#I like sharing moments like these because

[sp0o0kylights]

Steve Harrington showing up to Hellfire made sense.

He knew the kids. After The Incident of which they Do Not Speak Of, he knew Eddie. There was a friendship there that was pulling him into Hellfire’s orbit, and the elder members followed their leader's cues when it came to jocks who had decided to redeem themselves and evolve into beloved town hall heroes. 

Showing up to Corroded Coffin’s recently restarted band practice required a bit more adjusting, but it was fine. 

Everything was fine.

Steve showing up in the middle of a heated, completely nonsensical argument with Eddie, was also, unfortunately, growing to be something normal and fine--but arguing over Jeff specifically?

That was a little harder to ignore. 

“That’s my Robin.”  Eddie had started, pointing sternly towards Jeff as he marched up Gareth’s driveway. 

Steve rolled his eyes. 

“You already claimed Gareth as your Robin, you can't also claim Jeff.”

Yes I can! Because I have two--no, no, three!” Eddie counted on waiving fingers, “I have three Robin's, Grant’s one too!

Jeff blinked, before turning to his other bandmates. “Any idea about what this is about or…”

Nope.” Gareth refused to even look at the duo arguing. “And I don't want to know.”

“Okay then.” 

“They each have different specialties,” Eddie was animatedly arguing, having stopped in the center of the garage to square up to Steve. “So combined they make up one Robin.” 

“That's not how that works!” Steve loudly scoffed, arms winging out in a way that disturbingly, looked like a move he had copied from Eddie. 

He got a smirk in return. “Don't  be mad because I'm more popular than you are these days, Steven.” 

Oh now they were approaching dangerous territory-- Eddie was getting smug.

A smug Eddie, Jeff knew, was an obnoxious Eddie. The kind of obnoxious that refused to let things go and claimed victory over random bullshit. The type of obnoxious that would take weeks to kill, with them all suffering through Eddie’s crowing in the meantime.

Given the look on Steve’s face, he knew it too.

There was only one way to prevent the monster known as Smug Eddie, and that was to cut him at the knees before he properly got started. 

Something no member of Hellfire had ever before managed to accomplish--on purpose.

Steve, Jeff thought, was not a member of Hellfire. 

With a sudden and distrustworthy narrowing of his eyes, the ex-jock asked. “Didn't you say Jeff bakes?”

“No--” Eddie spat instantly but it was too late, Steve was already turning and--oh God, trying to pull Jeff into this shit. 

“Yes--hey Jeff, man, do you bake?”

“Uh…”

Grant looked between Steve, Eddie and Jeff, before taking one giant step to the right of them all.

The traitor. 

“Don't answer that!” Eddie commanded, stalking around to put himself between Jeff and Steve. “Do not answer that!” 

“I--yeah?” Jeff answered anyway, confused to hell but choosing to trust Steve on this one.   

Unfortunately for Corroded Coffin as a whole, and Jeff specifically, what they were missing was the fact that Steve could be a downright petty bitch. 

“What’s the hardest thing you can reliably bake?” 

It took a moment for Jeff to realize Steve was still talking to him, given his eyes were locked onto Eddie’s. 

“I like doing those kind complicated swirls with frosting sometimes?” Realizing how that sounded he quickly added; “To make cool patterns and shit!”

Steve nodded once, before boldly declaring: “I'm taking Jeff.” 

Eddie sputtered. 

“No you are not--” 

“That way,” Steve said, steamrolling right over, “you have two and I have two.”  

“Were not sharing cookies here, Steve!” 

“I know,” Steve retorted and oh God, now he sounded smug, “because Jeff and I haven't baked them yet.

“No--no! Jeff, Jeffery look at me.” The older teen whirled around to face Jeff, face serious. “You are forbidden to bake with this heathen.” 

“Wow, controlling much?” Steve drawled, moving fluidly around to stand shoulder to shoulder with Eddie, facing Jeff. With a weighty sincerity, he said, “I would never tell you what to do.”

“Yes he would! Yes He absolutely would! 

“What the fuck.” Jeff muttered, as they both continued to stare at him while maintaining their argument with each other. 

“You made eye contact, this is on you.” Grant told him. 

20 minutes later and Jeff would finally announce he was not going to do anything with anyone until after band practice. 

20 hours later, Steve would invite himself into Jeff’s house with a bag full of baking ingredients and a look in his eye that terrified Jeff more than Jason ever had. 

2 days later, Eddie would loudly declare Jeff’s status as a traitor, only to renounce it five seconds later after Gareth shoved one of the cookies they baked in his mouth mid rant. Only then would he agree that Steve could have Jeff as “his second Robin.” 

Unfortunately, he did this in front of the real Robin, who, as it turns out, can give one hell of a rant. 

(Later, Jeff, Grant and Gareth would loudly declare Robin their Queen and expert in all things Steve and Eddie, going so far as to present her with a Burger King crown to seal the deal. 

She would proudly wear it, despite all the bitching it caused from Steve and Eddie.) 

[lilyinmysoul]

Incomprehensible

JacksonJoel x F!Reader

WC: 4k

Summary: Old man Joel is having trouble lasting a whole round on top.

Warnings: Smut, piv, sub joel, kinda angsty, comfort, Joel feels all sad and like he’s not good enough, Joel is 57 with back problems, handjob, vivid descriptions of bodily fluids, soft dom reader, reader calls Joel ‘old man’ once or twice, joel grips the headboard, (implied) age gap

Note: I’ve wanted to write subby Joel for a while, and I don’t think I went subby enough but I still love this fic. I took way too long writing it, so, no proofread. If there’s any mistakes, tell me. If you have any tips, tell me. Please reblog if you like, and if you want more fics like this, tell me, because I love my Jackson Joel and I have a kink for babying old men

As Joel trudged tiredly up the driveway, he watched the porch light flicker and dim, only to return to its original warm glow a moment later. The bulb was old and it would be difficult to find another; he didn’t want to think about it, he had a long enough list of things to do already.

As more people moved into Jackson, more babies were born, and more houses built, there was more work to be done around town and more responsibilities to be dealt with. Joel’s hair had greyed significantly in the past year, and still his patrols were getting longer. Even though his muscles felt extra sore after a long day of scavenging, he’d still have to get up the next morning and do it again.

Joel was fifty-seven two months ago, and as winter settled upon the town and rain puddles took a permanent residence on the sidewalks, he was becoming increasingly aware of it.

In recent weeks, light dustings of snow would fall from the sky, previews of the inches yet to come as the cold months approached. Joel’s heavy boots clomp against the cement path to your shared home, stepping in slush that crunches, half frozen, under his feet.

In his age, his fingers were especially sensitive to the cold, and it was likely that his brown leather gloves were the only thing protecting them from turning purple in the frosty air. Even so, he feels numb, and he rubs his covered hands against each other. Joel steps onto the porch, the only sound being his bulky shoes against the hollow wood of the deck. With a deep and breathy exhale and a glance up at the glowing window—you were awake—he fishes the house key from his pocket and slides it into the lock. It was a rewarding sound, one he looked forward to each day. It meant a night of rest, a warm plate of food, and the chance to see you.

He turns the cold brass knob and the door creaks open, emitting a squeal from its old and rusty hinges. The house was clean and tidy, but it had been built so long ago. No matter how clean the two of you kept it, the wood in the walls was weakening and the roof tiles continuing to wear under the rain. It reminded Joel of himself. He breathes in and closes the door, turning the lock as he takes in the smell, a fusion of both of your unique scents, traced with the aroma of old books and wood.

His boots are muddy, so he makes sure to rid them by the door. Under his feet, the floor creaks lightly and once you register the sound of movement downstairs, you practically prance down them.

You find him in the kitchen, still in his jacket and gloves as he leans on the counter with a glass of water. He takes a sip and places down the cup, its clink against the surface obscured by his deep, southern voice.

“Sweetheart,” he greets, the bags under his eyes deeper than usual, and his voice less steady. You could practically feel his exhaustion—now, and in weeks past. Regardless, your mouth turns up in a smile.

“Long day?” Your hand takes one of his, fingers working to peel the leather from his skin. “I made dinner. Chicken, the way you like.” You move on to his other hand before setting down the gloves and lacing your fingers with his freezing ones. You squeeze.

“Thank you, baby… s’just… freezin’ out there. Cold gives me a damn headache.” He presses a kiss to your forehead as your fingers find the brass zipper of his big brown jacket—the one he always wore and that you’d never tire of seeing him come home in. You pull down and free his strong arms as he stretches them above his head, sighing. You hear a pop from a joint of his, a hollow crack that rang out habitually each time Joel broke free from a spell of motionlessness. Soon, his jacket is forgotten and draped over a chair as you fetch a plate from the wooden cabinet.

The plates were china, their condition nearly mint and preserved for all these years. From the pot on the stove, you heap his plate with food. It was warm and steaming, and you found little as rewarding as watching him scarf down your cooking or drink down your tea after a long day of work. Perhaps it was your love language; a humble exchange for the drawers he’d fix and mend, or the shelves he’d put together when you needed more space for the trinkets he’d bring back for you, swiped from the shelf of an empty home he’d cleared.

