seems like a curse might actually be a blessing, as his new companion is inordinately charmed by Dream, anxiety and all. [Explicit]

--

Dream cradles his glass of wine between his knees, scrunched up as small as possible on the bench outside the venue door. He should have brought his coat. He is freezing. But he can’t go back in. It’s too loud.

He takes another sip of wine. It doesn’t help him feel less fried. It doesn’t help him feel like less of a drag, less of a burden, any less than the worst company in the entire world.

He takes another sip.

It’s very cold. The music at the reception pounds through the doors behind him. He grimaces.

Sometimes, Dream wishes he could be the person who could enjoy it. And not the person he is.

He takes another sip.

The doors across the way crash open. There is another wedding going on this same night, Dream remembers. A man stumbles through the doors, jacket and tie askew, trips, spilling half his glass of wine, but rights himself just before falling.

Dream watches warily. He came out here to avoid interacting with others.

The man shakes himself, straightening his tie. He must be very drunk. Dream wishes he were, too.

Then the man catches sight of Dream moping on his bench. “Shit,” he says. “Sorry. Didn’t realize someone was already sobering up in this courtyard.” He tries to go back inside, but the door’s locked automatically behind him. “Fuck.”

Despite himself, Dream laughs. At least he is not the only one who feels an utter mess.

“Well, was a shit party anyway,” the man says to himself, before slumping down onto the bench across from Dream. “Can I share your courtyard?”

“If you don’t mind me ignoring you,” Dream says.

The man laughs. “Fair enough.”

He sips his wine, what’s left of it. Closer, now, Dream takes in the dishevelment of his hair, and the red tinge to his eyes that suggests he might have been crying. Dream is curious, but doesn’t ask.

“Feels like weddings are supposed to be happy,” the man muses, more to himself than to Dream. He wipes at his eyes. “But.”

“I primarily find them overstimulating,” Dream says. He really should be better company at his own brother’s wedding. But he’s never been very good at it.

“That why you’re outside?”

“When I’m overstimulated, I begin ‘behaving like a cunt’,” Dream says, and the other man laughs, startled. “So, yes.”

Dream can barely manage his social graces at the best of times. And the best of times these are not. The mask has been filed away.

“Alright,” says the other man. “Fair enough. I can’t judge. When I’m sad I start behaving like a narcissistic dickhead. Look, I’m even making someone else’s wedding about myself.”

“Why are you sad?” Dream asks. Weddings make him feel sad, too, but he thinks not for the same reasons.

“Was supposed to get married,” the man says. “Last year. She died. Sorry, don’t think I have the story in me tonight.”

Probably for the best, as Dream would hardly know how to go about responding to it. “I can see why weddings could be traumatic,” he says sagely.

The man smiles, though it’s sad. “Yup.”

He finishes his wine, then says, “It’s Hob, by the way.”

“Oh. Dream.”

“Dream,” Hob muses. “You don’t like weddings either?”

“My complaining will be far less justified than yours,” Dream warns.

“Let’s hear it, I could use any distraction.”

“It is not just weddings,” Dream says. “Social events. They remind me. Of all the ways I am deficient.” Conversation. Interaction. Posture. Occupying a physical space. Coping with stimuli. Relaxing enough to be normal. He cannot do any of it. “I ought to dance, and. Celebrate? Should I not? But. I cannot. I. I cannot do any of it.”

How many times has he been told that he should, and now it is like a one hundred foot wall that he cannot surmount, the years of compounded expectations too great to tackle.

“Do you want to?” Hob asks.

“I don’t know.” Dream can no longer disentangle who he is from who he was told to be. From who he should be. He is trying. But. “I want to… be a person who wants to. Who can. I wish that… I was a person who could dance freely but I. I cannot. I do not know why.”

He waits for Hob to tell him he should just do it. It doesn’t come. Instead he says, “Well, if you don’t dance, at least you can sleep easy knowing your Great Aunt Ethel didn’t watch you shaking it to ‘WAP’.”

Dream bursts out laughing, clutching his wine as the liquid sloshes in his glass.

“I’m just saying,” Hob says, grinning. “I mean, I’m shameless, but I don’t blame you for wanting to keep the twerking away from family eyes.”

“There has not been any TWERKING.”

“Maybe not from you, didn’t see what I was up to.”

“I see,” Dream says, trying to regain his dignity. “You are projecting on me.”

“Would feel better if it wasn’t just me who’s a slut, but oh well.” He takes a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, and a lighter. “Fag?”

“Sometimes.”

Hob stares at him. Dream stares back. Hob holds out a cigarette to him.

Dream looks down at it. “Oh.”

Hob snorts. “I like you.” He lights his own cigarette, sticking it between his teeth, then lights Dream’s.

“I’m poor company,” Dream says stiffly, embarrassed.

Hob shrugs. “Good company’s boring as fuck.”

Dream doesn’t smoke, so he just watches Hob. His hands tucking the lighter away, then taking the cigarette from between his teeth, blowing a stream of smoke away into the night.

“Why do you smoke?” he asks.

Hob shrugs again. “Get restless. Settles my hands.”

“You ought to try fidget toys instead to avoid the risk of lung cancer,” Dream says, and Hob laughs so loud that he doubles over coughing after inhaling too much smoke.

Dream takes a tangle toy out of his bag and hands it to him. Hob stares at it incredulously. Then takes it.

He immediately starts fidgeting with it, though, so Dream considers it a win.

“What else you got in there?” Hob asks, gesturing to Dream’s bag.

Altogether too much, according to everyone he has spoken to. “Medication. Headphones. A book, though I’ve felt it might be considered rude to read it.”

Hob laughs. “Maybe. But who cares. Go on and read it if you want, I won’t judge.”

“I—“ Dream realizes abruptly that he had been about to say he was enjoying talking to Hob instead. When did that happen? That is not like him, normally he is so paralyzed by fear and confusion that every social interaction is draining in the extreme.

“I. I like. Talking to you,” he admits, grateful that the darkness hides his blush.

Hob smiles. “Me, too. Hey. Will you be missed if we get the fuck out of here?”

“So you know how long you have to dispose of my corpse?”

“My young life is too promising to be spent in prison,” Hob says, winking. “Got to make sure there’s no witnesses.”

“I doubt my absence would be noted while the bar remains open,” Dream says wearily.

Hob stands, swaying slightly, leaving his empty wine glass aside. He holds out a gallant hand to Dream.

“Come along, darling.”

So often when Dream has been called things like Darling, Sweetheart by others it has felt patronizing. But with Hob it’s… nice. Somehow. Then again, he feels Hob may be quite drunk still and may very well regret his choice of company later.

Still, Dream takes his hand.

“I do hope you don’t simply plan to take us to another bar,” he says as they make their way through the venue, retrieving Dream’s coat. “I do not think my stomach could take it.”

“Nah. Drinking doesn’t help with the sadness,” says Hob with a wan smile, helping Dream into his coat. “No. You said you were overstimulated, so a bar doesn’t really feel like the atmosphere anyway, does it?”

Dream stares at him, speechless. Hob had… actually listened to that. And not simply discounted it as nonsense.

“Am I wrong?” Hob says, when Dream is silent.

Dream clears his throat, feeling overcome. “No,” he says, at length. “Not at all.”

Hob smiles and takes his arm. And they leave the noise and merriment behind them.

-

They end up just walking along the riverside in the dark. Hob lights another cigarette—Dream will have to keep trying with the fidget toys—and Dream watches the embers flare in the dark.

“I didn’t dance much at that wedding either,” Hob says, looping back around to their previous conversation topic. “Eleanor—that’s my fiancee who died—used to love it. Just makes me sad now.”

“Would you have had a big wedding?” Dream asks.

“Small one. She wanted to use the money to go on an extravagant honeymoon instead. Said she wasn’t spending thousands of pounds feeding distant relatives mediocre steak when we could be in the Maldives instead.” He laughs.

Dream dislikes parties, and thinks this is an eminently reasonable position. “I can’t help but agree.”

Hob bumps their shoulders together, but says, “Never did get to go.”

Dream does not ask what happened, though he is curious. He does not think Hob wishes to discuss it.

“Guessing your reasons are different,” Hob says.

Dream thinks it through. “Dancing feels. Emotionally exposing. I don’t wish... to show so much of myself.” He feels tight and uncomfortable thinking about it, and wraps his arms around himself. “I know that may be foolish. And that no one cares as much as I do. I have heard it all before.”

The arguments, the convincing, the pressure, even well-meaning, serves only to make him feel more self-conscious.

He has thought, many times during their conversation, that Hob might do the same.

Hob shrugs. “Don’t have to convince me of your own feelings.”

Dream so often does have to that it has become an automatic impulse.

“I wish that it were easier,” he says, quieter. Every day, the same wish. I wish it was all easier. I wish I could just do it all normally. I wish I could. Exist. Without it being a constant trial. “That it was not all. So uncomfortable.”

“You’re not uncomfortable now, are you?”

“I am always uncomfortable,” Dream says. “But not because of you, specifically.”

“I can pretend you’re not here if it helps,” Hob says. “I don’t even see you.”

“Hob.”

Hob whirls around. “Who said that?”

Dream doubles over laughing. Hob is truly ridiculous. Dream still feels uncomfortable in his skin. But less so than he did at the reception, and that’s a start.

“Tell me honestly,” he says, when he’s straightened up. “Did you bring me out on this walk because you wanted to take me home and have sex with me?”

“Um. Would you be into it if I did?”

Dream thinks about it. It is extremely out of character for him to go home with a veritable stranger. But he likes Hob, and that is equally rare. “Maybe.”

Hob raises his hands in victory. “Not kicked to the curb yet! Thank God, I’m too emotionally fragile to be brutally rejected by you.”

“I do not think you are fragile.” In fact, he is quite charmed by Hob.

“You’d be surprised.” He seems content now, though. “Didn’t actually go to the wedding intending to pick up a cute boy. Just so you know. But I’m happy I have.”

Dream is finding himself happy about it, too, strangely enough. “Where do you live?”

“Oh, not too far. We’re heading that way. There’s a bus stop there, too, if you change your mind.”

Dream huffs a laugh, hands shoved in his coat pockets. He feels nervous at the prospect of going up to Hob’s flat. But excited, too. “You’re very considerate.”

“Just hedging my bets, really.”

Dream decides then that he will go home with Hob. He doesn’t know what will happen, if anything. But he wants to try. To be open to possibility, which he so often fails to be.

“I would like to see it,” he says.

“The bus stop?”

“Your home, Hob.”

“Oh.” Hob grins. “Good. Great. Um. Just around here.”

They eventually do make it to Hob’s building, and up the stairs to his third floor flat. Nerves ping and spin all through Dream’s body as Hob unlocks the door and lets them in. He has never been in this position before. He feels like he might be in a scene from a film, a stereotypical moment, except Dream has never been very good at knowing what comes next in the script. It’s hard to know what he is supposed to do.

He follows Hob into his flat. Lets Hob take his coat and hang it by the door, slips off his shoes. He’s wearing more formal clothes than he normally likes to, in deference to the dress code of the wedding, and feels uncomfortable, but to take anything else off would likely convey something he isn’t certain he’d like to convey. Or. Doesn’t know how to convey?

Hob takes off his own shoes, too, and leads him into the kitchen. Dream takes in everything about his flat, lived in and cozy, soft warm lighting that Dream appreciates. He never feels quite comfortable in other people’s spaces, but he likes it, he thinks.

“Do you want some tea or something?” Hob asks. Now, for the first time, he looks uncertain. He has the fidget toy in his hands again—he must have had it in his coat pocket—and is fiddling with it unconsciously.

“I—” Dream starts. Swallows hard, his throat dry. He takes a hesitant step closer to Hob. Heart pounding.

He doesn’t know why it is always so hard. It is not as though he is afraid of Hob. But he is afraid of… this moment. Of sharing it. Of Hob’s touch reminding him that he is here.

He tries so, so hard, every moment of his life, to forget that he is here, that he is part of things, tries to melt into the shadows, tries not to feel anything lest it all swallow him. People always try to draw him out and it only makes Dream want to cling to the shadows tighter to avoid being seen.

Hob didn’t try to pull him out. He just sat with him there, in the dark courtyard. He hasn’t even turned the lights on in the kitchen yet. There is only the pale yellow one on over the stove. There are still shadows. It feels safer. 

“I. I don’t want. Tea,” Dream manages. He steps in closer to Hob, and Hob lets him come, doesn’t lure him in, but lets him lure himself. Dream gets close enough that he can make out the rich brown of Hob’s eyes, the stubble starting to come in on his cheeks, his hair, messed and fallen from its low bun. He wonders what Hob sees in return, and then tries not to focus on it too much lest he get overwhelmed.

Hob’s hand comes to rest on his cheek, just above his pulse racing in his throat. “Are you afraid?” he asks, brow pinching in concern.

“Always,” Dream says, and rides the wave of it into a kiss.

If he’s going to feel like he’s shaking apart from adrenaline either way, then he might as well do so while kissing Hob. Hob makes a surprised sound against his mouth, but then takes Dream’s face between his hands and starts kissing him back.

His kiss is. Desperate. Hungry. Dream does not know how to be wanted like that. It’s terrifying. But his heart leaps. He wants. It’s so scary how much he wants. He doesn’t know how to be the one who wants.

He grabs hold of Hob’s wrists. Grounds himself, braces himself on Hob. Gasps for breath against Hob’s mouth. Leans into the burning touch of Hob’s hands. It’s all so much. It’s so much.

“I need to—” he gasps, pulling back, lips brushing Hob’s, “I need to. Relax.” A constant refrain for himself. Relax. Relax. You need to relax.

“Why?” says Hob. Dream is utterly overwhelmed and still Hob’s look upon him is all want. “I can handle a live wire.”

Is that what he is? Dream always thinks he is nothing. A ghost. A whisper. A thing consuming itself. But to Hob, he is light and danger and wild unpredictable energy. He doesn’t know how he feels about that. But he likes it better than being a ghost.

Hob’s hands fall to his hips. His thumbs stroke under Dream’s waistband, tug his shirt free, press warm to his skin. Dream shudders, heat rushing through him, starting to grow hard in his trousers, which do very little to conceal his arousal. Hob draws him close, presses their bodies together, and now he can feel Hob’s own erection against his hip.

It’s too much. Hob’s touch. Hob’s body. The air that crackles hot between them. How much he wants. Dream is actually physically shaking. His hands are trembling. The world is spinning. He actually might pass out, and he hates his mind so much.

Normally Dream would stop whatever he’s doing when he gets like this. But now the thought of having to stop is making him angry. And maybe he just needs to have it out with himself. If he needs to have a panic attack, if he needs to have a dizzy spell and faint, so be it, he’s tired of it.

“Easy,” Hob says, pulling back, taking his hands and squeezing. “God, you’re actually shaking.”

“I know.” He tries to calm the surge of anger. He knows better than to try to muscle himself into submission. He knows that fighting that electricity isn’t going to end well.

He tries to breathe. Imagines himself composed of frightened sparks. They aren’t going to go away, not tonight. But Dream knows how to survive them. He’s constructed his whole life into an elaborate grid to keep them from bursting. To keep from blowing the fragile circuit.