You place the dish in front of him on the table, setting a fork next to it and a topped off glass of water. Across from him, you sit, having already aten. This felt optimal, allowing you to rest your chin in your hands and watch him, talk to him, hear about his day.

Joel nearly groans as he takes the first bite, his exhaustion even more evident. “Tastes like heaven, baby,” he mutters between bites.

“I made extra for you to bring on patrol tomorrow. Lunch, or something.”

He hums in acknowledgement, a quiet thanks as he enjoys his meal. A drink from his glass, then he breaks the silence, a hand palming at the back of his neck. “‘M so damn sore.”

You frown. It upsets you to see how much Joel is working, and saddens you further to witness how it affects him. More often than not, his back is sore, or his legs achy. As prideful as he was, it was clear that he needed a break. And although Joel warned you against bringing it up to Tommy, the idea was getting increasingly tempting. It’s becoming a priority of yours to get him off that damn schedule.

“I’m sorry,” you soothe and stand up, topping off his glass once again, before your hands come to rest on his shoulders as you stand behind his chair. Your fingers squeeze at the muscles there, taut and stressed as he inhales deeply and takes another bite. “I can massage it if you want.” A beat, before you speak again. “Maybe you should ask Tommy if someone else can pick up your shift.”

Joel says your name in a stern, yet exasperated tone that says, ‘drop it’. You wonder what exactly it is that stops him from asking for help.

“Okay,” you agree, forcing the topic out of your mind and out of your mouth, hands still working at his tense and knotted muscle. “I just worry about you. I just don’t want to see you hurting, I want you to feel good.”

“I’m just… gettin’ old, is all. Ain’t got nothin’ to do with work, I’m… I’m okay.” Joel grunts as your hands work, and you don’t believe him one bit—not even a little. Either way, you don’t argue. Instead, you lean down and kiss the top of his head, your lips pressing against his soft, graying hair.

“Alright,” you agree. He hums as he feels your lips.

“Plus,” he adds. “I can still keep up with you, I reckon.”

“Sure can, old man,” you squeeze one of his arms, a thick bicep only barely softened by age. You very strongly appreciated his strength—muscles formed through vigorous labor; initially, fixing roofs in the sun, and eventually, fighting infected with his bare hands. Granted, he is more comfortable now. His life is stable in Jackson, allowing his tummy to soften up a bit because he has food to eat and a bed to lounge in. Even so, he could still pick you up and carry you out in the snow, and when he would grunt a little deeper now with the effort, you reveled in the sound.

He takes a bite. “So long as you don’t get sick’a me.” 

“Never.”

A deep chuckle from Joel, and his plate is clean. He looks up at you, and you take the opportunity to lean down and press a kiss to his cheek, hands finding the sides of his face as your lips move to envelop his. Your mouth moves tenderly over his as he emits a soft hum.

You pull your lips away softly, a string of saliva connecting your mouths before it breaks and your eyes rake over his face as it still rests in your hands.

“I feel better already,” he states.

“I’m sure,” you smile, gaze flicking down to the bulge in his pants, a tent beginning to form.

“Feels nice,” he says, referring to nothing in particular. It was all so pleasant—the way you made him dinner and fed him with such care, how you worked out the stiffness in his muscles and kissed away his trepidation—he never had enough of it. He was never entirely sure why you chose him—grumpy and hardened, old and weary—but you never let him spend too much time mulling it over. You loved him so entirely that it was nearly impossible to doubt, every past loss and failing managing to fade to nothing when he would meet your eyes.

Your hands drop from his face and you pick up his plate and empty glass, your feet carrying you the short distance to the kitchen sink. Over your shoulder, you see him watching you, on his eyes a look of admiration combined with a hint of lust. Joel’s absolute love for your nurturing nature was something that he would rarely voice, and that nobody else would ever guess. You wipe the plate clean and set it in the sink, rinsing your hands and wiping them dry.

By now, Joel has stood, meeting you again in the dim light of the dining room. You smile lazily at him, relieved that the day’s responsibilities were done and dealt with. To you, having Joel around in the evening after a long day is the best gift, and you find his occasional night patrols to be cruel and unusual punishments. When your arms wrap affectionately around his middle, his hand rests on the back of your head, fingers splaying over and entwining with your hair. He presses a kiss to your temple.

“You’re s’beautiful…” he murmurs into your skin, his words so honest and caring. He hums softly before tilting your head up and taking a kiss. Joel felt that it was the most reassuring thing and so wholly intimate. Your lips, he felt, belonged on his, slotting onto one another like pieces of a jigsaw. Your hand rubs up his back as one of his cups the back of your neck, guiding your head gently. He pulls your body lightly against his, the movement firm but not aggressive. He’s sleepy and sapped, but that doesn’t stop his hands from coasting greedily over your body. Your warm skin always soothes him—evidently, he is harder now, and you feel the pressure wedged against your lower stomach.

Your lips drift apart, still tangled in the other’s arms. It’s clear where Joel wants this to go, and you second the thought.

“You’re gorgeous…” he mutters another compliment, pushing aside a strand of hair from your face. “Just wanna have you forever. I could. Again and again…”

It isn’t clear if Joel entirely knows what he’s saying, but his musings sound promising either way. “You sure you have the stamina for that, old man?” You tease him into his shoulder, your close embrace both tempting and comforting.

“Yes, ma’am,” he states, paying no mind to his own lassitude and achy muscles. How could they even cross his mind? He had you in his arms, your body at his fingertips.

In a mediocre attempt at assuming Joel’s southern drawl, you ask, “Are you fixin’ to prove it to me?”

He chuckles, his voice low and thick. “If that’s what you want,” he feigns nonchalance—albeit, poorly. “I don’t sound like that.”

“Mhm…” By now, your mind is empty, save for one thing. Memories of Joel’s busy schedule have departed from your head, along with all of your external worries, and he is leading you upstairs.

When your back hits the mattress in the palely lit bedroom, you smile softly up at Joel, who is unhooking his belt, pulling it free from the loops. His gaze is roaming over you hungrily, and you can tell that his day has been particularly long by the wanting look in his eye.

You squirm out of your shorts and pull your top over your head as you lay against the cold covers. Dropping the discarded clothes on the floor by the bed, you catch Joel’s eyes as he pushes down his worn and worked jeans, faded dirt staining the heels. His boxers are dark and tented, his necessity for you abundantly clear. He’d like to crawl into your arms, but first, he has to give you what you want and assuage his own frustration. He lifts his shirt over his head, dropping it absentmindedly on the floor.

The bed dips slightly when the weight of Joel’s knees comes to rest on it. You peer up at him as he looks down at you, a dazed and loving smile on his face as his hands are set on your knees, pulling them apart and making room for his broad body between them.

Joel’s lips kiss along your jaw, nipping lightly at your neck. He props his body up with one elbow, the other hand coursing over your skin, trailing over the lace of your bra and down to the fabric of your soft panties. He mindlessly toys with the band, his mind focused on your neck, but quickly shifts his attention to the rest of your body.

Joel is particularly desperate tonight, his hands both restless and spent as they hook under and pull at your underwear. They come off fully, tossed aside on the bed. The air in the room is chilly, but Joel’s form radiates warmth, encasing you with it. You smile softly as his briefs are finally let down and a strong, veined hand wraps around his length. Joel pumps it a few times before teasing his tip along your entrance, and you inhale through your teeth.

You chuckle breathily at the focused look on his face as he nudges himself into you. You brace yourself for the stretch as your eyes watch where his cock hitches inside, before your gaze coasts up to the trail of hair that leads to his belly button, then at his strong chest, and ultimately his face. He slides in before you can look back down, and your eyes narrow as your mouth falls open slightly.

The look on your face was priceless—one Joel had seen many times—but priceless, nonetheless. His first few strokes are slow and relishing, but his impatience forces him to speed up. He has spent the day thinking about you, and will continue to do so long after he drifts to sleep; so, his energy has nowhere to go but into his movements, his hips tapping yours as the room fills with the soft click, click, click of your bodies touching, fluids exchanging.

Your husband’s mouth no longer has the power to contain his grunts of pleasure, soft noises escaping his throat with each movement. Your heavy breaths align with his like a melody, sounding synchronously into the dim bedroom, limbs tangled in blankets and damp skin.

Above you, Joel’s brow is slightly dampened with sweat, his body trying not to succumb to his enervation. Of course you couldn’t hear it, but you could only guess that his heart was beating a bit quicker than it usually did. His hands grip at your hips a little harder as his thrusts hasten, your velvety skin on his fingers consoling him.

Joel might be getting up there, but he was still big. He always would be, and a sound no short of a whine leaves your mouth as your hand rests over his on your hip—a comforting gesture to both him and yourself. The insides of your thighs are slippery, and they slicken Joel’s in turn when your bodies touch.

“Baby…” Joel grumbles, his voice low and nearly inaudible.