Just don’t be anxious. But they are a part of him. They are him. One can’t just switch off a bulb and still have its light. Just don’t be anxious. Just stop it. Just do it.

He thinks of Hob instead. I can handle a live wire.

Dream feels so tense he might start fracturing out of his body. He squeezes Hob’s hands to remind himself that he’s here.

“Can we. Take this somewhere,” he says, words measured, “that doesn’t require standing?”

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Hob asks. It is, Dream thinks, the first time tonight that Hob has questioned him on his feelings. Normally he gets pushback on everything he says, but from Hob, only this.

“I am just. Very anxious,” Dream admits. Hob looks as though he might say something concerned, so Dream says, “Can you trust when I say that none of this is your doing? This is simply how I am.”

“Okay,” Hob says, and Dream sighs at the easy acceptance. Hob runs his hand through Dream’s hair, down his neck and back to land low again on his waist. Dream’s skin prickles in an entirely different way. “I believe you.”

It is so easy for him. To not try to fix Dream before allowing him to want this. Hob doesn’t try to bring Dream down from his anxious peak, something that wouldn’t work anyway. He lets the current run through him.

It’s so easy Dream almost feels he doesn’t have to fix himself.

Hob brings him over to the couch, sits down and draws Dream into his lap. Dream straddles his thighs, breath shaking. He’s still trembling, but he doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to get up. He wants this, this singular, terrifying moment.

Hob unbuttons his shirt with steady hands. Helps him out of it. Dream undoes Hob’s tie, setting it aside, then unbuttons his dress shirt, gradually revealing the shape of his body, strong shoulders, broad chest, coarse hair. He presses his hands to Hob’s skin, mesmerized.

When he gets nervous, he starts to disappear, starts to distance himself from everything around him, but this time he tries very, very hard to stay present. “Touch me?” he asks.

Hob does, hands stroking up and down his sides; kisses the side of Dream’s neck, and his shoulder, and Dream tips his head back, shivering. He is still shaking, god damn him, but Hob seems to trust him, and doesn’t stop.

His hands go to Dream’s trousers, undo the button and zipper, and Dream freezes. It’s so much, to be seen, to be touched, all his senses flying around him in a whirlwind.

He’s hidden his face in Hob’s shoulder. Hob draws him back, kisses him lightly, says, “Try something?” and Dream nods, yes, yes anything, if anyone could direct the chaos of him, he thinks it would be Hob.

Hob takes his tie from where they’d left it aside on the couch, wraps it over Dream’s eyes, tying it at the back of his head. Dream ought to feel more nervous at having his senses blocked but instead everything goes quieter. He lets out a long breath of relief.

“Better?” Hob asks.

“Yes.” Somehow. Someway. It makes him feel less seen. Even though logically, he knows this does nothing to Hob’s ability to see him. Nevertheless. The panic of his body is quieter.

Perhaps when he trusts Hob more, if Hob even wants to see him again after this, he might ask Hob to block his hearing, too, let him forget about all of it and zero in on just the sensation of Hob touching him. For now, he hovers in the middling dark of being temporarily blinded, and listens to Hob’s voice in his ear.

Hob kisses his jaw, up along his neck, biting kisses that will leave marks. Dream clutches to him. He feels he can do little but hang on. Hob’s hands to go his trousers again, and he takes Dream out, holding him carefully. Dream’s breath catches. Hob’s hand is warm and sure as he starts to stroke him, just easy and slow, letting him warm up to the feeling of being touched.

It’s so much easier with his vision gone. It’s like he’s imagining all of this in his own mind, freed of the terrifying, brilliant knowledge of its reality. He can lean into Hob’s touch, gasp against Hob’s cheek as Hob strokes him. He may be starting to dissociate but it doesn’t feel scary, this time. It feels floaty and peaceful.

Hob doesn’t seem to mind taking the lead. He brings Dream’s body higher and higher. Dream hangs on, in the pleasant darkness, overwhelmed. Eventually he hears Hob undoing his own zipper, and his breath catches. Hob takes his hand, brings it down, wraps Dream’s fingers around his length.

Dream holds him gently, cheek pressed against Hob’s, breathing shallowly. Everything is heightened without his sight, every detail of Hob’s body, the precise weight of him in Dream’s hand, the heat of him, the slickness of pre-come at the tip. His heart thunders in his throat as he strokes Hob, as Hob’s hand wraps around his, shows him the rhythm at which he likes to be touched.

“You are so beautiful,” Hob says in his ear.

“I would say the same, but,” Dream says, and Hob laughs, delighted.

“Don’t have to say anything at all.”

He presses Dream closer by the small of his back, arching Dream’s spine, so Dream’s cock is rubbing against him. Wraps his hand around them both at once. Dream moans at the touch, the slide of his body against Hob’s stoking fire within him, so much more vivid than when he touches himself. He’d thought Hob would want… more of him, but this is good, this is comfortable, and safe.

Hob slips his hand under the waistband of Dream’s trousers, palming his ass, bringing him closer, closer. His grip is sure and possessive. Dream falls into his touch, his knowledge, his acceptance.

He’s getting close. He tucks his face into Hob’s shoulder, breathing hard. Hob must sense it, he strokes them harder, faster, crushing their bodies together.

Dream bites down hard on Hob’s shoulder as heat rushes through him, hips jerking into Hob’s hand, utterly overcome as his orgasm races through him. Hob yelps at the press of his teeth, but then laughs. He laughs so easily.

Dream is still floating but feels when Hob’s hips stutter and he comes, spend spilling over their hands. His chest heaves under Dream. Dream takes peace in the rhythm of his body. The strength, sweat, surety of him.

Dream comes back to himself, slowly. And immediate is the rush of embarrassment. How could he—

He kisses Hob’s shoulder where he’d pressed his teeth. “Sorry.”

Hob’s chest rumbles with laughter. He pets Dream’s hair. It feels delightful. Dream wants to lay his head down in his lap and have it never stop. “Don’t worry about it. Just surprised me, is all.” He whispers in Dream’s ear. “I’m more into it than you know.”

“Oh?” Dream is… intrigued.

“Mmhmm.” He nuzzles Dream’s cheek. “You liked the blindfold.”

“Yes.”

“Hmm.”

Dream wonders what’s going through his mind, though he expects, if he sticks around long enough, he will find out.

“Feel better?” Hob asks.

Dream is not so shivery now. Not so utterly keyed up. Electricity spent. “Yes.”

“Good.” He touches Dream’s belly, where his come had landed. “This is going to get uncomfortable quick. Come on.”

He helps Dream up. Unties the tie from around his eyes. Dream almost wishes he wouldn’t, but he doesn’t want to walk into a wall, so he allows it.

When it’s gone he’s met with Hob’s gaze on him, and it’s so indulgent and adoring that he immediately wants to hide away again, take back the blindfold, put on his shirt, before his heart races itself into a early grave. But Hob takes his face between his hands before he can turn away.

Words tumble from Dream’s lips before he can think them through. “Have you... been with anyone since your fiancee passed away?”

Hob’s expression turns sad, and Dream feels bad for asking. “Few one night stands here and there. Nothing that really mattered. But this.” He leans his forehead against Dream’s. “I don’t know, Dream. It feels like it matters.”

The words are like pure restoration washing through him. “I feel the same,” Dream says, with a breath of relief. Of course, he does not have one night stands to compare it to. This is not a thing he has historically done. But still, it feels significant. That he even wanted to feels significant. The way Hob handles him feels significant.

Hob smiles, and kisses him, soft, shallow, but sweet. Far too adoring, Dream thinks, for what he understands a one night stand to be. It utterly terrifies him. He leans into it anyway.

“Come on,” Hob says when they part. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Dream follows him, hand in hand, messy, exposed, ever-nervous, but strangely, at peace.

[dojunie]

MISDIAL; LJN [CH6] DND

[★]; [MISDIAL MASTERLIST] [PREVIOUS PART] [NEXT PART]

info;

lee jeno x fem!reader

college au

chaptered

very slow burn

genre; not-quite-friends to lovers, older brother mark lee, brothers best friend lee jeno, light angst, yn is a menace to society, story/character driven

warnings for this chapter; none

chapter wc: 11k

a/n: i don't even have an excuse. when i tell you i was struggling with this... anyway, to not dwell on the bad, lets talk about the good; i rewrote the ending and finally feel excited about it, so hopefully i dont face another deeply evil and unforgiving block again. thank you for sticking around :)

current tl: @hibernatinghamster / @jenoxygen / @eaglesnotravens / @donutswithjaminthemiddle / @jvjsssnaa / @huangrenhyucks / @luvenshiti / @shiningdery / @jaeminsbebu / @aliceinwhateverland / @bebsky / @gem-gem / @jkjkseo / @jenosbliss / @pewpewpwe00 / @ti–red / @philanarose / @softbbyg0rl / @aaasteroidsky / @carelessshootanonymous / @en-boyz / @jlsavyy / @roseymerrie / @bangchanisemo / @skuezk / @jaehyuns-adorable-dimples / @ourbeautifulaffair / @jeonnyread / @jvjsssnaa / @episkeyjeno / @bockhyun / @jenojammin / @zarastrawberry / @peachie-bear / @itadaramaterasu / @alymii / @cuteejeno / @episkeyjeno / @nohunlee / @ooojisoo / @luv4jeno / @jydivrs / @pinkysinnerbaby / @jenojenoyes / @maeyoung / @axmdocs / @nctzennikki09 / @tynlvr / @saucyjaeyun /

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OF ALL THE THINGS A GUY COULD CATCH YOU FAKING, BEING ASLEEP USUALLY ISN’T THE MOST MORTIFYING.

Usually, you take care to point out.

Because nine times out of ten, getting called out for pretending to be asleep is something to be mulled over with a laugh. Like when you pretend to doze off in the middle of a boring story to make your friends roll their eyes and get to the point, or when you’re young enough for it to still be feasible, in an attempt to get your parents to carry you to bed after a long car ride home. You know. That type of cute, charming thing.

But when there’s nothing cute or charming about the night you’ve just had, Jeno telling you point blank that he knows you’re awake (and has known you were awake the entire time) feels less like a joke that you’re both in on, and more like you’ve just been dropped naked into the middle of Times Square.

“Pizza doesn’t stay hot forever you know.”

Mortification rips through your body like a live current and you jerk around as if someone’s just cocked a shotgun behind your back.

You freeze afterwards, your head only turned enough just enough to peek over your shoulder, like there’s still some speck of a chance that Jeno isn’t actually talking to you— but that speck is swiftly sucked into the vacuum of reality when your eyes meet.

He’s smiling right at you. Eye-crescents and all. Arms folded over his chest, leaning back into the couch cushions like he’s just asked for you to change the channel instead of rouse from a fake nap.

“I was starting to think I’d have to roll you over.”

God forbid.

“How—” Your voice is several octaves too high for the feigned nonchalance you’re trying to push. You swallow. It doesn’t help. “How did you... know?”

“When I used to sleep over at your parents house I’d hear you snoring through the walls when I passed your room. Even through a foot of wood and plaster it still sounded like you were choking to death right out there in the hallway with me; after the pizza guy left I realized it was way, way too quiet in here. Put two and two together.”

On a different day this answer would’ve made your face burn for the next half an hour but considering the other bomb he’s just dropped, it doesn’t even register on the radar.

After the pizza guy left?

“You knew I was awake the entire time you were talking?”

“Of course.”

For five too-many beats, you’re staring at him like he’s just started speaking Simlish.

Your first instinct is to grimace, hard. Because how fucking stupid you must've looked curled up on the couch like that when he’d known from the very beginning that you were awake, stone still and pretending you couldn’t be seen like a toddler hiding behind the window curtains, Jesus— but before the embarrassment of that can really take shape and cringe you into a coma, the actual problem with his confession comes to light.

He… knew. He said all of that knowing that you were listening. High school, the graduation, the day you both met, everything.

He said he liked you back.

“What?” you finally manage. “But— Why? Why would you tell me all of that? Now?”

“Because after what happened on Saturday, I felt like I was being…” For the first time all night, maybe all week, Lee Jeno breaks eye-contact first. “I’m still having trouble figuring out the specifics but ‘unfair', might be the best fit. You told me how you felt and I only stood there and listened even though I knew I could’ve told you that it wasn’t nearly as unrequited as you thought, but I got nervous and then said something dumb and everything fell apart. Even if you still never talked to me again afterwards I needed to explain. To make sure you understood that it wasn’t just you who felt how you did.”

He laughs a little, sheepish, like he’s embarrassed. “I guess I overdid it with the trip through history, though. Just wanted you to know I was looking at you, too.”

You’re staring at him and he’s staring at the ground, neither of you seemingly knowing what to say to fill the following silence, when you see another thought shadow over his face and his gaze find you again.

“And I didn’t want you to think it was because of Mark.”

The mention of your brother snaps you out of your stunned reverie in an instant. "What?"

“I was scared of changing things between both me and you and me and him, back then. He didn’t tell me anything about you. I— That’s something I needed to say no matter what. I didn’t want you to think he’d do something like that.”

Without really meaning to, your eyes narrow.

Because. Well. Despite the words that have literally just left his lips about why you weren’t supposed to blame Mark for Lee Jeno never telling you how he felt while he still felt it, Mark Lee is already not your favorite person right now, and tar-like agitation bubbles to the surface anyway.

“So he might not have said anything to you. Okay. Sure. But because of the way he acted, you were under the impression that you’d lose him as a friend if you did like me. Right? You told me that yourself. You refused to even acknowledge the idea that you might’ve ‘liked me like that’ because it was clear how Mark felt about anyone who showed even the slightest interest in me. You said you ‘knew better.’”

You try to scoff. It comes out a little more like a sad, tired huff instead. “So yeah, actually, I think I will continue to think that Mark is the reason you didn’t say anything, because that’s the truth. He spent years and years and years finding something wrong with every guy who looked in my direction and because you felt like he’d throw you away too, you knew how I felt and did nothing when you felt the same way. No matter how you slice it, that’s what happened. That’s why I’m— That’s why I was so upset on the balcony. You understand that, right? Because if he hadn’t, Jeno, then things might’ve—”

Worked out for us, is what you’d been about to say, before you caught yourself.

Chills blossom up your spine. Wow. If those words aren’t a shrapnel-loaded bomb of obvious longing and regret, a flashing neon-sign clear with your inability to get the hell over the past, then you don’t know what is.

You must still be drunk. Or exhausted.

“He’s your best friend. We’re never going to see it the same way.”

The next words feel so heavy on your tongue, but you manage a smile anyway. “But you can forget about it now, if that’s what’s been keeping you up all week. Everything’s out now, right?”

Everything is clearly not out, if his split-second-too-long beat of silence means anything. But for your own sanity you pretend you don’t notice it. You pretend you can’t feel the tension underneath his perfectly blank expression, you pretend that your own secrets aren’t heating up in your mouth like hot coals, you pretend— like you’ve been doing a lot in his presence lately— that you’re completely fine with everything and anything and all of this especially. You’re fine.

You will be fine.