Your response is a feeble hum, an affectionate reassurance. “Hm…”

“I’m… shit, I…” his voice trails off. One hand of his is still tightly holding the bone of your hip, guiding and grinding it against his own as his cock disappears into you. His other wipes away the perspiration on his forehead before landing to tightly grip the wooden headboard, the structure bracing Joel’s weight as he drives into you.

“So good, Joel…” you mutter, your eyes drifting shut as he moves inside of you, tip kissing your cervix again and again. Repeatedly, your insides stretch and your pleasure mounts, your eyelids still closed in sheer bliss, stomach tingling from your approaching orgasm, along with your proximity to the man you love.

You swear you hear the wood crack with how hard he holds the head of the bed. His movements become more tense, deliberate. His breath huffs deeply, and at first you suspect that he might be getting close. He usually takes longer than this, but you cannot blame him—his day’s been hard, and he’s needed you. But soon enough, almost as abruptly as he had started, his movements cease. He doesn’t slow, or pull out to finish on your stomach—he stops. Your hips buck imperceptibly at the cessation.

“Sweetheart…” Joel mumbles defeatedly, his hips drawing out a few more slow and shallow strokes before coming to a complete halt. “I can’t. M’ too tired.”

You blink at his admission. You fish deep in your brain for something to say, a caring response, but before you do, he does all he can to hide his reddening face in the crook of your neck.

For a moment, he stays there. His head rests on your shoulder in silence before he breaks it. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry baby.” He mumbles something about a hard day and getting old. You can’t help but card your fingers through his hair, dark and streaked with silver like a tree turning red in autumn. Except, when his leaves fell, they would not be growing back. They would not rejuvenate themselves come spring, ready to dance again in the summer breeze. But you don’t think that winter needs to be hopeless or sad. There isn’t a bone of Joel’s that you don’t love, or a wrinkle you won’t worship. Every doubt—if there ever were any, at all—is waved away, lost to what you love the most about him; and so you giggle into his hair.

“Don’t laugh at me…” he murmurs, embarrassment still permeating his voice.

“I’m not laughing at you, baby. It’s okay,” your head pats lightly on the back of his head. “It’s okay. You’re working like hell.”

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes again. He’s a proud man, and letting you down feels like a firm blow to the chest.

“Don’t say sorry,” you smile sweetly as you tilt his head up towards yours. After laying a gentle kiss to his forehead, you add, “It’s alright, Handsome.”

He scoffs under his breath, but can’t stop a sheepish smile from spreading across his lips. He buries his head back into the crook of your neck. As soon as he does, you tilt his face back up again and speak.

“What, you don’t agree?”

He avoids your eyes, looking up off to the side. “I just… y’sure? You think I’m handsome? Y’don’t think… I ain’t enough for you?”

The question catches you off guard and you continue to gaze down at him, your thumb gliding over the side of his face. “Are you being serious?”

No answer on his end, just the same apprehensive look on his face as he refuses to meet your eye.

“Of course I do, Joel. You’re so handsome. Don’t be ridiculous.” You say before adding, “And I think you’re the best guy I could ever ask for, and it doesn’t matter if you’re a little tired sometimes.” You smile.

Joel only grunts when you shift your body until his back is on the pillows. You’re now sitting on his hips, his cock still buried in you—throbbing but forgotten. His hair is disheveled and he looks rather dazed, gazing up at you with a look of admiration and necessity.

Your hand finds its way to cup the side of his face, a position it often assumes; the spot feels like its home. You feel the prickle of his beard on your skin, and you lean down to press a kiss to his lips, wet and a bit chapped from the cold outside. Slowly, you begin to rock your hips, a gentle and slow movement that Joel reacts to, one of his hands coming to grip onto your hip and the other draping over his eyes out of both insecurity and overwhelment.

A heavy breath leaves his mouth as you pull his hand away from his face. He still isn’t quite able to look you in the eye, so you tilt his face toward you once again, your hips rolling in treacherous circles.

A hum leaves your mouth, the look on Joel’s face fueling the fire between your legs. As you move, you let your mouth drop open slightly, wanting to make your pleasure clear to him.

“Feels so good, Joel…” you murmur. “Keep looking at me,” you instruct. You weren’t sure exactly how to get his confidence back up or make him feel better. His head seemed to be in another place, one of penitence and embarrassment. “Y’never told me how nice it is to be on top. Might have to try it more often.” You feel him twitch inside of you. Your fingers continue to trace along his jaw.

Joel groans as your hips grind into his a bit faster, the view of you peering down at him heating up his stomach. “It’s… okay? You’re not disappointed?” He asks, more so to reassure himself.

You chuckle lightly under your breath, his still moving as you choke out, “Of course not…” You hear something close to a whimper leave Joel’s mouth, and you take one of his hands and hold it to your center, between your legs as his thumb begins rubbing your clit. “There you go…”

He is happy to help. Any way you can make him feel appreciated will make him groan under you.

“Oh, wow, Joel…” you continue, your noises growing more prolonged. By now, you could almost cum from his sounds alone, desperate and almost pitiful. His fuck-up hit him hard, and has left him yearning to either make it up to you or push it from his head. His thumb circles you in just the way you like, sending jolts through your body that further energize you, hips still rocking with care and want. A hand laced up into his hair, you murmur, “I’m gonna cum… you’re making me cum, Joel… shit.”

“I’m… me too,” you hear him choke out. He looks entirely out of it, his gaze shifting from your face down to where your flesh surrounds him. You smile, taking a few more rolls of your hips before slowing, pulling out of you his thick length, tip angry, red, and swollen from being still without release. You let your hand run up and down his cock, further smearing the liquids that coat it as you rub him, his mouth falling open slightly.

“Yeah… you’re so pretty, Joel. You’ll always be pretty. Handsome… sweet…” you list, mumbling off whatever kind words you could think off as you stroke his cock, rubbing it occasionally against your clit.

He hisses, pleasure mounting at your tenderness of your touch and the sweetness of your words. Each time your hand travels up his length, he gets closer, and he’s unable to stop himself from spilling over your hand. His thick ropes of cum leak from his weeping slit, a low grunt sounding from somewhere deep in his throat.

A smile spreads across your face, the dribble of white down your hand doing something to you—it always does. “There you go, baby,” you coddle, a kiss to his cheek. “As simple as that.”

Thanks for reading!! feel free to send me an ask

[monzabee]

Ok so this is my first time requesting so sorry if it’s not like to detailed but I’d say like a story where you and Lando live together and you eventually start liking each other but he doesn’t know you like him and like you see him and a girl and immediately like “omg he does NOT like me😔” so you go with your friend like to a bar or club not sure and meet someone(could be Charles or Carlos)

And the you end up liking him and then he takes you to your house and Lando is waiting for you and then sees (one of them) and then gets upset and starts asking like were have you been blah blah .Then you eventually say you liked him but you know it didn’t if he had liked someone else and then he’s like no I liked you and then it comes to a fluff or angst ending.(again I’m sorry first time requesting 😭❗️

the roommate experiment – ln4

masterlist ||

Summary: The one where Lando doesn’t like his roommate, not one bit—this is a complete lie.  

Pairing: lando norris x reader

Word Count:  3.8k

Warnings: fluff, arguing (a lot), feeelings, jealous, i can’t remember but maybe cursing?  

Author’s Note: hi, hey, hello!! let me tell you one thing—this fic is VINTAGE at this point, and i'm not even kidding😭 this took me a very long time to finish, and it was a journey, and i do apologise for that, but hey—at least it’s here!!! let's all celebrate some good vibes for lando norris who is leading the championship, and hopefully i can get through rest of the requests on my list. i hope you guys enjoy and feedback is always appreciated. also, my requests are open! good morning, noon or night wherever you are, xoxobee 

Please also note that all of my works are protected under copyright, and not available for reposting on other platforms. 

One second Lando is on the podium in Miami, getting his first win, being absolutely on top of the world and partying until he doesn’t remember his name. Then, suddenly, he is back in his apartment in Monte Carlo, his mother sitting on the couch beside him as she explains how the daughter of a close family friend will be staying him for the foreseeable future. He thinks, for a moment, whether he is still hungover or not, or maybe he’s dreaming, because there is absolutely no way he’s going to be sharing his apartment with you. 

“Absolutely not,” he shakes his head, hands cutting through the air to emphasise his point. “Why am I the one stuck with her? She’s not a child.” 

“I’m not saying she’s a child,” his mother points out, “I’m saying that she needs a place to stay during her internship, and you have an extra room. She’s your friend, Lando, stop acting like you don’t like her.”  

With a finger pointed at his mother, “I’m not saying I don’t like her,” Lando explains, “all I’m saying is that I don’t think either of us could be fine with living each other. You saw the last time we had an argument; do you want it to be like that every single day?” 

No, she thinks, I absolutely do not, as his mother thinks of the thrashed-up villa that your families had rented out for a holiday and shakes her head to get rid of the imagine. “Well, she’s coming, so be nice to her and try not to obliterate your apartment, darling.” 

“Mum, I just won my first race, is this how you want me the remember the best day of my life ending its high?” Lando tilts his head, giving his mom the best puppy eyes he can.  