“Right,” Jeno says. “All out. So we’re… okay?”

“We’re okay.”

“No more avoiding?”

“Avoid—?”

Avoiding. Yeah. The past few hours have been such a clusterfuck that you nearly forgot the last six days of pointedly being anywhere other than where he was, pawning off the ‘coincidence’ on preparing for the showcase.

“I wasn’t… avoiding you. Not totally. Not explicitly. I was busy.”

“Could’ve fooled me. You haven’t looked in my direction once since last weekend. I was starting to think you’d seriously never talk to me again.”

You scowl. “Are you going to sit here and tell me you’re confused about why I might not have wanted to see you so soon after what happened on the balcony? Embarrassment was eating me alive. You should be lucky I stuck to being busy, instead of going with the Plan B of faking my own kidnapping.”

He laughs. Your eyes flicker back to him. The sound is soft and muted but it’s real; his eyes disappearing with it, the first time in what feels like days that the smile has really reached the rest of his face. It’s more reassuring than it has any right to be. When he says his next words, standing up to head for the kitchen, you can even manage a genuine smile in return.

“You didn’t sleep away your appetite, right?”

And of course you didn’t.

Actually, once you’re reminded of the pizza sitting on the coffee table (this time without anxiety subduing the hunger in your stomach) you realize that you’re properly ravenous; the last things you’d consumed today were a chocolate muffin and four cherry-flavored jello shots. And the hunger is clear, probably, in how you’re already halfway through a slice when Jeno returns with a pair of plates and two popped soda cans.

The game show (apparently European in production and definitely weirder than previously assumed) somehow becomes the main entertainment while you both eat; X-Men First Class isn’t brought up again despite it still clearly spinning around in the DVD player.

Things stay quiet.

Not the loaded kind of quiet, or any sort of painfully awkward silence. Just… quiet. Oddly relaxing. Much too comfortable. Once you’re done stuffing yourself, your fingers wiped of tomato sauce remnants and soda long ago finished, the couch pulls you further and further into its pillow-like cushions with every passing minute.

The first thing that either of you say after half an hour is when Jeno asks you for a translation for an English thing a contestant says that the subtitles don't catch, and your response comes after a badly stifled yawn. He, unfortunately, notices this.

“Why are you torturing yourself by staying up to watch this? If you’re tired, go to sleep.”

“M’ not that tired,” is your automatic reply. “And I want to know who wins. Cassandra needs that Prius.”

He sniffs under his breath, quietly, like you’re already asleep and he’s trying not to rouse you. You probably look half gone— you’re staring at the TV through slits, your posture on his couch closer to horizontal than vertical— but you don’t want to admit that you’re running on empty. Maybe it’s residual little-sister-ism, refusal to agree simply because someone else suggested it first, but admitting that you’re spent feels like defeat when he still looks completely conscious.

“This is a rerun.” Jeno clicks something on the remote. “Of a show from 2012. You could just look up what happened to Cassandra.”

“Not the same. I need to see her win live, so she can rub it into Helen’s face. She’s so snooty.”

A beat, and then Jeno hums. “She is snooty, yeah, but the show has another ten minutes left. She’s going to be snooty for another five of those before the finale. Why don’t you brush your teeth in the meantime? Since you’re not tired?”

The lilt of his voice makes you glance at him. It’s familiar. Mark trying to convince you not to eat an entire bag of candy at once, Mark trying to bribe you with a popsicle to get you to do your homework, Mark trying to trick you into accidentally getting ready for bed by challenging you to a race.

Distantly you wonder if this tone, too, is another thing Jeno has subconsciously picked up over the years from watching how your brother interacts with you.

“You don’t need to baby me, you know.”

“Of course I know. Only babies make up reasons to stay up when they’re clearly exhausted. You’re not a baby. Right?”

You can’t even glare. It would give away that he’s completely onto you. And yet, he smiles like he’s already got you in the bag.

“Exactly,” you mutter, “No babies here.”

“So you understand that Cassandra will still be around when you’re done washing up?”

“Yes.”

“Great. Come on.”

And he’s up off the couch before he can even catch your rolled eye. Annoying.

Even more annoying is the fact that he’s right. He didn’t say as much when he’d suggested you brush your teeth sooner rather than later, but you knew it was because he thought you didn’t have much longer in you, that you were going to be too far gone in fifteen minutes to have any energy left to get to your feet and wash up— once you get through opening the new toothbrush he gives you, speeding through scrubbing each of your molars with his absurdly fancy toothpaste (because of course he has Premium Ultra Mega Super White Charcoal Anti-Cavity in Spearmint and Sunshine sitting on his counter instead of a regular man’s Colgate, considering all of the perfect teeth sitting in his mouth)— and as soon as you flop back down onto the couch just in time to watch snooty Helen get her comeuppance, a physical weariness settles into your bones and all but cements you to the couch.

It’s so serious that you don’t even realize your eyes have closed until they fly open again at a shifting of the cushion beside you; Jeno, dropping a giant gray duvet on the couch after returning from the bathroom himself. A duvet. A blanket. Sweet, sweet, sleepy salvation.

“Thanks. This looks perfect.”

“Only one of those is for you.”

“One? There’s more than one here?”

“Yeah.”

You blink up at him. “Why?”

“Because I’m sleeping out here too?”

Holy crap. What? This almost makes you sit all the way up. “What sense does that make, in your own house? Why the hell would you sleep out here when you have a perfectly good bed twenty feet away?”

“Because it’s—” Only now does he seem to realize how odd this looks, “It’s sleepover etiquette.”

“Sleepover etiquette?”

“I don’t know,” he says quickly. “I didn’t make the rules, I’m just used to it happening like this. The only time I sleep in my own bed when someone is over is when Jaemin is here, because he’ll sleep in it even if I don’t, but anyone else, we just divvy it up on the couch. Sleepover etiquette. No one gets the bed, or everyone gets the bed.”

As crazy as it sounds right now, it rings true. At your own sleepovers, anything under five friends and you’d all be piling into the bed of whoever hosted the event: squishing together like giggly sardines, waking up and not knowing where one of you ended and the other one began. But Jeno equating this— your definite last-minute intrusion in his house— to a sleepover? Like this is some every weekend thing?

“As noble of a sacrifice as that is, I can’t ask you to sleep out here. You realize that I’m an interloper, right? That you’re doing me a favor by letting me crash here? Hardly the circumstances of a normal sleepover.”

A long second passes as he appears to genuinely think about this, and for a moment you think he’s going to take your advice and try to get a good night's rest after everything else you’ve demanded of him today, but—

“It’s normal to me. You’re sleeping here tonight. That makes it a sleepover. Which one of these do you want?”

Non-negotiable, he's saying. We’re both sleeping out here, take it or take it, punctuated by him flopping down onto the couch beside the pile of blankets. You want to sigh but you should’ve known. It’s chivalry until the end with Lee Jeno.

So you ignore your brain screaming about how weird this is, you and him out here bunking like buddies, and just take the blanket he hands you. You settle in underneath it, cozier than you’re willing to admit, and refocus your attention on the next thing that’s started on TV after the game show; something just as foreign and bizarre but entertaining enough to keep your attention until the near silence weighs down your eyelids instead.

Mark’s apartment is never this serene. Whether it’s the jet-like humming of the fridge out in the kitchen, or the noisy college students below you and their random but guaranteed twice-a-week smash tournaments, or the rattle of the air conditioner above your bed that you’ve been meaning to look at for nearly a month now.

The quiet is… nice. Weird, but nice. You can hear your own breathing. You can hear Jeno’s breathing too; shallow, slow, and even.

It’s how you know he’s still awake twenty minutes later.

He commented on your snoring but little does he know, he snores too— just not as violently. For the premier of Spider-Man Homecoming coming out on DVD, Mark had a celebratory sleepover in the basement of your parents house that you were cordially invited to (along with two of your own friends,) back in your sophomore year. You all huddled up amongst the couches and recliners with millions of blankets and billions of pillows, everyone just falling asleep wherever they laid; and though you could’ve sworn he’d been halfway across the room when you closed your eyes that night, you’d woken up the next morning with Jeno’s forehead pressed into your shoulder and nearly screamed.

You didn’t, though. You sucked it back down just in time.

Instead, you sat there and ogled him in the still-blue sunlight, reveling in how it was even possible for a human with such sharp bone structure to look so squishy when he slept.

It was also how you noticed that, when he’s asleep, his nose makes this tiny but unmistakable whistling sound— like a tiny person is up there blowing through a kazoo whenever he exhales.

There’s no whistle sound now.

“When did you stop liking me?” you ask.

And to his credit, even though you’re listening very hard for any sort of change, Jeno’s breathing doesn’t miss a measure. There’s just a second of silence before a quiet shift of fabric, maybe like he’s rolling over to face you, but you’re not sure because you’re staring at the ceiling like you might explode if your eyes meet. Which you might.

“I don’t know,” he says, just as plainly as you’d asked. “I don’t remember there being a day where I decided I should.”

“Okay.”

“What about you?” he’s surprisingly quick to add. “When did you stop liking me?”

“...Would it be a cop out if I just said the same?”

“Without a doubt.”

You manage to crack a smile, but a yawn cuts it off. “Sometime after your graduation, I think. I don’t have a concrete day for it or anything. I only remember realizing that while you were gone, I was thinking about you less and less. After a while the idea of you stopped…” Hurting, as much. “Hovering.”

“Right,” he says. “Yeah. That makes sense." He clears his throat. "That you’d forget me a little, I mean. Once you started going out more.”

Another yawn on your end. This time your eyes aren’t as eager to reopen, and the exhale saps the very last ounce of energy you’ve got. What time is it? One? One-thirty?

Majorly past your bedtime.

“I didn’ forget you,” you reply belatedly, but it comes out more like a murmur, a little lost in the noise of you shifting around to get more comfortable. “There’s no forgetting someone like you.”

If he said something in response it was either too quiet to be heard through your cocoon of blankets or simply came after you fell too deep into the first REM cycle. Distantly you thought you heard something, a breath of an answer, but by the time you placed it as a possibly whispered, “You either,” you were already much, much too far gone.

Pancakes.

You wake up to the smell of pancakes.

Jeno’s apartment looks so different in the sunlight that for a second, even though the memories of last night trickle back faster than expected once you open your eyes, you almost don’t recognize the place when you sit up.

Snapshots pop into your brain like fireworks as the seconds tick on; the showcase, the party, punching Jeon Soyeon in the face. Your brother’s best friend driving you to his house as you cried in the aftermath, confessing his feelings two years past the expiry date, the both of you falling asleep out here like you’re a couple of old pals who do this sort of song and dance all the time.

In the span of 24 hours, you’ve faced more highs and lows than you have all year.

And before you can even wipe the crusties from your eyes, the worry sets in.

Soyeon wasn’t popular for no reason— would her minions be coming after you, now? Had they already started? Bombarding your social media, spreading rumors, flocking protectively around their Queen Bee after you dared to lose your temper on her last night? What fresh hell would you be walking into when you finally checked your phone?

And what about Somi? You’d probably left her with quite the mess after causing such a scene; did the party continue alright? Did you ruin the cheerful atmosphere? You didn’t even get to say goodnight.

And… And Mark, too.

But you weren’t even sure where to start when it came to him.

God. Maybe for the sake of your currently-not-awful mood, you should just not start. About him, or last night, or any of the things that are surely going to be a pain in the ass to deal with in the following days. Those headaches will still be there in a few hours— sorting out the most immediate issue of the person who’s house you’re hiding in, will not.

It’s a sunny, cloudless morning in Seoul.

You turn to the smell of the pancakes and find Jeno standing in his kitchen with one earbud in, back to you. He’s bobbing his head and murmuring under his breath as he flips the batter in the pan, head to toe in what looks to be work-out gear; black leggings under charcoal basketball shorts, one of those skin tight athletic tanks stretched taut across what you can see of his shoulder blades from your dent in his couch.

You’re in the middle of being annoyed at how broad he is when, despite being careful to not to ruffle the blankets or anything, Jeno glances behind him. You’re caught off guard by it— because what the hell? Does he have a secret eyeball hiding amongst those locks of inky black hair?— but then you belatedly understand that it’s the lack of noise that’s tipped him off. With how violently you snore, a sudden silence is basically your jingling cat-bell of attention. Annoying.

“I was just about to wake you up,” he says. “Do you mind flipping the last few of these so I can take a shower really quick? Breakfast is just about done.”

“You went to the gym?”

It’s less a question, more of an observation, but Jeno hums in agreement. “The one in the building, I didn’t leave you for too long. I would’ve waited until tonight if I didn’t already know that you never wake up before 11.”

There’s a momentary blip of something odd in your brain at the concept of him just knowing something like that about you, but it’s gone— by force— as fast as it appears.

“Okay. Just have to flip?”

“Just have to flip.”

And so you just flip. Jeno passes you with a smile as he leaves the kitchen, looking the perfect picture of casual, as if this is an everyday experience. It’s so casual that it makes you wonder how this might look to an outsider, someone with no context for what last night was like— and then it makes you acutely aware of how loudly the 15 year-old version of you would be hollering right now if she could see five years into the future and witness this scene herself. You, in Jeno’s clothes, flipping pancakes in his kitchen on a beautiful Saturday morning, as he showers in the bathroom you’d shared last night, washing the toil and sweat of physical exertion off of his body.

Yeah. Without context? 15 year-old you probably would’ve screamed until her head exploded.

Jeno thankfully isn’t gone for long, and by the time you hear the faucet turn off, you’ve finished with the very last pancake. You pile it on top of the half a dozen others, a beautiful stack of fluffy dough and sugar. (And, okay, sure, you’d gotten a liberal with the chocolate chips on the last few after realizing you’d misjudged the cooking time on some of the earlier ones and left them chocochipless, overcompensating by pouring all of the remaining dollops into the last two or three for the sake of not wasting them— but whatever. Even with the gooey, more-chocolate-than-bread pancakes sitting on top, your work could surely still make the cover of a Martha Stuart cookbook.)

You don’t see him come out because you’re moving the plate of food to his dining table, but you know he’s close because he laughs when he spots the brown pancakes. You know he’s laughing at the brown pancakes, because:

“You’re really pushing the limit of what can be considered breakfast with that last one there, don’t you think?”

“You’re not going to care what meal of the day this is once you actually taste it.”

“Why? Because it’s hard to tell the time when you’re in a sugar-induced coma?”

You sniff. “If you’re so worried about your health you could always let me have it. I made a few that don’t have any chips. You can have those sad ones then.”

A moment passes and you turn to look at him. Bad choice. Hip bones and pale skin everywhere— it’s like a flash-bang of narrow waist, courtesy of Jeno raising his arms (and therefore the hem of his t-shirt) to dry the last drops of water from his hair with the towel he’s brought out with him. You rip your eyes back to setting the table before he notices, feeling like your eyeballs have just been physically zapped.

“I never said I was worried about my health,” he replies, wandering a little further into the kitchen. “Split it with me?”

There’s no need for that. There’s like, three of them. We can each have one. But for some reason you instead say, “Only if I get the half that has more chips.”