He thinks for a second that he manages to get through her, but then, she straightens up, gives him a small kiss on the forehead and starts walking through the door as she yells, “Don’t forget to bring out the guest towels!” 

And as he slumps down onto the couch, his mind goes back to the fact that just over twenty-four hours ago, he was back in Miami, partying after his first win. 

Staying at Lando’s apartment in Monte Carlo wasn’t your first, second or last choice for an accommodation if you’re being a hundred percent honest. Alas, you find yourself at his apartment, bags in hand, busy returning the look of disdain behind his mother’s back to match the look he gives you himself. She has somehow convinced your mother, who practically forced you to take her gracious offer, that this is a good idea. “You’ll get along splendidly,” she assures you all, including herself, “you are not little kids who fight because of everything anymore.”  

Oh, little did she know. 

The first hour you’re there, Lando makes a point of complaining of how many boxes you have, as if you were not in the process of moving your entire life to another country, and that you are to, under any circumstances, display any of your ‘girly’ things out in his ‘bachelor pad’. You decide to take the high road with that second one and opt for an eyeroll as you drag your suitcase into your room to unpack. The look he gives you behind your back? Priceless. And you only know how he looks because of the strategically placed mirrors he has on the corridor.  

After a couple of hours, he throws a fuss because you’ve decided to order food. “I’m an athlete,” he points out. “You can’t just order food whenever you want around here.”  

You try taking the high road, you really do, but how can you not egg him on when he is acting like such a petulant child?  

The second argument occurs when Lando has a few friends over a couple of days later, and you wander into the kitchen in your loungewear—which doesn’t make any sense, because you can’t see what’s so scandalous about a pair of shorts and a tank top, but he insists that you cannot be hanging around his friend wearing ‘almost nothing’. You point out that his complaining within itself contradictory because if you are wearing something, then you cannot be wearing almost nothing. He leaves the living room, stomping on his way back to his room, you count it as another argument won. Your mother loses it when you tell her that you’re going to start looking for a place to move out, also reminding her of the fact that living with Lando was supposed to be temporary anyway, but she’s having none of it. 

“Temporary or not, you promised to stick it out until your internship ends,” your mother reminds you sternly over the phone. “And besides, you’ve known Lando your whole life. Surely you can survive a few months without tearing each other apart.” 

“Define ‘tearing each other apart,’” you mutter, earning a long sigh on the other end. 

“Stop being dramatic,” she replies. “Lando isn’t the problem. You both just need to grow up and learn how to live together.” 

You don’t have the energy to argue further, so you reluctantly let the conversation end with a grumbled, “Fine, but if one of us ends up in the hospital, it’s on you.” 

When you think about it, living with Lando is as much as living without Lando. So that’s how your days pass by for a while, at least until Lando has to leave to go racing or back to the UK to go to the Mclaren factory. You fight over everything like cats and dogs, and you are mature enough to admit that coexisting with Lando is not an option. The apartment is eerily quiet when Lando is not there, you realise. That makes sense, since he is not there to bicker with you about anything and everything you do, from the way you breathe to the way you walk. At first, you relish the silence. The absence of Lando’s constant complaints feels like a vacation. No sarcastic quips about your ‘obnoxious’ alarm clock. No eye rolls when you leave your shoes by the door instead of neatly tucking them away.  

No Lando, period. 

But then, as the days stretch on, the quiet begins to weigh on you. Without the petty arguments, the apartment feels almost... lifeless. You catch yourself lingering in the kitchen, half expecting him to appear and critique your choice of breakfast. Or walking past the couch, where you can usually find him lounging with a smug grin, daring you to say something about his feet on the coffee table. It’s unsettling how quickly you’ve grown used to his presence, how much his absence leaves a void. 

You would never admit out loud that there is a teeny tiny chance of you possibly miss having him around, because admitting that would be like handing him a victory he absolutely doesn’t deserve. Lando is already insufferable enough—imagine the endless teasing if he found out you missed him. No, you tell yourself firmly, this is just about the sudden peace and quiet that you are not used to. It has nothing to do with him. But the longer Lando stays away, the harder it becomes to ignore the empty space. You find yourself pacing the apartment, glancing at your phone, half-expecting to see a message from him. Maybe just to poke fun at something you did or complain about something you didn’t even know was an issue. But there’s nothing. Not even a text. 

It’s strange. The whole atmosphere of the apartment is different without his presence. The silence isn’t comforting anymore—it’s just oppressive. It makes you feel a little bit lost, a little bit too aware of the fact that the person who used to drive you crazy is the same person you now seem to miss, even if you won’t admit it. 

You’re standing in the kitchen one afternoon, absentmindedly washing dishes, when the door slams open when Lando is back. He’s dragging his luggage behind him, looking dishevelled but somehow still effortlessly cool. As soon as he steps in, he scans the apartment with that familiar smug grin. “You miss me?” he asks, voice light and teasing, though his eyes are just a little too knowing. 

Your heart skips a beat, and you quickly turn away, trying to hide the fact that you’re actually relieved to see him. “I wouldn’t go that far,” you mutter, scrubbing the plate a little too vigorously. 

Lando laughs, clearly enjoying this. “Sure, sure. You don’t have to admit it. I can tell.” He tosses his keys on the counter and walks into the living room, looking around like he’s just returned to the battlefield.  

“Only in your dreams, Lando.” You can’t stop the eye roll that follows, but you bite back the smile threatening to break through. 

Lando raises an eyebrow, clearly amused by your deflection. “Trust me, darling, you’re doing something very different in my dreams.” 

You freeze for a second, a blush creeping up your neck despite your best efforts to stay unaffected.  

Did he really just say that? 

You turn your back to him, scrubbing the dish a little harder, trying to mask the sudden nervous energy that’s bubbled up in your chest. “Keep dreaming, Lando. I’m not that easy.” 

His laugh follows you, light and teasing. “Oh, I know. But trust me, it’s a pretty good dream.” He drops onto the couch with the same lazy, confident air that he always has, kicking his shoes off and stretching out like he owns the place. You roll your eyes, not wanting to give him any satisfaction, but you can’t help but feel a shift between you two. “I’m going to be a good roommate for a second,” he announces. 

“Oh, yeah?” You scoff, placing down the plate you were scrubbing on the drying rack. “I find that kind of hard to believe, but go on, I guess.” 

Lando smirks, clearly enjoying your scepticism. “No, really. I’m going to invite you out to a party tonight,” he says, leaning back on the couch with that trademark smugness. “My friends are throwing something to celebrate the win. You might as well come with me. You’re already here, and it’ll be good for you to get out of the apartment. Trust me, you’ll love it.” 

You turn to face him, raising an eyebrow. “A party? With your friends?” The idea of spending time with Lando and his crew seems like asking for more arguments, but something in his casual offer piques your interest.  

“Yeah, with my friends,” he confirms, totally unbothered by your hesitation. “It’ll be fun. No arguing, no complaints. Just a good time. You’ll need a little distraction, considering how quiet you’ve been without me.”  

“You’re a saint, Lando,” you laugh softly, drying your hands on the towel next to you, “but I’ll have to pass.” 

Lando’s smirk falters, but only for a moment, before he stands up from the couch, stretching lazily. “Come on,” he says, his tone shifting to a mix of coaxing and playful challenge. “You’re going to pass on the chance to have some fun?” 

You regret your decision to prove Lando wrong, as soon as you step into the club. The bass thrums through the floor, shaking your ribs as lights flicker across the packed club. The air is thick with the scent of sweat, alcohol, and something vaguely expensive—probably Lando’s choice of venue. You’re still not sure why you let him talk you into this. Lando disappears almost immediately, swallowed by a sea of familiar faces, leaving you with a drink in hand and a mild sense of regret. You shouldn’t have come. This was his world, not yours. 

You take a sip of your drink, scanning the room for any excuse to leave early, when a smooth voice pulls your attention. “You look like you’d rather be anywhere but here.” 

You turn, and your stomach flips slightly. Oh. 

Charles Leclerc, dressed effortlessly in a fitted black shirt, his green eyes glinting under the dim lights, is watching you with an amused expression. 

You laugh, shifting on your feet. “Is it that obvious?” 

“Painfully,” he grins, sipping his drink. “Not a fan of the club scene?” 

You shrug. “More like not a fan of being dragged here by a certain someone who insists I need to ‘loosen up.’” 

Charles chuckles knowingly. “Let me guess—Lando?” 

“Bingo.” 

Charles shakes his head, smiling. “Classic.” He leans against the bar, his gaze settling on you like he’s studying you, intrigued. “So, what do you actually like to do for fun?” 

You end up talking to him longer than you expected. He’s easy to talk to, charming in a way that doesn’t feel forced. And when he suggests getting some air outside, you don’t hesitate. 

Lando doesn’t notice you leaving. Or so you think. 

When Charles walks you up to your apartment later that night, you don’t expect to see Lando leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, a frown etched onto his face. His eyes flick from you to Charles, jaw clenching. “Where the hell have you been?” His voice is sharp, accusing. 