“I thought that was already obvious,” he smiles in return.

Fifteen minutes later, with two-thirds of your stack messily decimated and his entire plate basically as clean as it was when it came out of the cupboard, Jeno must decide that your morning of peace has gone on for long enough.

“Mark called me last night,” he announces.

(Technically he says it very normally, at a perfectly acceptable volume for general conversation, but because you’d both lapsed into silence after a few sentences of small talk at the table— a compliment from him about your showcase, about how cool you’d looked up there, how impressive your choreography was; a mumbled thanks from you, that there was another one happening after winter break— it comes out like an announcement anyway. An announcement you’re none too happy to hear.)

You’re hoping he doesn’t notice how your face goes a little stiff. “Did he?”

“Mm. He said he got worried because you weren’t answering your phone.”

You probably would’ve been dodging his calls regardless but the truth is that your phone is still somewhere in Gawon’s car and has probably been since before the party even started. You’d realized that last night, after changing your clothes in his bathroom and not finding it in any of your jacket’s nooks and crannies; seeing in your mind the exact door pocket you’d left it in, then thinking you’d definitely remember to grab it before you got out. You didn’t.

You could only imagine the carnage of notifications you’ve amassed since last night.

“And?”

“And, once I told him you were alright here, he said he’d leave a voice message that he wanted me to pass on to you. I told him I’d let you hear it in the morning once you had the energy, after you slept off whatever was in your system.”

Hesitantly, you meet his eyes.

“Are you ready for that?” he asks carefully. “I haven’t listened to it, if you want to be alone when it plays.”

“What’s the point in that? It’s not like he isn’t going to relay my scolding to you later anyway. Press it.”

“He’s not going to scold you—”

You flick your gaze at him, silently asking if he really wants to get into this again, and apparently he thinks better of whatever gushingly optimistic sentence he’d been about to follow up that observation with. “Please just press it.”

He presses it.

“Hey— Hey, tiger.”

And then Mark is here. Vocally. In the flesh. Through the uncomfortably clear speakers in his best friend’s phone.

“I hope you’re doing better than you were when I last saw you.”

The cadence of his voice twists up your lungs for a reason you can’t immediately place, and then you realize it’s because he’s speaking in English, which he only resorts to when he has too many things to say and not enough ways to say them. This makes your insides sink even further.

“Listen, before I get sidetracked, I want you to know that I know what I did was… stupid. The last thing I should’ve done was help her up after what she said, but I— I was so angry that I wasn’t thinking straight. I didn’t know about any of… that stuff, you and her hanging out or whatever, until she said it, and that probably would’ve ticked me off anyway because of some other things I had going on with her, but then she mentioned whatever happened there— that she apparently left you at some night club, alone, with some fucking guy—?”

A sigh and a ruffle this time, like he’s passing his hand over his face in agitation. It takes so much for him to curse in front of you and yet he’d just dropped the most serious one of them all like it was nothing. But while this would usually send your blood running cold, it doesn’t. Because it… it kind of doesn’t sound like he’s actually mad at you. What?

“I asked her if it was true because I was so... Honestly I didn’t realize how it looked until after you left, you know? Like I was siding with her or something? I asked her if it was true because I couldn’t believe that she’d do something like that to you. Not because I would’ve ever trusted her word over yours or something, she’s already proven… God, okay, this message is already at like, two minutes…”

Another sigh. This one is much more miserable than the previous.

For some stupid, distant reason, as the shock wears on from the realization that he isn’t mad at you, you find yourself wondering if Jeno is having a hard time following along. The only class he’d ever come close to failing in high school was English.

“Can you just call me? Please? Or better yet, can you just let Jeno drive you home? I’ll explain everything so much better once you’re in front of me. M’ sorry, again that I… You’ve got a great right hook by the way. You shouldn’t have punched her, violence is never ever the answer. But she was leaking like a faucet for long after you left, Tiger— might’ve snapped something in there. Really laid her out.” A short, weak laugh, and then,“Yeah. Please call. Or come home? Please.”

The message ends with a cheerful beep.

And you sit there in silence for a good, long moment.

Because that wasn’t anything like the drawing-and-quartering you were expecting.

If anything, Mark actually sounded angry on your behalf. He’d helped Soyeon up, probably without thinking, because he was asking her if she’d really done something that awful to you. Not because he actually…

“You’re gonna let me do what he wants right?”

Jeno’s expression had, at some point during your staring off into space, contorted the closest you think you’ve ever seen it get to an outright, I told you so. And you guess he did. You didn’t get scolded.

“I— I was going to stop at my friend's house to get my phone,” you say, still a little shocked. “Left it in her car last night before I got to the party.”

“Where does she live?”

“Gamyeon.”

Jeno only shrugs. “We'll pitstop then.”

“You— You’re going to drive me all the way to Gamyeon?”

“Isn’t it only twenty minutes out of the way?” He blinks. “How were you going to get it before I was going to take you home?”

“I… I was pretty gungho about sneaking out of here at the crack of dawn via Uber, last night?” It comes out like a guilty question. “I had a bit of a plan of action. But that was before I woke up to the smell of pancakes, of course…”

“The pancakes you didn’t know I was making until half an hour ago? At 11AM?” he asks innocently. “If what you really mean is that getting up at the crack of dawn turned out to be a little ambitious for you, you can just—”

Jeno laughs as your hand shoots out to swat him. He smartly decides to change the subject, and this new topic ends up being about the dishes; specifically about him loading them into the dishwasher while you go and gather your belongings into the little drawstring book bag he’d left by the bathroom for you. When you ask him why you don’t just change back into what you had on last night so he doesn’t have to go without his hoodie and sweatpants for however long it takes you to do laundry, he shrugs it off. “You look more comfortable in this than the dress. And I’m at your place more often than I’m in my own, it’s not like I’ll miss it for too long. Keep it for now.”

(And you can’t argue with that. Especially not when he’s right. These sweatpants are way nicer than the tightly ribbed-nylon of Gawon’s mini dress.)

While brushing your teeth, you wonder what to do with the toothbrush.

Leaving it feels… odd. In a stupid way it almost feels like you’d be leaving it to return to. Like there’s any chance that after today you’ll ever be spending another unannounced night in this apartment, which there isn’t if you’ll have anything to do about it. But taking the toothbrush with you, or throwing it away, feels weird too.

In the end you decide to just toss it in your bag and take it back to Mark’s. Jeno won’t say anything about it, you know he won't, but if he miraculously does seem to care, you can just say that you’ve been meaning to get a new toothbrush and that it’s not like he has any use for this one anymore anyway. Maybe you’ll even offer to give him five bucks to make up for the thievery. (God, why are you thinking so hard about this? Like he's going to waste his time chasing you down for a fucking toothbrush?)

And after all that brainpower he doesn’t even say anything. Once he comes out after using the bathroom himself, if he’s even noticed it missing he doesn’t let it show. He just asks if you’re ready to go, and when you nod, that’s the end of it. He leads you out, follows you down the corridor, and then pushes the button for the elevator to come and pick you both up. Easy as pie.

It’s only when you’re in the descending cabin that it hits you, that this is the last time you’ll be here.

You try not to think too hard about why your lips inherently want to frown at that idea.

Twenty minutes to Gamyeon feels more like five, with how much catastrophizing you’re doing in the passenger's seat. Soyeon and her crew will have surely started the city-wide search for you by now, right? Should you be telling Jeno to take back roads? To roll his windows up on this beautiful late August afternoon, so no one from SNU recognizes either of you from the party and tries to run you both off the road? God.

“Can I borrow your phone?” you blurt.

And even though you’d literally asked him for it, you’re a little astounded when he just hands the thing over without question. You shouldn’t be though. He’d done the same thing with the music change request three weeks ago.

(Still no password, either, when you swipe at the screen. What is this guy's problem?)

“Do you need to call someone?”

“No,” you murmur, already scanning through the pages to find Twitter, “I want to see if Soyeon put a hit out for me yet.”

“What? Why would she do that?”

You blink over, a little dubious that even someone as sweet as him can’t fathom why Soyeon could have it out for you after what you did, but he doesn’t look like he’s joking.

“Uh, I don’t know, Jeno. There’s a possibility that she might be a little upset since I punched her in the face a few hours ago.”

“You didn’t even hit her that hard.”

You balk at him. “Did you not hear the part where Mark said I might’ve broken her nose?”

“I did.”

“And it’s confusing to you that she might be really, really mad at me for that?”

“No,” Jeno mutters. “It’s confusing to me that you think she wouldn’t have come to her senses by now, considering how close she came to getting her ass kicked last night. As far as she knows the only reason you didn’t get to finish her off was because I got in your way. If Soyeon isn’t stupid, she’ll understand that it’s in her best interest to stay off your radar from now on.”

He sounds so unsympathetic that your jaw nearly drops. And he’s not even done. Like your worry has uncorked his own agitation, now.

“I wouldn't have pulled you off of her if I’d known that she was the one who sent that freak out after you behind the bar, by the way. I didn’t hear anything either of you said before you hit her. if I knew why, I would’ve let you get a few more swings in, at least. Sorry.”

“Sorry! You’re apologizing for not letting me beat someone else up?”

“Yes,” he says unflinchingly. “This once. Don’t go around getting in fights for the hell of it though, I won’t be there to haul you to the cool-down corner every time.”

He’s joking now, lightness returning to his smile as he turns into Gawon’s neighborhood, but you’re still a little stuck on how serious he’d gotten just now. Never in your life would you have expected Jeno to be in your corner when it came to your less than stellar impulse control; and not only condone it, but applaud it, just because Soyeon had done something that could’ve gotten you hurt.

...Jeez. Something like appreciation (but more ravenous and embarrassing) worms its way into your heart. You allowed it to simmer there for a one warm, full second before stamping it out with the heel of self-preservation.

You don’t even get to check Twitter. Gawon’s apartment building is more squat than most, only four cozy stories all encapsulated within an open-air stairwell, which means you can keep an eye on Jeno’s car all the way up to your friend’s front door. Coming unannounced, you’ve already prepared yourself for the possibility of her not being home (and therefore having to deal with her scary roommate instead) but thank God, it’s her round sleepy face that opens the door after your quick three knocks against the wood.

She doesn’t remain sleepy looking for long though.

"Holy shit!” And without greeting, Gawon yanks you into her house. “You— Well, first things first, you’re here for your phone, right? Let me go and get it, I brought it inside, but bitch, you have some explaining to do!”

Considering how loud she’s being, the scary roommate must not be home this weekend. You wince. You’ll be getting the full degree, then.

“People are texting me that I haven’t talked to in months just because they know I’m friends with you! Does that make sense?”

“It’s that bad?” you ask warily, as she disappears into her bedroom.

“Bad? Is what bad?”

“Soyeon’s warpath.”

“Soyeon?” Gawon returns to her living room with your phone in hand, eyes wider than you’re expecting. “Uh. No. After last night—” She frowns. “You haven’t talked to your brother yet?”

“No? I haven’t been home since before the showcase. And your car ate my phone so I haven’t really talked to anyone else since last night either.”

But her eyes get even bigger, if that’s possible.

“So you have no idea what happened after Lee Jeno plucked you out of there, then?”

“No.” Your grimace is nearly audible as you sit down, sensing trouble. “You guys didn’t just laugh, turn the music up, and party even harder? You know, like I was hoping you’d all do after that mess I caused?”

“Oh, yeah, we did that,” Gawon says with an unconvincingly casual shrug, before finding your eye and trying (and failing) to hide her widening grin. “After your brother tore Soyeon apart in front of everyone for fucking you over!”

“He— What?”

“Dude, it was crazy, Mark— I don’t think I’ve ever even seen him raise his voice even once but the second the door shut after Jeno took you away, whatever it was she said that made you punch her finally seemed to compute in his head, you know? And he just went, ‘You left her alone with someone she told you was creeping her out?’ like, so loudly that you’d swear it was just the two of them in that whole house!”

For the second time in ten minutes, your jaw has hit the floor.

“And I thought Soyeon would start yelling back at him or something, but she’s just standing there staring at him like she’s stunned, probably that it’s him of all people laying into her, saying that he almost can't believe how selfish and pitiful she is, but oh yeah, yes he can, because only someone that doesn’t have respect for themselves would do she did to him last year; that he would’ve helped her if she just asked. And you should’ve seen her face when he said that. It looked like she’d seen a ghost.And he didn’t even air out whatever it was that she did, which I’m salty about, because… What did she do, you know? I’m so curious! But whatever, that’s not even the best part.”

Not the best part? How? This is pretty fucking insane to you already.

“Mark backed up after dropping that bomb like he was about to leave, to go after you maybe, but then he turned and got right back in Soyeon’s face, and said, ‘I don’t want to see you in front of her again, Soyeon. Take this advice as my parting gift, yeah? Because she’s not going to let you get away with only a graze next time, and you better believe that I’m not going to get in her way either.’” Gawon squeals. “All badass like that, I almost fucking screamed! He and all his friends left after that but I swear everyone was talking about it for the rest of the party. Your brother probably has quite a few new admirers…”

You’re staring at her in an awed silence. Mark stood up for you, too. After hearing everything Soyeon said, he still stood up for you. It really wasn’t like how you thought it went at all.

A few hours ago you’d thought your brother was done with you for real, and that Soyeon would be coming for you with pitchforks for embarrassing her in front of all those people at Somi’s party. And now you’re learning that, without your input at all, those two problems have sort of canceled each other out. Your brother threatened Soyeon into leaving you alone on your behalf.

(And if you weren’t so weirdly flattered, you might’ve been incredibly offended. What is it with him and Jeno and talking like you’re some sort of rabid dog that goes around fucking people up for fun? You’re not that violent!)

“That’s… kind of awesome,” you admit, trying not to smile as you stand up from her couch. “And very, very reassuring. Thanks for the rundown. Maybe I’ll actually be able to show my face on campus on Monday without worrying that I’m about to be struck by a G-Wagon.”

Gawon laughs as she follows you back to the entryway. The two of you chat about a few smaller things before you tell her you have to go, mostly about the plans for dance class on Monday now that the showcase is over and how worried Somi was about you after you left in such a tizzy last night, when she stops you right after cracking open her front door.

“But you know,” she begins, “None of that was what I was referring to when I said you had some explaining to do, missy.”

“It wasn’t?”

“No! Well, people were talking about it, sure, but not nearly as much as the other thing you did in front of everyone last night.”

“Which was?”

“Elope.”

You blink at her.

“I’m talking about the denim-wearing superhero that swooped in to save you from yourself. Hello? Lee Jeno?”

Oh. Your expression flips from confusion to alarm in the blink of an eye.

“People were talking about that? What is there to talk about? He’s my brother's friend!”

“Duh. That’s why people were talking about it. You know how much they love to make up stories about who-was-seen-doing-what-with-who. And honestly even as your friend I have to say that it was pretty fucking crazy last night watching this guy practically teleport across the room to get to you. And yes, you argue that he’s your brother's friend, blah blah, it’s obvious that he’d help, blah, but you fail to notice that Lee Jeno was standing around in a group of all your brother's other friends too. Why didn’t any of the others do something, then? Why specifically Lee Jeno— especially when that guy is the most quiet and subdued of the lot of them? Everyone was tittering about that.”

Her face slips into something a little more suspicious when you only swallow unsurely. Unsure, because you actually don’t know either. You, obviously, had been a little preoccupied before Jeno appeared behind you; you had no clue what he or the others had been doing in the moments before he hauled you outside. Learning that he’d been the only one out of all of them to jump into action makes you feel off-center.

“But as the awesome friend that I am, I told all the people who came up to me looking for details to get lost, because I’d obviously be one of the first to know if you had something going on with Basketball Hottie, and I don’t. And I was telling the truth, right? I would know if something was going on there. Right?”

“Of course!” you reassure quickly. “Which is why you don’t know. Because nothing is going on there. Nothing will be going on. Ever.”

She squints.

“I’m serious! Jeno’s just a really good guy. Super chivalrous, down to the bones. He takes his duty as Mark’s best friend very personally, so he gets involved in stuff with me that the others might not figure out as fast. It’s nothing crazy.”

Another beat passes before she unfurls her arms. “…Okay. I mean, I assumed as much. It makes sense. Especially since Somi said you’ve all known each other for something like, a hundred years— no wonder that he’d basically see you as a sister too after so long, I guess.”

You’re not at all expecting that statement to sting, but it does, in a surprisingly raw way.

At least Gawon doesn’t notice your smile falter, because she’s too busy asking her final question as you step out past her front door. “How’d you get here this early, anyway? Cab?”

“Ah, no. Jeno—”

It comes out without thought, a millisecond before you realize the mistake you’re about to make. Both you and Gawon freeze, staring at each other in the silence that follows, before she goes, “Jeno brought you here? But you said you didn’t go home last night.”

Then, as your head swung back and forth in refusal but no explanation came out with it, she tilted her own head in disbelief. “Where… Where did you sleep, then?”

And the final killing blow comes as her eyes drift down almost absentmindedly to the chest of your gray sweatshirt. Jeno’s sweatshirt. Seoul National University Basketball, it says, splashed boldly across the front. Direct. Recognizable. Unmistakable.

You turn around and start to run right as Gawon gasps in pure, wanton betrayal. There’s no explaining this. Not now. Not today. Even if you had an hour to spare right now to sit down and relay every second that passed last night in a way that made her understand this absolutely isn’t what it looks like— which is that you’re totally lying about nothing going on between you and Lee Jeno— Gawon only believes what her eyes physically see in front of her, and even you aren’t naive enough to think that this won’t be the most glaringly suspicious thing she has ever seen.

You’re halfway down the stairs when her voice catches up with you.

“It’s nothing crazy, huh? It’s nothing crazy, you liar! Just wait until I catch you on Monday, girl! We’ll see exactly what’s not crazy between you and Mr.Chivalrous!”

Approximately two minutes after closing the front door behind yourself after walking into your brother’s apartment, you’re crying again. Mark is too. He’s the one that started it. It’s just a lot of tears all around.

Everything kind of comes out at once. It begins as spewed apologies on both ends for last night specifically— him for ever letting things get bad enough that you’d genuinely think he’d ever choose someone else over you, and you for being such a brat for the last few weeks (the last few months) when you’d always known deep down that he only ever did the things that annoyed you out of desire to keep you safe— and then it unfurls into apologies for everything, eon-old grudges that were held for no other reason than something to lord over the others head, grievances that turned out to just be the miscommunications, the type of things that immediately stop mattering in the long run when people remember that they can lose each other easier than they think.

After about a half an hour of this (what Mark used to call ‘coming home’ when you were younger, the inevitable rekindling after a period of heightened fighting between you both) you both come away with a few things to think about.

For him? It’s official. You’re not a kid anymore, and he shouldn’t still be treating you like one. No more attempting to put curfews on you, or telling you where you can and can’t go, or telling his friends to censor themselves when they’re over because of your precious and innocent ears, amongst his other million older-brother-isms. You’re both adults now. He can suggest things. He can speak to you like he would his friends about the things you do that worry him. No more lectures. (Unless you do something really, unarguably stupid, he caveats.)

For you? A serious, genuine attempt towards better decision making.

You’ve been bestowed a new motto to ponder every time an opportunity arises for mischief in your life. What Would Mark Lee Do? A question meant to make you really think about whether the thing you’re thinking about doing is going to make your brother crazy. And if it is? Then you have to tell him about it in advance, so he can at least bail you out if it goes belly up.

And that’s honestly perfectly fine with you.

The last rule he slips in revolves around your tendency to disappear without warning. Absolutely no more sneaking around, he says. If you exit this apartment when he’s not home, he gets to know about when and where. Not because I don't trust you, he’d been quick to add, but because the world itself can be a scary place sometimes. Which you don’t exactly… disagree with. Especially after this most recent incident at Nabi Bar.

You’d pushed back a little bit on this one though, preemptively annoyed by the thought of having to text him every single time you leave— your friends liked spontaneity, early morning brunches or midnight-sets at EDM pop-ups— and you were a chronic charger-forgetter, often running out of this place with only thirty-percent or less to your name. You didn’t like the idea of his trust teetering on nothing but your (admittedly sub-par) ability to remember to do certain things before you left the house.

Mark only pulled his own phone out in response.

You watched him tap a few things, swipe, and then turn the screen around to show you the order he’d just placed for two succinct little items: a brand new Apple AirTag and a cute, neon-green pom-pom keychain to stick it into.

“To match the color of your phone case,” he said cheerily. “Put it on your keys, and you’ll never have to worry about forgetting! Perfect, right?”

Yep, you smiled sarcastically. Perfect. Like one might an excitable dog, or a toddler with a tendency to run, you’ve been given your very own tracker.

(He knows you’re kidding. It’s built into the Little Sister Gene to complain, but in the grand scheme of things, you’re actually rather pleased by the compromise. Less secrets means less stress, and it’s not like he’s doing it so he can watch you like a hawk or anything— it’s for those times he can’t reach you and just wants to know where you are. You’ll wear that pretty little piece of technology on your wrist like the hottest new Cartier bangle if it means going where you want, when you want, without worrying about worrying your brother.)

It’s half past one when the conversation loosens up to other things, like you demanding the play-by-play of what he’d said to Soyeon and him flushing up to his ears as obliged, embarrassed in hindsight by how angry he’d gotten (but not regretting it, he’d sheepishly admitted), and then to the concept of lunch, Mark offering to fry something up while you get a head-start on the mountain of homework you’ve been neglecting for studio time ahead of the showcase.

It’s a quiet afternoon, which you’re thankful for. Whether it’s because Mark simply hadn’t planned for the others to come over or because he expressly told them not to, it ends up just being you two, a family-sized bag of Doritos, and a few episodes of Running Man.

(You hadn’t realized just how much you missed it until then. How much you missed him. How long it’s been since you’ve done something like this without waiting for the other shoe to drop— for him to get mad at you for something you did or didn’t do, for you to get mad at him for getting mad at you. And it’s kind of embarrassing tearing up while people fall and slip and slide through an obstacle course covered in dish soap, so you tell Mark that it’s because you got a fleck of cool ranch dust in your eye when he turns to look at you after your sniffle comes out a bit wet.

It’s obvious that he doesn’t believe you, and a week ago you can’t help but think that this would’ve led to an interrogation. Is something wrong? What happened? Did something happen? Are you in trouble again? What did you do?

But today he lets it go. He stares at you for a second, hands you a napkin, pinches your cheek, and then lets it go.

And that almost makes you cry again for real.)

The evening sun creeps down in the sky like a thief, a cloudless day melting into a brilliant dusk; all of the windows in Mark’s apartment are drawn and the living room is lit up like the inside of a tangerine lamp. You’re lazing around on the couch while your brother showers, deeply entrenched in a Cup Pong battle Somi (which had only come about after she facetimed you, demanding that you spill all detail about what the hell happened while she was down in the car park last night, to which you’d somewhat begrudgingly relayed the story yet again: Mark, Soyeon, The Punch, Jeno, Jeno’s apartment, etc., and she’d cursed at you for being apologetic for causing a scene in her house because ‘that bitch totally deserved it,’ she insisted) when an unexpected name pops down from the top of your screen.

An unexpected name boasting an even more unexpected message.

[Lee Jeno, 7:12PM] Found your earring in my bathroom

[Lee Jeno, 7:12PM] Guess it fell out sometime last night

[Lee Jeno, 7:12PM] You want me to come drop it off tonight?

[You, 7:12PM] ???

[You, 7:12PM] what sense does that make

[You, 7:12PM] you would come over here just to drop off a singular earring??

[Lee Jeno, 7:12PM] Juyeon is throwing a house warming party three blocks from you guys, I'm already in the area

[You, 7:12PM] oh. well. it’s not like you don’t come over every other day anyway

[You, 7:12PM] just bring it with you next time

[You, 7:12PM]…thank you for finding it though

[Lee Jeno, 7:12PM] No problem

That’s more definitive of a metaphorical hanging-up of the phone than anything, isn’t it? You thought so for about thirty solid seconds, scrolling back over to your thread with Somi and distractedly taking another shot at Cup Pong, before you were proven wrong.

[Lee Jeno,7:13PM] Okay I was also asking because I wanted to see if you were alright

[Lee Jeno,7:13PM] You and Mark, I mean

[Lee Jeno,7:13PM] After I dropped you off this morning I already felt a little bit like I’d thrown you into a pressure cooker with nothing but a thumbs up

[Lee Jeno,7:13PM] Then he texted the group chat an hour later to tell all of us to get lost, that his place was off limits for the rest of the day even though he’d already had a movie night planned. I figured that meant your chat with him either went really, really poorly, or that you two were just catching up and didn’t want to be interrupted

[Lee Jeno, 7:13PM] I thought if I saw you with my own eyes I’d know the difference, but with just the text alone, I’m having a hard time…

Oh. Wow. He’s never texted you this many words or this many times before. And just to check in, too?

[You, 7:14PM] no need to worry !! we made up in a pretty big way actually

[You, 7:14PM] after you left we had the big sit-down and figured a lot of things out

[You, 7:14PM] he probably told you not to come over because he has like eight million Tiktoks he’s been wanting to show me that he couldn’t because we were fighting, and now that we’re okay again he plans on holding me hostage until I laugh at every single one

[You, 7:14PM] these last few hours have been a bit of a nightmare in that sense but otherwise it’s

[You, 7:14PM] good?

[You, 7:14PM] we’re good

[You, 7:14PM] thanks to you

[Lee Jeno, 7:14PM] I’m just happy to be the chauffeur. Nothing to thank me for

Well… Not quite. Usually you can let the bone-deep chivalry slide, it’s his ‘thing’ after all, but this time the consequences of what could’ve happened are too big to ignore.

[You, 7:14PM] there really is, though

[You, 7:15PM] i don't think Mark and I would’ve gotten out of this as intact as we are without you this weekend

[You, 7:15PM] i really, really do need to thank you

[You, 7:15PM] for this morning

[You, 7:15PM] and for last night

More memories flutter by, different iterations of Lee Jeno unarguably saving your ass from some sort of peril, and you grimace further.

[You, 7:15PM] and two weeks ago, for Nabi Bar.

[You, 7:15PM] and last week, for Wooyoung’s party

[You, 7:15PM] thanks for… everything, really.

[You, 7:15PM] i’m happy you’re Mark’s friend

His bubble comes up for a long, long time after your last message. You watch it disappear and reappear at least twice before his next message comes in… and even then it’s woefully short for how long he’d taken to type it.

[Lee Jeno, 7:16PM] What do you mean?

[You, 7:16PM] i mean that I’m happy Mark… has you

[You, 7:16PM] there aren’t many people that would be nearly as cool as you’ve been about babysitting their best friends sibling so many times, is what I’m saying

[Lee Jeno, 7:16PM] But I wasn’t babysitting you.

Oh. Is that what this air of confusion is about? Semantics? Jeno, the thoughtful guy that he is, not wanting you to see what happened this weekend as babysitting because he doesn’t want to hurt your big-girl feelings?

[You, 7:17PM] ah

[You, 7:17PM] okay

[You, 7:17PM] we won’t call it that, then!!

[You, 7:17PM] Mark is still lucky to have you though

[Lee Jeno, 7:17PM] I didn’t do anything that I did last night because I was thinking about your brother

Again, you can only blink. A reply from Somi pops down for half a second before you swipe it away to reread Jeno’s last text, sitting up in confusion.

[You, 7:12PM] then why did you do it?

[Lee Jeno, 7:12PM] Because it was you

[Lee Jeno, 7:12PM] Nabi Bar, Wooyoung’s, last night, all of it. Everything. The only thing I was thinking about was you.

[Lee Jeno, 7:12PM] Mark didn’t have anything to do with it. He stopped having anything to do with it the second you came back to Seoul.

In the minutes you’ve been focused on the screen, the sunset has bled away most of its brilliant orange. Now the sky is more purple than anything, pale lilac peeking through the buildings across the street. Along with the lack of sunlight, the temperature seems to have dropped in the apartment; the air conditioner’s breeze threatening to raise goosebumps along your cheeks and thighs and knees now that the sun isn’t here to combat it.

But you’re not feeling cold. Quite the opposite, actually.

In a matter of seconds you’ve actually begun to emanate enough heat to rival your elderly Toshiba laptop from 2012.

Your brain kind of feels like that Toshiba too. Like you’ve just clicked the left mouse one too many times and now 100 tabs have all opened up at the exact same instant, all playing the same snippet of audio at maximum volume— You. You. Thinking about you. About you. Worried about you. Just about you— all of them desperately trying to frame those words in a way that doesn’t set off the crush of childhood’s past laying dormant in your head.

But even the delusional part of your brain is pulling a blank on this one.

Because while you may be unhinged about Jeno most of the time, you are not unhinged about Jeno all of the time, and there are moments when even you can’t rationalize your way out of what’s staring you right in the face. Sometimes, however rarely, you see things for what they really are. Or what they are not.

And the string of texts that Jeno has just sent to your phone is not, in any conceivable way, a conversation that makes sense, when not even 24 hours ago you and Jeno essentially shook on the fact that everything would be going back to normal after last night. So we’re okay, he asked. We’re okay, you’d said. And you took that to mean things were on track to return to status quo. You’d go back to greeting each other when he came over, the occasional small talk and string of jokes, nodding at each other on campus, that sort of thing. You’d go back to just being the peripheral little sister. He’d go back to just being your brothers friend. The way life was before that night at Nabi Bar.

But in what world does, ‘He stopped having anything to do with it the second you came back to Seoul,’ fit into that equation at all? In fact— doesn’t that break the equation entirely?

Because what… what would you be to him then, without Mark?

Your lungs stutter a little wantonly. You don’t think you’ve ever asked yourself that question. And now that you have, your mind is prodding at doors it’s never acknowledged the existence of before. When you imagine yourself in his eyes, it’s only ever been through the relationship you have with his best friend; and that, in turn, has colored the way that you react to every single thing he does or says.

If he’s saying now that’s not how he sees you and that’s not how he’s been seeing you, then that re-contextualizes… quite a few things, doesn’t it?