You blink, caught off guard. “Excuse me?” 

“It’s two in the morning.” He points out, arms crossed over his chest as his eyes narrow down.  

You scoff, crossing your arms. “And? You go out all the time and come back whenever you want.” 

Lando ignores that. His gaze snaps to Charles. “And what are you doing here?” 

Charles raises his hands, staying neutral. “Just making sure she got home safe.” He then turns to you, “And I will be leaving, because I really don’t want my head chopped off, I’ll see you two later.” 

Lando lets out a bitter laugh. “Oh, how chivalrous of you.” Lando calls after Charles, scofffing as he turns back to you. 

You glare at him. “Lando, what is your problem?” 

Lando's jaw tightens, his arms still crossed over his chest as he glares at you like you’ve personally offended him. 

“My problem?” he scoffs. “My problem is that you just disappeared without saying anything. I turned around and you were gone.” 

You raise an eyebrow, unimpressed. “I didn’t realize I needed to check in with you like a child.” 

“You don’t,” he shoots back. “But maybe let someone know before you run off with Charles fucking Leclerc. Because I don’t know what to tell your mother.” 

“My mother?” You let out a sharp laugh, crossing your arms. “Oh, so that’s what this is about? You have a problem with Charles now? Isn’t he your friend?” 

Lando shifts on his feet, jaw clenching. “I don’t have a problem with him. I have a problem with you sneaking off in the middle of the night.” 

“Sneaking off?” you repeat, incredulous. “I told you I wasn’t going to stay long. You were too busy chatting up multiple girls to notice.” 

He exhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head like he’s trying to hold something back. “You shouldn’t have left with him.” He takes a step towards you, which would usually cause you to take a step back, but you don’t step down. 

“Oh my God, Lando.” You throw your hands up, exasperated. “I wasn’t kidnapped. Charles walked me home. That’s it.” 

Lando lets out a bitter laugh, raking a hand through his hair. “Yeah, sure. Just being a gentleman, right?” 

You narrow your eyes. “Yes, actually. Not that it’s any of your business.” 

“It is my business,” he snaps, taking a step closer. “You live here. With me. And if something happened—” 

“Nothing happened,” you cut him off. “And even if it did, you don’t get to act like this.” 

Lando shakes his head, his tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. “Like what?” 

“Like you own me,” you challenge, voice steady. His mouth opens slightly, like he wants to argue, but no words come out. For the first time in the entire conversation, he looks caught off guard. You let out a dry laugh, shaking your head. “Unbelievable.” You push past him, reaching for the door handle. 

But before you can step inside, Lando’s hand catches your wrist. It’s not rough—just enough to make you pause. You look up at him, and for the first time all night, there’s something in his expression that isn’t just frustration or irritation. He hesitates, then his voice drops, quieter this time. “I didn’t—” He exhales sharply, like the words physically hurt to get out. “I didn’t like seeing you with him.” 

Your breath catches for a second, because there it is. The truth that’s been simmering under the surface for weeks, finally cracking through. You hold his gaze, your heart hammering in your chest. “And why is that, Lando?” 

Lando’s grip on your wrist loosens slightly, his thumb brushing against your skin, and for a moment, it feels like the world has stopped spinning. He looks at you, eyes darkened, as if he’s struggling with the words, unsure whether to let them slip. “Because…” He trails off, voice barely a whisper, a complete opposite of himself mere moments ago when he was yelling. “Because I care. And I didn’t want you running off with someone else.” His eyes flick to the ground before meeting yours again, this time with something softer, vulnerable. "I didn’t want to admit it... but I think I’ve been a total idiot." 

You blink, heart pounding in your chest as the realization hits you like a ton of bricks. You stare at him for a moment, completely dumbfounded, unsure if you heard him right. “You…” you start, but he interrupts you, his voice urgent. 

“I know I’ve been a prick. I know we fight constantly, but I—” He pauses, his hands fidgeting at his sides, clearly nervous for the first time in a long while. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like I didn’t care about you. I just… I didn’t know how else to handle it. And when I saw you with him tonight, I…” He swallows hard, looking almost embarrassed. “I hated it. I didn’t want to feel like I was losing you.” 

Your head spins, trying to process what he’s saying. You blink a few times, trying to find the right words. “Lando… I thought you didn’t like me. I mean, the way you’ve acted, always arguing with me, always finding something to complain about—” Your voice falters, and you shake your head in disbelief. “I didn’t think you cared at all.” 

Lando���s eyes widen, a flash of guilt crossing his face. He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again, as if struggling to form the words. Finally, he steps forward, closing the space between you, his voice barely a whisper. “I didn’t know how to tell you. I was just being an idiot. I never wanted to make you feel like that.” 

A silence falls over you both, the weight of his confession hanging in the air. You take a deep breath, your hand still resting where his had been moments before, and for the first time, you meet his gaze without the usual annoyance or defensiveness. “You’re such an idiot,” you mutter softly, but the smile tugging at your lips betrays the words. 

Lando lets out a small laugh, a genuine, relieved sound that makes your heart skip a beat. “I know. But I’m an idiot who cares about you.” 

He leans in to kiss you, but you put your finger on his lips, stopping him in his tracks as you chuckle softly. “Hold your horses, you better take me out first before kissing me, champ,” you say, your voice playful but with a hint of disbelief. 

Lando’s eyes flicker with a mix of surprise and amusement as he pulls back slightly, the tension between you two lifting. He raises an eyebrow, that familiar mischievous glint returning to his gaze. “Take you out, huh? Guess I’m gonna have to step up my game then.” 

You nod, a teasing smile tugging at your lips. “I’m not that easy, Lando. You’ve got a lot of work to do after all the stupid things you said tonight.” 

Lando chuckles, shaking his head. “Fair enough, I deserve that.” He steps back and scratches the back of his head, looking a bit sheepish but still confident. “How about tomorrow? I’ll take you to dinner. No more arguments, I promise.” 

Your heart does a little flip at the thought of a calmer, less complicated night out with him. You try to play it cool, rolling your eyes. “I guess I could let you—hey!” You shriek as he throws you over his shoulder, already walking towards the door.  

You barely have time to protest before Lando's laughing voice rings through the apartment, his grip secure as he makes his way toward the door. “I’m serious. Dinner tomorrow, no complaints, no arguments. If you want your ‘I’m-not-that-easy’ dinner, you’re gonna have to accept the offer.” 

“Lando!” you cry, thumping his back in a half-hearted attempt to get free. “Put me down!” 

“I’m doing you a favour. You’re always so serious. It’s about time someone lightens things up!” He chuckles, effortlessly carrying you toward the door, his steps unwavering. 

You can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of the situation. For someone who spent weeks driving you crazy, he was somehow making this moment feel lighter, better, despite your feigned indignation. When he finally sets you down in front of the door, you catch your breath, trying to keep your composure. “Don’t make me regret this,” you warn him, giving him a look that betrays the smile creeping onto your lips. “I’m not going easy on you, Lando Norris.” 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he grins, all charm and confidence, a lopsided smile on his face. 

“Fine,” you say, nudging him playfully. “But you are definitely apologising to Charles later.” 

“Oh, come on,” he protests with mock offense. “We can’t have a perfect night without a little argument, can we?” Lando watches you, his grin never fading, his eyes full of that familiar glint.  

You shake your head at him one last time, unable to stop the smile from spreading across your face. “You’re impossible,” you mutter, but your heart’s not in it anymore. 

He steps closer, that cocky grin still in place, and leans down, just a hair’s breadth from your lips. “You love it,” he murmurs softly, his voice teasing but sincere. 

You pause, staring at him for a moment, as if weighing the truth of his words. And then, with a small sigh, you nod, the heat rising in your cheeks. “Maybe I do,” you admit, your voice quieter now. 

[mssishipi]

taste of indulgence - sjy, pjs

CHAPTER 2 – OOPS, IT'S SOUR

The sex was good. So fucking good. But somehow, Jay is making things difficult afterward. His sharp comments, his rough attitude, the way he keeps looking at you like you’re something he regrets. Annoying. Irritating. You need to be careful with the way you talk 'cause— oops, it's sour.

content tags: again everyone is either gay or fruity, bi! jake, bi! jay, pansexual! reader, profanities, reader being horny, sexual mutual pining (?), lots of pov switch, jay has a high pride (bear with him), sunoo is just sunoo, poorly written smut (going to proofread when i have time)

explicit content (smut): masturbation, anal sex (mxm), threesome (switch jake, switch jay, sub reader), cunilingus, fingering, nipple play, unprotected sex (don't!), multiple sex position, overstimulation, cream pie, belly bulging, facial. dacryphilia. MDNI! WC: 17.9K

want a taste?

7:10 AM.

A text notification lit up your phone screen.

Jay: We had a 7:30 class. Jake didn't want to wake you.

You blink at the time. 10:12 AM.

"Oh, fuck." You bolt upright, instantly regretting it when a sharp ache shoots through your thighs and up your spine. Your entire body hurts. Your throat stings. Your legs feel like they barely belong to you. You can't even walk straight at all, and every moment is torture.