The last three weeks of him going out of his way to help you, for one?

Your phone buzzes again in your palm.

[Lee Jeno, 7:14PM] Things are getting kind of crazy over here, Juyeon just brought out a t-shirt gun so I think I have to go

[Lee Jeno, 7:14PM] Mark moved movie night to Tuesday. I’ll bring your earring over then, so make sure you’re home. Maybe you can also explain why your toothbrush is missing from my bathroom.

Sure. Perfect. Any way to avoid replying to the previous batch of texts, you’ll accept in a heartbeat. You fire off some half-baked response, a few ‘ha-ha, yeah, totally’s, to disguise just how hard the gears in your head are spinning, though nothing feels very ha-ha yeah once you fling the phone away. You slump back against the couch cushions, even more mentally exhausted than you’d been a few hours ago with Mark.

The only thing I was thinking about was you.

What an insane thing to say, you miff, belatedly embarrassed. You can almost see his mouth forming the words, his voice as deep and annoyingly honest as always. What the hell are you doing, Lee Jeno?

Shit. Are you just reading way too far into this? Or are things really not nearly as okay between you both as he wants you to think they are?

[★]; [MISDIAL MASTERLIST] [PREVIOUS PART] [NEXT PART]

a/n: please let me know what you think, this chapter beat my ass left right and sideways... ontwards ch7 my friends...

a/n ii: this chapter is dedicated to @jnnul btw their mention of misdial on their tumblr wrapped cheered me up enough to force myself to sit down and figure this fucking story out LOL

[drowned-captain]

The Rebound - Pitfighter!Vi x Fem!Reader - Ch. 1

A/N: Hellooo this idea came to me in my mind brain. This is going to take place during the time of Vi’s pitfighter era (duh). I’m kinda hitting the ground running with this one, so bear with me lol. I’m aiming for some angst and drama! This is pretty much the first fic I’m writing so I hope you readers enjoy! I’m also writing this on mobile (and I’m kinda new to posting on tumblr) so I apologize for any possible weird formatting. This will most likely be a multi-part story :) Constructive criticism is greatly appreciated!

MDNI! (18+ only).

TW// Mature themes like violence, drinking, possible drug use, infidelity, mean/triggering thoughts

Summary: You are a Zaunite going through a breakup. Your partner was once your entire world for nearly three years until you had enough of them going behind your back. After being reclusive in your home for weeks, you decide to rejoin society. You find yourself curious about Zaun’s latest fighting champion, but she might have other intentions with you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You are laying in your bed like you have been for the past few hours. Or has it been days? Weeks? Who knows. The only time you made yourself get up was to grab a snack or to go to the bathroom. Other than that, being curled up in a bunch of blankets has been all the comfort you can give yourself without the usual embrace of your ex-partner. You have a photograph of the two of you pinched between your fingers, the image blurry from the pooling of tears in your eyes. You adjust your head on your pillow slightly to lay your cheek on a dry spot, inhaling deeply through your nose and cringing at the snot retreating back into your nostrils.

You roll over on your bed, facing the empty spot next to you. Your face crinkles in sadness at the absence of the person you considered your everything. In frustration, you shove the pillow next to yours and it falls off the bed, hitting the floor softly. Your mind wandered to how many people that lying rat had laid down in the bed you two shared. Your fist clenches in rage, and you merely slam your fist at the spot next to you. Your hand just bounces easily, encouraging you to sit up and toss the picture you were holding elsewhere as you slammed your fists into the bed. A frustrated scream escapes your lips before you tire yourself out, leaving you panting and wiping tears, snot, and saliva off of your face with your already soggy sleeves.

You remain seated there on your knees, just staring at the ruffled mess underneath you. The anger and sadness in your mind tore each other apart like a couple of fighting cats, and you slump into yourself. You finally pick your head up and look around your room, and all you see are reminders of them. Photographs, trinkets, and clothes that they couldn’t come collect because you were serious when you told them to never come back. You know that you’ll have to return them eventually, but it’s just too painful to even touch their possessions. You’ve had enough of surrounding yourself with these painful memories.

You bring your shirt to your nose and take a congested whiff, and despite having your nose compromised your head recoiled at your own stench. Groaning, you scooted yourself off of your bed. Your knees and ankles popped from not being used in a while as you walked to the bathroom. You glanced at yourself in the mirror and sighed at your state.

Your hair was stuck to your face from the tears, your eyes were swollen and red, entire face shiny from the oil buildup. You have to pull yourself together, girl!

After a much needed shower, you felt a little bit better. You wandered off back into your bedroom, briefly glancing out of the curtain on your window to see what time of day it was. It appeared to be later in the day, maybe too late to go out and actually do something. However, the pain from your surroundings was enough of a deterrent to encourage you to step out anyways.

You threw on some casual clothing, finishing it off with some light makeup. For the first time in a while, you felt pretty. It was almost like a little makeover for your depressed self… but you would’ve felt a lot better about it if the makeup you used wasn’t one of your many “I’m sorry” gifts from your ex lover.

You sigh, slipping some shoes on before locking your place and heading out into the streets of Zaun. It didn’t seem like much changed around the street except for the growing trend of people dying their hair blue.

Zaun’s noises were a much needed change from the echoing of your own sobs in your bedroom. You keep your head low as you wander around. You don’t really care where you end up— you just have to get some (not so) fresh air. You pretend not to hear whistles that you know are directed at you. In another world, the attention might have been nice. You left your apartment feeling pretty, but your mean mind once again beats you down.

‘If you were as pretty as you think you are, you wouldn’t have been cheated on. You weren’t pretty enough to them since they did what they did MULTIPLE times.’

You shake your head, feeling tears threatening to gather along your waterline. You sniffle and pick your head up, looking up at the darkened, foggy sky to blink the tears away. As your head returns to a neutral position, your eyes catch a glimpse of some posters on the wall that you walked along. The wall had many of the same poster, but most of them had been drawn on with blue spray paint. Your analytical eyes were quick to find a readable one.

It said something about where to place bets for tonight’s match in The Pit. There were the names of some contestants listed below, but you couldn’t care less about the names of the people getting their teeth punched out tonight. Judging by the distant noise, it doesn’t seem like it’s too far at all. However, the crowd of people coming towards you— some cheering and some angry — tells you that you just missed the fight. Oh well.

You walked against the crowd, letting yourself keep walking. There was distant music that was getting closer and some colorful lights coming from many buildings. You looked around, realizing that you had wandered into the ‘livelier’ strip of Zaun. People walking by smelled of alcohol, sex, and cigarette. This would normally bother you or warrant your face scrunching up, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care at the moment.

With your shoe dragging to a stop, you look around the area and contemplate going back home for a few seconds. But you shake your head.

“No, I’m tired of being at the apartment. I’m going to treat myself,” you say to yourself with a determined look on your face.

“Treat yourself to a psych ward if you’re going to stand there talking to nobody,” says a random guy to your left. A bouncer.

You turn to face him, your face twisting into an awkward smile.

“You gonna go in or not?” He asks, crossing his arms. You look past him, your eyebrows raised at the amount of people in there. You can hear the bass of the music booming through the walls.

“Uh.. sure. Yeah. I’ll give this place a shot,” you say, clicking your tongue and winking at him for your lame pun. He just scoffs and stands aside, opening the door to let you in.

When you step inside, you contemplate turning right back around. There are so many people in here that you can feel sweat landing on you from all the dancing people. You awkwardly shimmy your way through the crowd until you reach the bar area. A groan escapes your mouth when you see that the bar is also pretty backed up. But alas! Someone gets off of one of the barstools. You shove your way past people and take a seat, sighing at the slight relief of not being elbowed or having your shoes stepped on by people lost in the music.

The bartender makes eye contact with you, and you yell out for two shots of raspberry vodka. After a few moments, the bartender slides two shot glasses of the tinted liquid in front of you.

As you reach for the glass on the right, a bandaged hand has already grabbed it.

“Thanks,” says the woman, throwing her head back and downing the shot before slamming it down on the counter. Her forehead bonks onto the counter as well, black hair sprawling out.

Your mouth is agape and your hand is still in midair above where your now empty shot glass rests. Your eyebrows furrow in irritation, and you nudge the drunk girl’s shoulder with your hand.

“Hey! That was not for you. You’re going to have to pay for that shot,” you say. The woman rolls her head to the side, an annoyed scowl on her face.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” she growls, her words slurring. She peels her face off of the counter and runs a hand through her hair, fixing her bangs into place.

Before you can say something to defend yourself, you close your mouth upon seeing those wrapped up hands of hers; the bandages on her knuckles were stained with blood. Her glossy eyes meet yours, the scowl on her face relaxing a bit upon seeing your face.

‘This girl is probably one of those fighter people. Better not agitate her even more.’

You quickly break the eye contact and grab your only shot left and down it, feeling the burn all the way down to your stomach.

“Who are you anyways? You don’t look like you belong here at all,” she says, leaning in a bit so you can hear her past the music.

You honestly can’t tell if she’s trying to find a reason to escalate a fight or if she’s genuinely trying to have a conversation. Glancing at her, you can see bruises on her face even underneath her smeared, black makeup.

“This was the only free seat,” you say, not making the contact with her in fear that you’ll get socked in the jaw. What if she perceives eye contact as a threat?

“Lucky me,” the girl says with as she plops her chin onto the counter. You breathe a sigh of relief now that her posture is a bit more relaxed.

“So do you have a name or not?” she asks again.

Finally turning your head to look at her properly, you answer, “It’s definitely not as important or well known as yours might be.”

Her silvery eyes glance up at you, “You watch the fights then?”

“I can assume that you’re one of those pit fighters judging by your, um…” you look at her bloody knuckles once more and at the bruises on her face, “demeanor.”

The woman lets out a laugh, “You’re a such a dork,” she slurs, picking her head up. “You could just say no. But I’ll have you know that I’m at the top of the food chain in that pit. You should come see me.” She flexes her bicep, and you glance at her beefy arm before looking back at her smug face. Drunk people are so damn weird.

“….Right,” is all you can say.

“Now how about that name of yours?” She asks with a smile, “I would like to know the name of the lady who bought me a shot.”

“I didn’t b— ugh.. whatever. It’s (y/n).”

“I like that name. Caitlyn is such a pretty name,” she says, smiling weakly.

“I said (y/n).”

“That’s what I said. (Y/n).”

You roll your eyes and disengage from the conversation by turning slightly away from her in your seat.

“You’re not going to ask me my name?” She asks, using her foot to turn your barstool back to her.

“…What’s your name?”

“Vi,” she answers, resting her head on her hand. You just nod, feeling awkward. Needing more liquid confidence, you wave the bartender down again and order a lemondrop martini.

“A martini, huh? Aren’t those usually called princess drinks?” Vi says with a wink.

“Since when?” you raise one of your eyebrows at her. Vi just laughs.

After the bartender brings you your drink, you take a sip and cough a bit at the strength of it.

“You don’t drink very often. I can tell,” Vi says with a playful smile.

“You seem to drink too much judging by your behavior,” you retort. You somewhat chug the rest of the martini, already feeling the buzz in your head. You order shot after shot, not really paying attention to the flirtatious stuff that Vi is telling you. You wonder if your ex lover did the same shit to the people they brought to your bed.

“I’m just having fun,” Vi says, having ordered some beverage for herself and taking a swig.

“No you’re not,” you say, the alcohol helping you speak your mind, “If you’re anything like me, you’re here to forget. To numb some type of pain.”

Vi’s face and body language went from drunken flirt to mild shock.

“Yeah,” you say, looking at her, “I don’t belong here, you’re right. But neither do you, is what I’m thinking. That’s what I’m reading off of you.”

Vi lowers her drink, staring at you.

“See, you know I’m right ‘cause you have nothing to say,” a smile on your face as your words slur.

Vi’s face turns into a scowl again, “You don’t know a damn thing about me.”

“I don’t want to know a damn thing about you,” you bark, narrowing your eyes at her, “So stop flirting with me and get a grip.”

Vi stands up from her seat, her body tense. A bearded man who sat on the other side of her put his hand on her shoulder, making her sit back down. You were scared for a brief second, but you didn’t let it show. Thank goodness Vi had some sort of friend with her to keep her in check.

You reach into your pocket and pull out your wallet, leaving some cash on the counter.

Vi looks at her friend, briefly coming to her senses. She then huffs, her attitude completely changing. She takes a few gulps of her drink before saying, “You should really get a grip on yourself too, then. Don’t let it get like this,” she glances down at herself.

You don’t say anything in response, but you know she’s right. You have to practice what you preach.

You wave the bartender down once more, making a gesture. The bartender comes back with two plastic cups of clear liquid, and you push one towards Vi.

“Sober up, Vi,” you say. You stand up from your seat and take your cup of liquid, making your way through the crowd towards the exit.

Vi grabs the cup you left, taking a sip and expecting it to burn, but it doesn’t. It’s just water.

End of Ch. 1

[pumpkinstrawbrew]

What scares the Batman, I wonder?

(this my quick birthday gift from me to well, uh ... me lol. i rarely do stuff like this, but this year i thought hey, why not drawn smth special for myself. not in terms of composition or anythin', just smth that means a lot to me. thefore, this sorta / kinda redrawn was born!

i feel like pretty much all of my BTAS arts are connected. even if they depicting a different timelines, therefore slightly different vibes an' points of bats an' crow's relationships as well. that's in a way mirrors this. illustrating all the different ways one can go onto their knees in front of someone. scarebat really takes it on a next level.

i know, that stuff like this might seem hella small to someone, but as a person, who always loved playing out stories an' imagine alternative bits to episodes inside my head, suddenly finding myself back with btas an' most of all finding out the mystery behind my facination with 'nothing to fear' episode was smth big for me. so really, it's all about my sentiment an' thought that i would have actually loved to work on comics or cartoon that have smth to do with batman or spider-man. there are still so many-many amazing stories you can tell with those characters an' their villains. it happened a year ago, but it's like ohh, oh. i see.

but anyways, yeah. there isn't any story behind this art. just a tribute to that scene, that pair an' smth for me to look back an' giggle about. also there is a tradition from where i'm from to treat the guests with 'cake' or any foods on your bd. so here is that too, which is why i posted this to begin with. sure, it's tiny smth, but maybe someone will have fun with that one.

*anyho', happy birtday to me, i guess an' a very swell, nice day to you! whatever wacky, fun thing you wanna do today, you have my blessing!*)

[sanguineterrain]

hiya sanne!

i think i read somewhere that new jersey doesn’t allow people to pump their own gas? anyway, been thinking about an out of state reader that doesn’t know this and hates getting gas (especially in the winter). jason volunteers to go fill her car up and then it just becomes a routine for him to fill her car up. reader’s always talking about what a good boyfriend jason is for pumping her gas and all the native new jersey folks are looking at him with wtf expressions and he’s making violent slicing motions behind her back. not really meant to be a story request or anything, but just a funny little moment that won’t leave my head.

xoxo sunnie @sunnie-angel

Hi sunnie 🫶🏼 yes nj is actually the only state in the country where it's illegal to pump your own gas! To add onto your thought (which I love) I'm picturing reader eventually being there in the car with Jason when he stops for gas and she sees the attendant fill the tank and is so impressed that Jason's so tight with the workers that they fill up his tank for free. Like wow! Her boyfriend's got pull! She thinks it's a Wayne thing, or maybe Jason's specifically befriended them as the Red Hood. She doesn't brag of course because she doesn't want other people to be jealous that her boyfriend is just that cool 🩷

Also side note but pumping his own gas feels like one of those harmless illegal things Jason would do just to be rebellious. Bad boy alert!

[nightly-valkyrie]

Im doubling down,, this is evidence Ariane and Elster loved Falke back to some degree. They just could never love her as anything other than Falke meanwhile she only ever wanted to be seen as Ariane/Elster

Good morning gamers here's that artifact ending secret I uncovered. It's going under a read more for people who don't want artifact ending spoilers.

Also you might turn to turn your brightness up or look on desktop because this game is really really dark sorry

Okay so under normal circumstances there are six graves each with an Elster behind them, but the one at the top of the screen you can't actually see the model behind it

You can just barely tell there IS someone back there but not who it is. I always assumed it was just another Elster model. But it's not.

IT'S FALKE

Literally making me crazy like what does this mean

[kawa-goat]

General Thoughts on Buried Secrets (Hello Neighbor)

Not sure if I'd classify this as a rant post or not. Spoilers ahead, obviously.

If some of my points don't make sense, we can discuss it in the comments. It's 1AM by the time I'm writing this post, so forgive me if the text feels all slammered and not cohesive.

Took me a decade to finish it, but the secrets were unburied (like Jay would say).

And holy crap, I have pretty strong feelings about this book.

Okay, it's not that bad, but comparing to the previous two... it felt flat. I don't know how the explain it in more cohesive terms, but it didn't hit the same way the previous two did.

First, I like the ending. Though it ended on a pretty sad note, this is exactly what the Nicky trilogy (it feels surreal to actually type that) was leading up to.

The very prologue of Missing Pieces is a warning for Nicky to stop wandering, else he'd not make home some day. Nicky's character in general is centered around that: wandering.

"Oh, but what happened after he got kidnapped? What about Nicky's friends? How did he escape?"

Questions like this come from a misunderstanding. The books aren't meant to be your introduction to the lore. They're meant to be an additional piece of information, for those that were curious about the world of Hello Neighbor and wanted to know more about the past.

The true story is told in the games. Make no mistake—Hello Neighbor is a gaming franchise. The story originates from the games.

The ending of Buried Secrets is one-to-one with Act 1 for a reason. You're meant to read these books with the knowledge from the games. So that when you read the trilogy, you went: "Oh, so that's how it happened."

At least, this should be in theory. The sad reality is that games just fucking suck in storytelling and gameplay, to the point where the actual plot is shoved aside for other matters. That's why, in most cases for fans, the books act as an introduction to the story of the games, instead of how it should be in the other way around.

This is why Buried Secrets ends in this cliffhanger way. It's a prequel of the games, but it isn't meant to be an introduction. It's meant to be an additional explanation. You can blame the games' lack of quality for this.

Anyway, I liked the ending because it tied up Nicky's wandering arc in a pretty neat way.

... And that's it. That's literally the only thing that I like about this book. Everything else feels forced just to reach this specific ending.

I'm not sure if Carly was forced to make this a trilogy, but either way this definitely harmed the pacing and plot. Every character is written in a specific way that feels a little unrealistic based on the previous books.

See, Nicky is supposed to break into Peterson's house alone, without the help of his friends. Their method of justifying this is by having literally everyone in town suspecting that Nicky was the one behind the weird activities. No matter how illogical that seems.

My biggest complaint is Maritza.

Like, I won't lie that she isn't reasonable at first glance. Maritza is tired of fighting. She wants to move on. She thinks Nicky is changing for worse because of his obsession with the case. This is all understandable.

The problem is, instead of trying to convince him to move on, she would rather believe he did all of this to frame Peterson specifically? Despite knowing what Theodore's capable of, she'd rather believe that her closest friend would lie to everyone just to convince them of something they were already certain (that Theodore is fucking dangerous)?

I get they tried to apologize to Nicky by the end of the book, but it's too little and too late. Yeah, Peterson framed Nicky in an ill-timing, but would Nicky's only friends believe he'd actually do all of this ALONE?

It just doesn't feel natural.

The beginning and middle part of the book is literally Nicky getting kicked around like an abused puppy and being lonely again. The latter chapters, as well as Jay and Lu, kinda hard carries the entire book. Earthpro is not as interesting as it was in Waking Nightmare. And Buried Secrets tries really hard to get you to hate Trinity and Maritza with the "we are changing clubs" thing.

Overall, I wouldn't say It's a bad book, but definitely the weakest and most surreal among the three.

[hermanoga]

Can't re-watch without overthinking, there are parallels with Xu Shanshan 's story?

this is ep 8, season 1 where Xu Shanshan comes as a customer in the time photo studio. Lu Guang asks her why didn't she ask Dong Yi herself afterwards if she cared so much?

Xu Shanshan answers : It's because I care so much, that's why I couldn't bring myself to ask. I'm so afraid that the answer is not going to be what I think it is.

Lu Guang stares for a while, our gaze is focused on Lu Guang and then he declares that they are gonna 'help'. Xu Shanshan came as a customer, Lu Guang after some consideration decided to 'help' without taking any money for exchange. After re-thinking a lot of other parallel stories, I can say this is one of those moments where Lu Guang feels the personal tug to help. It resonates with him.

Later Cheng Xiaoshi while diving in Xu Shanshan 's body converses with Dong Yi and when Dong Yi says

Dong Yi : I still have to choose to leave eventually.

Now we hear Cheng Xiaoshi saying, 'Leave?'

While watching this section, I could feel one thing, the original emotion may belong to Xu Shanshan but Cheng Xiaoshi really mixes it with his own subjectivity, it's not really Dong Yi directed anymore (actually it was never Dong Yi directed anyway, Cheng Xiaoshi was reluctant to dive because they were not getting paid for this). The song Cheng Xiaoshi sings...I am pasting the youtube link below.

I am mentioning a few lines from the lyrics

There are still endless words to say But the wind reminds us to go Only laughter and tears will be left behind Left behind in the summer of this year Regarding the future, there is too much doubt left unanswered About bread, about ideas There is also the ordinary and the mighty Just like that, we depart Goodbye ,to those of you who are in a hurry like me ... Time will give answer to growth ... River will give answer to wave Together we leap into the sea of people And be a surging wave

The melancholic yearning mixed with the concern of time and the ocean and wave imagery makes me think that this song goes more with Shiguang.

Let's just reminisce a few lines from OPs and EDs

Dive back in time

All the heartaches and the smiles never faded I know you'll be by my side when we make it

The Eye

I wish that I could tell you the truth

The Tides, Vortex, The Eye have multiple ocean/wave metaphor.

Also, there are some interesting shots that appear on the screen when Cheng Xiaoshi is about to begin singing

This seems to be Guidu's basketball court.

I don't think either Xu Shanshan or Dong Yi have anything to do with that scene. It's Cheng Xiaoshi's memories getting triggered by the word 'leave' and it also echoes the themes of the song 'Mao Buyi'. Now, after watching Yingdu episode 1, we know what basketball symbolism is in the context of Shiguang.

Lu Guang is really really moved. Look at his face, his expression screams that he very much understands that melancholy. And it is Cheng Xiaoshi singing so...I can't fathom (😭) what Lu Guang might be feeling at this moment.

Now.

There are a few lines Lu Guang notes from Dong Yi's speech to Xu Shanshan :

No matter how hard the future might be, I want to stay. Because leaving you, hurts more than anything else.

Either Yingdu episode 1 is making me hallucinate or this really is the reason Lu Guang stayed with Cheng Xiaoshi and promised he would never leave.

i have an exam on 3rd Jan and I am not liking, I crode.

[bloogers-boogers]

One of my favorite headcanons of Adam is that he hates liars which is why he's bluntly honest to people even if he's a dick about it. He can tell a liar a mile away and that's thanks to Lucifer, Lilith and Eve. The first lie detector ~~

And all his kids knows this, so when someone suggests on lying to Adam they immediately put that idea down cause it'll grant doom. They always choose a plan over lying.

St Peter: "just lie to your dad about speaking to Emily! He doesn't need to know about the plan of us forming a group against exterminations."

Abel: "Off the table. Anything else you suggest for us to do? We have to make sure our plan is Lute proof or he'll catch us."

St Peter: "Just tell him where going for a sleepover."

Abel: "no."

St Peter: "Look. I know you're upset at the thought of lying to your dad cause you love him a lot, and killing sinners is just a "hobby" that makes him REALLY happy, but, this is for the greater good. And it'll be healthy for the both of you if all of this stops. You'll have your dad back. End of story. Y'know what? What the heck, I'll do it myself!"

Abel: "No! WAIT—!"

*Adam slurping his smoothie somewhere in heaven*

St Peter: "Hey, Adam! Just letting you know I'm taking Abel to a sleepover with Emily."

Adam *skeptical*: "you two aren't fucking are you?"

St Peter *blushing hard*: "Oh HEAVENS NO! I would never!"

Adam *threatening*: "why? He's not hot enough for you?"

St Peter: "what!? No! I'm just! It's not—!"

Adam: "pch. Whatever, he's too out of your league anyways. I have an eye on some angel who will make the perfect match for him.

Adam *calling one of his exorcist out*: "Clitorisha! This twink isn't in to him! You can totally make your shot. NOT that sort of shot! Put the arrow down!"

St Peter: *eye twitching* "so... does that mean it's totally cool if I take him to the sleepover?"