Ignoring every screaming muscle, throwing on your uniform in record time. You grab the oversized turtleneck jacket hanging in Jay's apartment—no doubt his—to cover the bruises blooming across your neck.

You don't even think about eating or taking a bath. No time. You shove your things into your bag, slip your shoes on painfully slow, and practically limp out the door. By the time you're speed-walking (more like hobbling) down the university halls, you're out of breath, late, and completely miserable.

You barge into the lecture hall, panting. People inside the hall turn around their head, looking at you, suddenly making you feel conscious. While your professor gives you a pointed look, gesturing vaguely toward the empty seats.

"Sorry," you mumble, bowing slightly before sinking into your chair next to Sunoo. You drop your bag with a thud, wincing as your shoulders protest because everything hurts.

Sunoo, bless his nosy soul, immediately narrows his eyes at you, looking you up and down. "The hell are you wearing?" His voice is dripping with disgust.

You blink, tugging at the oversized turtleneck swallowing your entire frame. "Clothes?"

Sunoo looks offended that you would even try that excuse. "First of all, why are you not entirely on your uniform? Second, what is that outfit? And third—" he pauses, squinting at you, "where the hell were you during Chemistry?!"

You sigh, pressing your fingers against your throbbing temples. "Can you not interrogate me at ten in the morning?" You slump onto the table, resting your forehead against your arms.

Sunoo does not back down. "You? Skipping a major class? That's a first."

"I overslept," you mutter, voice muffled against your sleeves.

Sunoo gasps dramatically. "Overslept?! Girl, our vacant period was six hours—how the fuck did you oversleep that much?!"

You squeeze your eyes shut. His voice is a hammer against your already pounding head. "I'm sick," you groan.

Sunoo snorts, utterly unimpressed. "Yeah, no shit. You look like you crawled out of a man's closet and died."

"Shut up and send me the lecture notes," you grumble.

Sunoo glares, but does as you ask, muttering, "You better not fail this subject because of whatever the fuck you've been up to."

You straighten your back, pulling out your iPad, clicking it on—7% battery left. You groan, rubbing your palms over your face. Of course you forgot to charge it.

"Do you have a power bank?" you ask, voice bordering on pleading.

Sunoo sighs, shaking his head as he rummages through his bag. "Seriously, what did you do last night?"

Yeah. No way in hell you're answering that.

Abnormal Psychology was awkward as hell. You shared this class with Jay and Jake, which was already bad enough—but what made it worse was that they sat right next to you.

Jake slid into the seat to your right, all easy smiles and warmth, while Jay, dropped into the chair on your left, arms crossed, jaw tight. You stiffened, hyper-aware of just how close they were.

Across the table, Sunoo let out an audible huff, rolling his eyes as he aggressively placed his notebook down. He didn't say anything, but the look he shot you was pure what the fuck is going on?

Your fingers clenched around your pen, your heartbeat thudding in your ears. Jake, leaned in toward you. "Are you okay?" he asked, you swallowed, nodding quickly, keeping your gaze firmly on your desk.

"Did you eat?" You nodded again.

"Do you have time for lunch later?" You pause, your throat felt dry. You hesitated, sneaking a glance at Jay. Only to be met with an icy glare piercing straight through you.

Jake, still in his own world, leaned in a little closer, lowering his voice to a whisper, just for you. "Did you enjoy last night?"

Your grip tightened around your pen. Your breath felt shaky. You notice Sunoo's head tilted ever so slightly.

Jake smirked, barely audible as he added, "Do you think there should be a next time?"

A thrill shot through you—excitement, nerves, anticipation. Of course, you wanted that. Of course, It's a yes! It's a fucking yes!

Jay's posture had gone rigid. His hands curled into fists, his shoulders squared. You turned your head slightly, and there it was— That look, sharp and cold—but unmistakably directed at you.

Jake, completely oblivious, kept his soft smile, his fingers lightly drumming against the desk as he waited for your answer, but you're attention was not on him anymore. Because Jay's glare was burning into the side of your face, setting every nerve in your body on edge.

Why was he looking at you like that?! Why did it feel like he was angry?

Your throat felt dry, your palms clammy. You forced yourself to tear your gaze away, staring down at your iPad as if it could somehow shield you from whatever the hell Jay's problem was.

Jake nudged you lightly, still waiting.

"Uh, only if both of you mind," you managed to say, your voice light, a forced chuckle following your words. And because you were stupid, because some part of you needed to check, you glanced at Jay, just for a second. What a big mistake.

His eyes bore into you, glaring through your skull.  You snapped your head away, heat crawling up your neck.

What the hell is his problem?

The sex was good. No—more than that. It was amazing. It was the first time you ever felt that good, the first time sex had ever been something.

So why was he glaring?

It wasn't like you were about to steal Jake away from him. It wasn't like you had forced him into it. He agreed, didn't he? Unless... Did he not enjoy it? Was this whole situation making him uncomfortable? Did he regret it?

Maybe you were overthinking. Maybe he was just being his usual self. Maybe you should just walk away now, act like it never happened. Maybe that was what Jay wanted.

Agh, you're confused.

Sunoo lazily popped a sour candy into his mouth, squinting as the tartness hit his tongue. He let out a small grunt, shifting to a more comfortable position on the grass. The afternoon sun was hot, beating down on both of you, but you are too focused on your internal dilemma to noticed the heat.

"What does it mean if you have two friends? Friend number one smiles at you, treats you well, but friend number two always glares at you. But—" you paused, picking at the hem of your uniform, "friend number two is perfectly nice to friend number one?"

Sunoo gave you a long, unimpressed look, slowly chewing. "It means friend number two doesn't like you," he grumbled, voice flat, as if the answer was obvious.

You frowned, hugging your knees to your chest. "But what if..." You hesitated, debating whether you should even continue.

Sunoo sighed dramatically. "Oh, here we go. What if?"

You rolled your eyes but pressed on. "What if friend number one, friend number two, and I... shared a happy moment?"

Sunoo raised a brow. "Shared a happy moment? What the hell does that even mean?"

You felt heat creep up your neck. "I mean, like—" You cleared your throat. "Something really good happened, something we all enjoyed together. But now, friend number two acts weird with me."

Sunoo chewed thoughtfully, eyes narrowing. "Maybe friend number two just thinks of those happy moments as something they only wanted to share with friend number one."

You bit your lip, heart sinking.

"Maybe friend number two is jealous," Sunoo continued, tossing another candy into his mouth. "Because you got to be part of something they wanted to keep just between them and friend number one."

You inhaled sharply, your body shifting as you leaned back on your palms, eyes fixed on the field in front of you. The rhythmic sounds of students laughing and running filled the air

"Can friend number two just tell me they hate me already?" you muttered, exasperated. "I'm overthinking everything at this point."

Sunoo snorted, reaching into his pocket before offering you his pack of sour candy. "You expect men to communicate? Not a chance."

You rolled your eyes but took the package from him, ripping it open. "I never said friend number two was a man, geez," you huffed, popping a candy into your mouth. The sharp, sour taste made you wince slightly.

"I'm not that dumb, bitch." Sunoo grumble as he turned to you. You clicked your tongue but said nothing. Sunoo wasn't an idiot. If anything, he probably already had an idea of what—or who—this was really about. But thankfully, he didn't push any further.

With a sigh, you started thinking again. Was that really it? Did he really hate you? Was he really just jealous?

Your fingers curled against the grass, the uneven texture grounding you. If he didn't want you there, if he didn't want to share Jake, then why didn't he just stop it from the beginning?

He was the one who convinced you. He was the one who told you to give it a chance. And yet now, every time you saw him, his eyes burned into you.

You swallowed hard, staring blankly ahead. His words echoed in your mind.

"He's mine—and letting you into our bed doesn't mean anything more. You're just there for fun."

"I'll always be the one who fucks him better."

Maybe that was all this was. A reminder and a warning to know your place.

You sighed, rubbing your temple before shoving another sour candy into your mouth. The sharp, tangy taste made you wince.

Just like him. Acting so fucking sour.

Jay's life was a fucking mess.

Every time he saw you, he remembered. Every time he didn't see you, he still remembered.

It pissed him off to no end. It made him furious that his brain kept replaying that night—your whines, your shaking legs, the way you screamed when you came undone on Jake's fingers.

He scoffed, almost laughing at himself. What the fuck was wrong with him? He was Park Jongseong, for fuck's sake. There was no way in hell he was going to let some pathetic girl like you get under his skin.

You weren't special. You were just a moment—a mistake, something that should've been forgettable.

And yet. Why the fuck was he hard right now, thinking about the way you squirted all over his sheets? The way your body trembled when he slapped your pussy raw, the way your lips parted when you gasped for air under his grip?

His jaw tightened. He hated you. He fucking hated you. He hated your guts. He hated the way you always stared at his boyfriend with those wide, hungry eyes. He hated that you got to see Jake like that, got to have his attention, even for a moment.

Most of all, though— He hated that you never once looked at him the same way.

"Is she replying to you? Because she's not responding to me." Jake let out a dramatic sigh, flopping onto the bed. His phone dangled loosely in his grip as he stared up at the ceiling, defeated. "She won't even accept my follow request."

Jay didn't respond. He just kept typing on his laptop, the only sound in the room was the faint clicking of his keyboard.

Jake glanced at his phone again, lips pressing together. "Is she okay? She's been wearing turtlenecks under her uniform for almost a week now," he muttered. "And her voice—it's different. Kinda raspy. I noticed it during our Social Psych class."

Jay's typing slowed as Jake groaned, running a hand through his hair. "Do you think she's avoiding us? Did I do something wrong? Am I making her uncomfortable?"

Jay inhaled deeply, fingers pausing on the keyboard as his boyfriend's endless stream of questions continued.

"I think she's more comfortable with you," Jake added, eyes still fixed on his phone.

Jay almost laughed. Comfortable with him? Yeah, right. He rolled his eyes before finally speaking. "She would come back if she wanted to," he muttered, still not looking away from his screen. "Stop overthinking it."

Jake frowned, crossing his arms. "I'm not overthinking. I just want to know if she's okay."

Jay clenched his jaw. "She's fine."

"You don't know that," Jake countered. "You haven't even checked on her."

Jay's fingers twitched. "You have," he shot back. "So why does it matter what I do?"

Jake sighed, shaking his head. "Because I know you care, even if you don't want to admit it."

Jay stiffened, his fingers tightening around his mouse. Jake sat up straighter, watching him carefully. "I just want to fix things, okay? She's been distant. And I don't think it's just because she's busy."

"Just leave her alone for the meantime," Jay muttered, trying to keep his tone neutral, but the tightness in his voice betrayed him.

Jake raised an eyebrow, clearly catching the irritation underneath Jay's words. "Babe, why are you so—"

"I'm not anything," Jay cut him off sharply, fingers resuming their typing, even though he wasn't actually focusing on the screen anymore.

Why does it matter so much? Why can't Jake just let it go? They had their fun, it happened, and now it was done. It was supposed to be done. But no—Jake kept thinking about you, kept asking about you, kept caring about you. It was pissing Jay off.

And what pissed him off even more was the fact that he wasn't any better. He didn't want to think about you.

Jay's fingers stilled on the keyboard.

You weren't even interacting with them anymore. You barely even looked at them. You were just out there, minding your own business, avoiding them. And yet, you still had this effect on both of them.

Jake was concerned about you.  Jay was pissed. That was it. That was all. He had no other reason to care.

"Jay?" Jake's voice snapped him out of his thoughts.

Jay exhaled through his nose, forcing his hands to relax. "Do whatever you want," he muttered. "Just don't expect me to give a shit."

Jay didn't know what kind of cosmic joke this was—how out of every possible student in this class, he ended up paired with you. Just two minor courses and one major, and somehow, somehow, he still couldn't escape you.

Like life was just laughing at him. And as if his patience wasn't already wearing thin, your stupid alarm had to go off. Again.

"Can you fucking turn off your alarm?" he hissed, glaring at you from across the table.

You blinked at him, unbothered, barely sparing him a glance as you silenced your phone. "It's just an alarm. Chill."

"Excuse me? What the fuck is wrong with you?" Sunoo snapped beside you, rolling his eyes as he turned to Jay. "That's her alarm for her medicine."

Jay's jaw clenched. Of course your annoying best friend would come to your rescue. Not only was he stuck in a group with you, but Sunoo too—and somehow, by some miracle, without Jake around to be the buffer between him and his growing irritation.

What the fuck was he even doing here? And what was with this medicine you kept taking at exactly 3:30 PM?

Not that he cared, but it pissed him off that every time he was forced to be around you, your stupid alarm would interrupt the discussion, and then you'd excuse yourself to the bathroom.

It pissed him off that he had to spend another minute waiting for you to come back. He hated that he was noticing things about you. Like how you avoided looking at him unless you absolutely had to, like he wasn't even worth acknowledging.

You grab your bag and stand up, ready to leave, of course, Sunoo follows instantly, picking up your tumbler like some kind of assistant.

Before either of you can take a step, Jay huffs, leaning back in his seat with his arms crossed.

"Just take the damn medicine here," he says, sounding beyond annoyed. "I don't want to waste my time waiting for you two to come back. There's literally five minutes left in this meeting."

Both you and Sunoo pause, staring at him. Sunoo squints, looking personally offended by the audacity.

Meanwhile, you hesitate, shifting awkwardly before reluctantly sitting back down. You send Sunoo a silent look—a desperate please, let's just drop this before Jay kills me kind of look.

Jay watched as Sunoo sat down, rummaged through your bag with way too much enthusiasm, practically throwing things aside until he found what he was looking for.

"You're being so fucking insensitive," Sunoo snapped, pulling out a small container of pills and dramatically placing them in front of you. "She's literally sick."

Jay rolled his eyes, slumping back in his chair, arms crossed. "It's not like I told her not to take them."

"You're acting like it's an inconvenience!" Sunoo shot back, popping the cap off your tumbler. "She needs these!"

Meanwhile, you were panicking. Sunoo didn't actually know why you were taking the medication—only that you'd been struggling with swallowing and breathing. He was there when you went to get it checked out, and he had shrieked so loudly at the doctor's office upon seeing the bruises on your throat that security almost got called. You had to practically beg them not to report it as abuse.

Jay's gaze flickered toward you, watching how stiff you had gotten, your fingers curling around the edge of the table. Suspicious.

His patience was already hanging by a thread, and every group meeting was making it worse. Every single time, Jake would sit beside you, smiling, asking about your day, treating you like nothing had changed. And you would talk to him in the same soft tone, laughing lightly, joking, as if things were perfectly fine.

But when it came to Jay, you barely even looked at him.

Jay's hands curled into fists under the table. Did you really like Jake that much?

"Just take the damn pill and let's finish this," he muttered, looking away.

Sunoo clicked his tongue, clearly still pissed, but you sighed. Grabbing the medicine, you tossed it back with a sip of water, trying not to feel like you were swallowing more than just the pill.

Sunoo huffed dramatically, slumping back in his chair, arms crossed as he blew his bangs out of his face. Then, in a whisper just loud enough for you to hear, he muttered, "God, he's so sour."

You nearly choked on your water, barely managing to swallow before coughing into your sleeve. Meanwhile, across the table, Jay's eye twitched, his fingers pausing mid-typing.

Yeah, he definitely heard that.

"I did not study Psychology to be dealing with people like him. I swear, I don't get it! His boyfriend, Jake, is an actual sunshine. How the hell did he end up with someone like that? He's such an asshole—I want to wrap my hands around his neck and squeeze."

Sunoo groans dramatically, throwing his hands in the air like he's physically choking someone.

You snort, patting his back in an attempt to soothe him. "Easy there, I don't think murder is part of the syllabus."

"I know he's serious about his work, but I didn't expect him to be this much of a dick about it! What's his problem?" Sunoo huffs, his fists clenching. "Do you want me to go back there and punch him? Because I will. Gladly."

You laugh softly, shaking your head. "I don't think that'll help."

Sunoo lets out another exaggerated sigh, slumping against the bench you're both sitting on. "This is exactly why I hate men."

"You do realize he's gay, right?" You whisper, rubbing his back in slow, soothing circles.

Sunoo glares at you, eyes narrowing. "And? He's still a man! God!" He throws his head back dramatically. "Why are they all like this? Why can't they just be normal and not emotionally constipated?"

You chuckle, resting your chin on your palm. "You're so worked up about this."

"I am worked up! I don't like seeing my best friend treated like trash. That's my job!" Sunoo pokes your forehead lightly. "Not some grumpy, brooding asshole with control issues."

You sigh, offering a small smile as you murmur something to calm him down. He huffs but eventually lets it go, leaning back with his arms crossed.

It had been a week since everything happened. And to your credit, you were doing a great job avoiding them—or, well, avoiding Jay.

Jake was different. Jake was nice. He kept talking to you, his usual warmth never faltering. Always so soft, always so considerate. It was hard keeping your distance when he was so genuinely kind to you.

Unlike Jay, Jake never gave you a reason to feel unwanted. He'd ask if his proximity made you uncomfortable, if you'd eaten, how you were feeling. But somehow, despite everything, he never brought up that night again. Not once did he mention the sex, didn't push for another time, didn't make any suggestive comments.

You weren't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

Well, Jay... that was a different story entirely. You couldn't afford to talk to him. Couldn't even look at him. His attitude, his gaze, the way he seemed to burn with irritation every time you were anywhere near—it made everything so much harder.

You were convinced at this point. Park Jongseong hated you. And somehow, Jake had no idea.

And yet, you still wanted him. Both of them, It was pathetic.

No matter how much he glared, no matter how cold he acted, your body still reacted to him. Your mind still wandered into dangerous places, imagining things.

Like the way his hands would feel pinning you down, his fingers digging into your skin as he fucked you from behind—frustrated, rough, using you to work out whatever twisted anger he had toward you.