Adam: "oh fuck no. I know he's over two thousand years old but I know you fuckers are about to go behind my back and call out quits on exterminations. Just wanted you to admit you're not into my Abby for my girl to make her move. Bye bitch!"

~~~~~

Angel Dust: "we don't actually have to tell him?"

Cain *boredly taking a sip of vodka*: "he'll know."

Charlie: "Maybe if we're careful enough he won't find out! We could hide the decorations in my closet!"

Cain: "he'll still know."

Angel Dust: "c'mon man you've been turning down all of our ideas. He ain't that hard to trick or smart."

Charlie: "yeah, Cain... lets avoid using the word 'trick' on Adam, please Angel...? He's very sensitive about it. But Angel is right! You're dad can't be hard to surprise! Everyone likes surprises!"

Cain: "say thanks to your dad for making him basically impossible to surprise! He's literally the only human being I know who HATES surprises."

*Cuts to them turning to look at Lucifer '(>:3)' who was attempting to surprise attack Adam from behind his back.*

Adam: *immediately summons his axe sending Lucifer to another room with a blast*

Cain: "Told yah. My pa hates that."

[monstersandmaw]

Seeing that spicy Lady Krampus art I just reblogged made me remember a half-finished (pun not intended) sapphic werewolf story I started a while back and abandoned to my drafts folder, featuring a big, buff, gruff werewolf mercenary lady who encounters a local femme, and falls tail over tea-kettle for her in about five seconds flat.

Werewolf merc is hired to rescue a few of the village girls who were taken by a band of brigands, and the femme refuses to stay behind when she learns that someone is actually going to go and get those girls back. Werewolf and femme bicker and bond a bit en route, and if the werewolf's reward isn't just in coin when they return to the village... well...

Would anyone be interested in reading that? wlw stuff gets the least amount of interactions on here out of all my stuff, so I don't know if that's a skill issue thing in my writing, or just an audience thing...

Let me tell you I nearly made the '100% yes' option just 'woof'

[lasnevadaslaborunion]

Okay, finally caught up on the full VOD and here are some messy thoughts

...

So. UHHH. On a gut emotional level, I fucking hated that lmao. Whole chapter of my life finished with a bang and a whimper. Las Nevadas Labor Union is over, y'all. The boss just deny, defend, deposed himself. Holy shit.

On an intellectual, thematic level... I... can't really... argue with that? Like, we didn't actually expect a character that cc!Q explicitly said was inspired by Walter White to receive a happy ending or a functional relationship, did we? We were really high on our copium supply, good grief.

I could, and still might, write a whole meta about how c!Quackity has been passively suicidal with a foreshortened sense of future for a very long time. As far back as Doomsday, he didn't care if he lost his life, as long as he got to watch those who hurt him go down first. He declared so many times that he would die with his country. He was incessantly compared to c!Wilbur, both by other characters and by the narrative itself. He was fucking terrified of being betrayed again, but he always expected it, and moreover did nothing to prevent it. He told c!Foolish and c!Purpled outright that they would have every right to kill him for what he did to them. Didn't even consider making himself immortal with the revival book, instead focusing on making sure c!Dream would no longer have it. Didn't fight back when Slime killed him. Doubled down on his mistakes, and in hindsight rationalized everything as inevitable. Wrested back control the only way he knew how, following another's model. Las Nevadas was a broken institution, built by a man who had given up on fixing anything. His story was always about the self-perpetuating cycle of power and abuse.

This... isn't shocking, unfortunately. If anything, it was too obvious an ending.

I won't go too deep into the OOC implications, because they will make me sound... way more parasocial than I want to be. But I don't think it's controversial to say that the DSMP holds a lot of complicated, difficult, bittersweet memories for many of its former members. It does not surprise me at all that the ending cc!Q chose for his arc was an unhappy one. There are several possible conclusions I would have greatly preferred, but none could have realistically happened without Certain People returning. I wonder how aware the creator was of that, and how much those emotions bled into the writing.

And while I'm... still not certain how I feel about c!Quackity blowing himself up even after being given a second chance (I will always prefer "live and try to do better" à la Bojack Horseman for characters like this), I see the in-universe logic behind it, and everything up to that point was completely in character. Right down to his denial of having ever done the deed, boasting that his enemies deemed him important enough to kill, while ironically taking hollow pride in denying them the chance to take the revenge he so desperately sought for himself, showing no mercy to who he maybe subconsciously believed was his greatest obstacle to true glory... ughhh, c!Quackity makes me so fucking SAD you guys-

Ahem. Anyway. Could he have forgiven himself? Would he have ever accepted the forgiveness of others? Perhaps, perhaps not. In two other lives, those he unknowingly gave a second chance to, he did. q!Quackity went on living for the sake of someone he loved, knowing he, too, was loved. k!Quackity went on living until he found justice, knowing he did not deserve to be wronged. c!Quackity... what other legacy would he have left? Does he know what he truly wanted, before all that fear and hunger for control tainted his heart? Was he content to know someone would remember him with a shred of fondness? That he left a single positive impact? That his life did have a purpose?What if he knew that even some of those with the most reason to hate him still wanted him to be better?

I suppose one might imagine an open-ended resolution, exchanging that last shot of c!Q's last life vanishing with him riding Boner/Ossium away from the explosion and into the sunset to build a better legacy. What would that new legacy look like? I have no idea. I don't think he knows yet, either. But we can pick our favorite based on the day. Time travel is real, and canon is made up. We can do what we want forever now. Enjoy.

...

He's not a fucking gringo, though. c!Quackity is Mexican, importantly so, full fucking stop. Stop infecting him with more Trump particles than he already had. "Oh great, a foreigner" honestly FUCK you Alex. 0/10 for that

[scrapyardboyfriends]

I'm glad Emmerdale are finally getting rid of some of these characters. Nate and Will and Wendy and such have been on my axe list for years and characters like Ella never worked anyway. But I do share others concern that they're axing mostly non Dingle characters other than Nate and the show desperately needs to expand beyond the Dingles if it wants to survive. I was even thinking about the teens and I feel like half of them are related to each other so the dating pool just gets smaller and smaller, which is an issue.

I feel like if they want to get rid of Dingles, Sam and Lydia would be where I would start honestly, and Belle. Of course I'd feel bad for the actors but from a story potential perspective, Belle has really been exhausted over the years and especially with this latest story. I'd honestly send her off with a nice job opportunity exit and let her go live a happier life off screen.

Sam and Lydia have just become extremely irrelevant. Other than maybe Lydia's friendship with Kim, which doesn't get the amount of focus it used to anyway, they really have nothing to do. Samson is in prison, Amelia and Esther are gone. Zak and Lisa are gone. They could easily follow Belle or go to Scotland or anywhere. Follow Amelia to be closer to Esther.

Then I'd probably just move Mandy and Paddy up to Wishing Well so Liam can have his damn house back.

I'd axe Bear because I've never understood his purpose. I'd also axe Ryan because honestly what's the point.

And then I'd let Charity and Chas and eventually Cain rest as characters for a bit. Let Chas and Charity just be behind the bar for their episode counts but not have massive stories. Let Cain just be support to Moira and work at the garage for a bit.

I'd pull Noah into Joe's orbit and let him embrace his Tate side a bit. I'd let Joe get a true foothold into Home Farm so he and Kim have to actually work together up there. I'd bring in Jean Tate to make them more of a proper family up there. Maybe let them remember that Caleb is half Tate as well.

I'd kill the HOP and put in a better more functional business up there. One that can actually visibly employ people.

Honestly, at this point I'd probably axe Dawn and Billy as well. I want to like them and I do like Billy but they just don't know what to do with them and with Will gone, they either need to make them functional village characters with jobs or they need to go. I'd move Gabby back into the Home Farm sphere with Jean and Joe and Noah.

As for other new characters, I'd still bring in a whole new family with teens and then actually use those teens to allow the current teens to start having real stories and not just troubled teen stories. But not all issue stories either. Let them just date and work part time jobs and have visible friendships and react to their parent's stories and stuff in addition to have bigger stories of their own. Let them be real characters with real personalities.

I was also thinking about bringing back/recasting a character like Scarlet King. She could be good to give Jimmy more family again but you know...not make her a psycho. She could come in with a family or not. But she could give characters like Vic and Amy and Matty someone new to interact with.

I'd also probably axe Charles and Claudette and as much as I do like Manpreet, she has nothing to do either. Bring in a new vicar with a family.

And none of these new families would be connected to anyone in the village, especially not the Dingles.

I'd also probably axe Suzy and just let Vanity get back together and free Mack. Let Mack move in with Aaron and John until John just fucking leaves.

I'd still do whatever I possibly could to convince Ryan to return obviously.

I'd also probably axe Kerry at this point.

I'd let Vic and Matty/Amy buy into the B&B because Nicola and Jimmy are stretched too thin. Let Vic expand the B&B restaurant and be a functional character that has a life and purpose and doesn't exist just to annoy people or be their plot friend.

One of the new families would definitely have an older mother or aunt come with them that could date Mary.

Mary and Kim's friendship would also get to flourish again, especially if I axe Lydia.

I'm also just desperate for them to return to having some village stories that bring in the comedy and positivity. Things that aren't so serious.

Anyway...call me ITV, I have ideas.

[brat-pack-it-up-boys]

Spider-woman au

It’s intended to be Angieboy but you could also just read them as really good friends I guess 🤷‍♀️

I like to put it during the same time period as that was then this is now just because I think it makes more sense age wise

Also bob’s alive in this au so most likely Dallas and Johnny would be too

For the technology, it's not too different from what we see in other spider-man adaptations, except it's more like the ideas of retrofuturism that they had in the 60s (google it; it's cool as shit)

in this AU, there’s no Norman Osborn, or OsCorp; instead, we have Dr. George Sheldon-yes, he's Bob's dad.

George, being the owner of this massive company that tries to bend the expectations and limits of reality, is responsible for the radioactive spiders and the green goblin formula (it'll come in later)

Getting into the actual story, Will Rogers High School’s juniors goes on a field trip to George’s company (Sheldon industries?) and Angela is bitten by a radioactive spider (shocker)

She eventually takes on the role of a superhero with her main inspiration being the superhero comic books that Curly likes

I’m not sure about superhero names or costumes but I suppose her name would either just be spider-woman or Arachnid (because I think it sounds cool)

When she first starts, it’s mostly minor events, the occasional robbery, she fights with her fists, no tech at all

Anyways this goes on for about a month until Tulsa’s number one nosey person, Ponyboy figures it out via looking too close at newspapers and news coverage (sitting behind Angela in English may have helped)

Once he knows he essentially becomes her “guy in the chair” if you get the reference, he’s more technologically and scientifically gifted in this au, figuring out how to make web-fluid in science class and web-shooters from car scraps he snags from the DX

All’s fine and well until “the incident”, otherwise known as a really cool villain attack that I physically cannot figure out, either way it has two potential outcomes that I can’t decide on

Outcome 1= Ponyboy dies

Outcome 2= Ponyboy doesn’t die but he does lose an arm

Either way it’s not a good day for anyone

Oh also

Green goblin sodapop (the vision is so real to me)

@your-unfriendlyghost

[hkevisvlsvso]

Okay finally got something done :')

This may be kinda shit but posted it anyway cause i want to send here that better part of story(where they kiss :3)

The '~~~~' -things are just something what goes like the same in the series and i was too lazy to write them but you all know what happended there so..

And it ends on a really random point of the episode but ... . . ..

And I didn't know what to call die Wilden Kerle so just called it Wilden Kerle🥲

-yea so enjoy:

-----------------------☆☆☆-------------------------

I sit on my bed and stare at the math book resting in front of me, even though the numbers have been blurred in my eyes for ages into an unrecognizable background mass, thanks to which I can only see my thoughts very clearly. I should be doing homework, but my mind is wandering. Unfortunately, they somehow always find their way to Leon.

I have already declared to myself that I officially hate Leon, and I will never forgive him. He's a complete asshole full of himself and left me- I mean, us, for fame, even though he was the one who insisted that anyone who leaves the Wilden Kerle is a shameful traitor. He's a self-righteous jerk. And I hate him. I really, really hate him. Just because I can't stop thinking about him doesn't mean I don't hate him.

I throw the book at the wall and stand up, because sitting isn't going to help anything. I decide to go for a bike ride somewhere just to get my thoughts elsewhere.

After I've been cycling for a while, Vanessa comes up to meet me. Slowed down my pace so she can turn to cycle in the same direction as me.

Vanessa looks happy. As if nothing happened yesterday. At least she doesn't seem to miss Leon at all. I hope I don't look like that myself, although I literally couldn't sleep last night thinking about Leon and his last look all night. In other words, nothing is normal, not without Leon, and if it bothers Vanessa at all, she hides it really well.

So Vanessa smiles as if it wasn't just yesterday that Leon left our team, waves her hand after getting next to me, and says:

"Marlon called. Hadschi has finally found the owner of the last skull!"

I smile, even genuinely this time.

"Let's go."

~~~~~

Of course Markus's father was not in the bank. It's Sunday now. But where did he go?

Suddenly Vanessa notices his car in front of the museum. What the hell is he doing there?

"Let's go see."

We crouched behind Markus' father's car. I hope Vanessa listens to what he and the mayor are talking about, because I only listen with half an ear. "It would be better if you take it, Mr. Mayor. It's not safe in my house."

I loved Leon. He was actually a complete asshole, but maybe that's why I liked him. He didn't really try to please me, on the contrary, he almost always seemed to be arguing or outright begging to be fucked, but that's why he's so funny and natural, himself. He is also honest and speaks his mind directly, so when he compliments me, I know he really means it. He wouldn't just say that so I wouldn't feel bad, because he doesn't care if I get hurt by his words.

In my previous schools, many girls have wanted to date me. I agreed to the first request because I was stupid. I had never spoken to that girl, and one day her friends snubbed her giggling in front of me.

If I were to think about such things, I would say that it was quite unnerving to stand in front of some random person while she squealed and giggled and her friends stared at us, amused by the awkward situation. Finally, the girl mumbled that she had a crush on me. I didn't know what to answer so I said "okay".

It wasn't an affirmative answer as far as I know because she didn't actually ask anything, but still her friends started squealing in love and clearly this girl was now my girlfriend.

At first I thought that it could be quite nice, and that at least the girl liked me. I was naive. It started to dawn on me at the latest when I realized she was only talking about my dad or how "handsome" I was. Her real compliments were flat, and she probably didn't believe even her own tone of voice when she said I was funny. Instead, I was too quiet and too cold and sarcastic and short and my favorite dark green hoodie at the time was unfashionable. She threw it in the trash can. On the other hand, I'm quite grateful for that, because in hindsight it was really quite horrible, and my father had never liked it either.

The girl left me after two months of dating, because she said I was too quiet and distant, and I didn't care about anything but football.

Which was indeed true.

Through me, the girl had gotten to know the members of my soccer team at the time, and because of that I saw her many times a week when she came to the team's practices to see her new boyfriend. She kept winking at me when I was sitting on the bench, but never said anything. Except for one time when she came to sit next to me and twirl her blonde hair around her fingers. He greeted me in a voice I had heard too many times before, and I felt a dark satisfaction when I said nothing and moved two seats away from her. The girl stared at me shocked for a moment, as if she couldn't understand how I could not like her, and she was very annoyed when I allowed myself a satisfied smile just to show that I didn't care, and then she went to approach her new boyfriend.

A similar thing happened a couple of times until I learned to say no, and to leave people before they leave me, when I turned out to be a completely normal person, even though I have a perfect father.

Leon is honest. If he says I'm good, he really thinks I'm good.

However, he really cares about us more than he admits. He would never say it out loud, maybe he wouldn't even fully admit it to himself, but I know. He could go to any length for the things that are important to him. He is wild, in the sense that he himself wrote it in Wilden Kerle's rule list.

It's just a shame that this time he chose to care about fame more than his team, and will go as far as he needs to for it.

I wish he cares about me more than he admits.

Or: I wished he cared about me more than he would admit.

Nowadays, I don't give a damn what, or who, he cares about. Not after what he did.

Markus' father and the mayor leave the car back towards the museum, and I remember that I had to eavesdrop on their conversation. Well, I hope Vanessa was listening..

"Let's follow!" I say as if I am fully aware of the whole situation.

We walk into the museum hall when the doorman stops us.

"Is there an invitation?" he asks in the most strained tone anyone has ever spoken in. I stare at him, and then at Vanessa, as if to signal that he needs to come up with something.

"um, we just wanted to-"

"I can't let you in without an invitation", the doorman interrupts. Then, suddenly, Leon appears out of nowhere.

Okay, I admit to staring at him, and even though I hate him, it doesn't stop me from thinking about how I like his hair, or how I'm so happy to see him that I just want to hug him and have him hug me and feel his warmth against me.

I still hate him.

Leon finally seems to understand that we want to get inside.

"They came to see the new superstar. Me."

Superstar. I don't know if I should be amused or outraged. For some reason, I still missed his voice, even though I last heard it only yesterday.

Still I smile. I want him back and he's clearly helping us.

"Uh... Don't you read magazines?" I ask to reinforce Leon's words.

"Ah, I understand. In that case."

I'm not sure if Leon is just smiling in general, or if he's smiling at me.

I hope he's smiling at me.

-----------------------☆☆☆------------------------

Guys I think I just wrote a really short part of some Deon fanfic...

It's like in s2 e12 the scene when Leon comes to the landfill(I have no idea what is it called really in the english dub version so..) and... u know.

Because i just realised that Deniz looks so sad when Leon comes while everyone else looked just angry 😭

The way how Deniz stares at that book like he knows Leon is going to leave him and the whole team but thinks that if he doesn't see it and just focuses on the book, mabye it won't really happen....

BUT, here it is. I'm really bad at english so i hope you understand it😅😅

[(Almost) all the lines were from the finnish dub, idk if it's the same in other languages but mabye it's okay....]

------------------------☆☆☆------------------------

I look up from the book when I hear footsteps approaching. Leon walks to the landfill looking far too casual. Traitor. A little hope flutters inside me. However, it slows down as soon as Vanessa says:

- Well, who's that? Came to tell us about your big ad campaign?

If Leon was going to apologize, he wouldn't do it after that. I press my gaze to the book and try to focus on the ancient Greek numerical codes. I want to shut out everything around me. I just want to squeeze my eyes shut, and when I open them, Leon comes beside me on the rusty roof of the car and wraps his arms around my neck and gives me something else to think about and figures out a way to get Teufelstopf back and all is well again.

No.

When I open my eyes, I'm still staring at the much too small and monotonous text of the book. Leon snorts.

- actually, I came to apologize for being so busy these days, but if you're like that, I guess it's better that I don't come at all anymore. Ever.

He doesn't know how much his cold voice breaks my heart. But I can be cold too. And I have that right. He is leaving the bunch. I stand up on the roof of the car. Leon has already turned to leave when I say:

- That's what I said too. We can do without a captain like that.

My words feel like a heavy lump on my chest, and a few more pounds are added to that lump when I realize I'm right. Leon was always the one who insisted that no one should ever leave the team. He loved football and the team more than anything in this world, as did I, and that was probably part of the reason I fell for him. But now he is leaving Teufelstopf, the Wild Soccer Bunch, us, me, for fame. I didn't think that he would be the one who leaves the team.

When Leon hears my words, something disappears in his eyes, something inexplicable. At least I think I see it. Or I hope. Or at least I want to.

He doesn't even say anything. Anger and disappointment bubble up inside me. I jumped down from the car. The thump of my feet againstthe ground makes Leon quickly turn towards me. I look at him. At the moment, I would like to just hug him on the one hand, and hit him on the other hand. I clench my hands into fists.

- I fucking koved you, I say way more toxic than i meant to. Though mabye it's just a good thing. I don't know.

I let all the pent-up sadness and frustration come out of my voice because I want him to know I'm serious. I say it so quietly that no one else can hear it, even though I want to scream it into his ear. On the other hand, I probably couldn't make a louder sound than this, almost a whisper, from the stranglehold of grief. Leon looks me in the eyes and for a few moments I may notice sadness in his eyes. Almost as crushing as my grief. Then he just closes his eyes, turns around and leaves. Up until now, I have felt that everything will be alright. But now I know that I don't have Leon anymore, everything is lost.

------------------------☆☆☆------------------------

It was kinda google translator english but hope you liked it.. I'm not sure if i do?

[shima-draws]

Writes a full blown essay about why Mary On A Cross is THE Sanlu song to me ever,