Or maybe Jake would be there, slipping underneath, his soft mouth on your clit while Jay kept you spread open for him. His tongue moving in slow, teasing circles, coaxing you to the edge while Jay's cock filled you.

You shook your head, trying to push the thoughts away, but your thighs clenched instinctively.

God, you were so pathetic. Back to being the desperate girl thirsting over men who weren't even yours to begin with.

It would never happen again. You repeated it in your head.

Another week passed, and you finally ditched the turtlenecks. The bruises were still there, faint shadows against your skin, but barely noticeable unless someone really looked which you doubted anyone would.

"I swear, after midterms, I'm going to sleep for a full twenty-four hours," you muttered, scrolling through your research on your iPad. Your pen skimmed across the screen, underlining sections that needed revision.

"I just want to treat myself," Sunoo sighed, resting his chin on his palm. "Maybe a red velvet cake or something."

You hummed, mimicking his pose, eyes distant as you both fell into a much-needed daydream. "I wanna try the matcha strawberry drink from that new café at the Avenue. This week has been so draining." You sighed, letting your shoulders slump. "I'm also craving marshmallows, but honestly? I don't even think I deserve them."

Across the table, Jay huffed—that sharp, irritated sound you'd grown far too familiar with. You didn't even need to look up to know he was watching, that signature glare aimed straight at you and Sunoo.

"Can you focus?" His voice ruined your lighthearted moment. "We're almost done. Stop wasting time."

You quickly dropped your gaze back to your iPad, pretending to be engrossed in your notes. But your fingers fidgeted with the stylus. Sunoo, made a loud show of flipping open his book, rolling his eyes so hard.

"God, you're so uptight," he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for Jay to hear.

Not long after, Jake appeared, all warmth and sunshine, his smile instantly making the mood lighter. "Hey," he greeted, his voice soft as he glanced at you before nodding at Sunoo.

Your body reacted before your mind could catch up—straightening a little, fingers brushing over your hair, smoothing down your uniform. It wasn't intentional, but Jay noticed. His grip on his pen tightened just slightly, his lips pressing into a thin line.

"Are you finished?" Jake murmured, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to Jay's temple before settling beside him.

Jay hummed in response, not looking up, but his hand instinctively brushed around Jake's waist, a small acknowledgment of his presence.

Sunoo gagged dramatically, clutching his chest like he was in physical pain. "Jesus Christ, not in front of us, please," he groaned, rubbing his arms like the display of affection had given him hives.

Jake just laughed, completely unbothered. "What? You don't like a little affection?"

"I like affection," Sunoo huffed, flipping a page with unnecessary force. "I don't like seeing gay love flaunted in front of me, knowing I'm single and trying to work."

Jake smirked, leaning further into Jay just to be annoying, kissing his cheek. "Hmm, okay," he said simply.

You chuckled at their antics, but the laughter caught in your throat the moment your eyes met his. Your breath hitched slightly, and you quickly looked away, suddenly hyper-aware of how comfortable you were around Jake compared to the awkward tension that always came with Jay.

Geez, you can't even be happy in front of him.

Jake knew himself well enough to admit that sometimes he could be too pushy when he wanted something. But he wasn't insensitive. He noticed things, especially when it came to the people he cared about.

And lately, he'd been noticing a lot. Jay's behavior toward you wasn't just cold—it was rough. The sharp glances, the clipped tone, the way his patience seemed to wear thinner whenever you were around. At first, Jake thought it was just Jay being Jay, the brooding, possessive, easily annoyed. But the longer it went on, the more it started to feel different.

That was why Jake had been careful. He didn't push too hard. He avoided bringing you up in conversations with Jay, kept his interactions with you light, casual. But he couldn't completely ignore you. Not when he'd noticed the way your breath sometimes slowed, how you would press your fingers against your throat absentmindedly, as if checking for something. Not the time when you still wore high-collared tops long after the bruises should've faded. He knew Jay had left those marks. And he knew, deep down, Jay knew that, too.

Jake couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong.

Did Jay regret what happened? Was he jealous of you? Jake knew how possessive Jay could be, how he had always been the type to express his emotions through actions rather than words. Maybe Jake should've just let it go. Maybe he should've left you alone for the sake of Jay's peace of mind. But every time he thought about it, something in his gut told him that wasn't the answer.

"Fuck—just like that," Jay groaned, fingers tightening in his hair, hips snapping forward, chasing more of that heat, more of that wet, perfect warmth.

Jake hummed, taking him deeper, his throat swallowing around him. Jay shuddered, his thighs trembling slightly.

Jay's mind was a wreck — being in the same group as you? Tolerable. Jay was starting to tolerate you. But that didn't mean he didn't hate you. God—he hated you.

His grip tightened in Jake's hair, frustration bubbling over as he fucked into his boyfriend's mouth with more force, each thrust carrying a weight he couldn't put into words. Jake moaned around him, wide eyes flicking up, locking onto his as he bobbed his head, matching his rhythm perfectly.

Jake looked so fucking beautiful like this.

Jay let out a shaky breath, head tipping back for a moment before his thoughts dragged him back to you.

Why the fuck do you keep looking at Jake like that? Why do you always pull away when he walks in? Why does your smile always falter the moment he gets near?

You were so soft with everyone else—laughing, chatting, existing like a normal person. But with him? It was different.

Your shoulders tensed. Your voice lowered. You avoided him, even in small things—passing papers, choosing seats, glancing his way. Even when you had to sit next to him, you made yourself small. So close, yet always so far away.

He shouldn't care. He fucking hated you. So why did it feel like he was losing his mind over this?

"Jake—" his voice was strained, stomach tightening, his body wound so tight. "I'm close."

Jake hummed in response, vibrations sending pleasure through him. His boyfriend was eager, tongue swirling around his shaft, making his legs tremble.

Jay's jaw clenched, his whole body coiling as his release built up.

And then—your face flashed through his mind. The way you walked into the lecture hall, pretending you didn't see him. The way you laughed at something Sunoo said, your shoulders relaxing the second you thought Jay wasn't watching.

Jay was always watching, he was always looking at you. And you never looked at him.

Look at me, his mind screamed every time. Just fucking look at me. But you never did.

His orgasm ripped through him, his whole body shaking, his head tipping back as his eyes rolled, a loud whine tearing from his throat.

He whispered your name. His hips stuttered, mindlessly thrusting into Jake's mouth, the echo of your name slipping past his lips, again and again.

Jake pulled off, gasping for air, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His brows furrowed slightly, staring at Jay with confusion before chuckling.

"Did you just—"

Jay collapsed back against the couch, breathless, his arm thrown over his face, chest rising and falling heavily. Jake's fingers glided up his stomach, watching him closely.

And even now—Even after coming. Your name was still on Jay's lips.

That made Jake's cock twitch. He liked this. He liked Jay this way—angry, possessive, completely in denial.

A slow smirk curled Jake's lips as he leaned back against the couch, eyes lidded as he reached for his zipper. The sound of it unzipping filled the air, followed by the rustle of fabric as he tugged his pants and boxers down just enough to free himself.

His fingers wrapped around his cock, dragging along the length, thumb circling the slit as he collected the precum beading at the tip.

Jay watched him, He didn't say anything, didn't move—but Jake saw it. The way his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. The way his fingers twitched at his sides. The way his gaze lingered.

Jake let out a soft gasp, biting his lip before stroking himself faster. "Let's fuck her again," he murmured, His eyes flickered up, locking onto Jay's dark stare. "Shall we?"

Jay stirred, shifting slightly.

Jake hummed, his pace quickening. "I want to do more things with her," he moaned, hips stuttering into his own grip. "Thought you hated her, thought you wanted nothing to do with her, but—fuck—" he inhaled sharply, smirking through his pleasure. "You're just denying things, huh?"

Jay's cock twitched.

"You make things so fucking difficult," Jake moaned, tilting his head back, his free hand dragging up his stomach. "If you weren't so prideful, we'd already have her between us again."

Jay inhaled sharply through his nose, his control slipping. He moved before he could stop himself—grabbing Jake's wrist, ripping his hand away from his cock.

Jake gasped, pleasure cut off instantly as Jay loomed over him, eyes burning. "Shut the fuck up," Jay growled, his grip tight. His other hand snapped to Jake's thigh, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. "You don't know what you're talking about."

Jake's lips parted, his breath shaky—but then he grinned again, riling him further.

"You're so full of shit, baby," Jake moaned. "Acting like you hate her, when really, you just wanna ruin her."

He shifted under Jay's hold, spreading his thighs slightly, giving him more of a view. "Come on, just admit it," he murmured, his voice teasing, breathless. "You liked fucking her. You liked the way she fell apart under you—how desperate she was, how much she wanted it."

Jay's breath hitched, nostrils flaring. Jake leaned in closer, lips brushing against his jaw, voice dropping to a whisper. "And now, you can't stop thinking about her, can you?"

Jay's fingers twitched, feeling the rush of heat.

"You wanna know if she thinks about it, too?" Jake continued, his free hand sliding up Jay's chest, fingers tracing over the fabric of his shirt. "If she touches herself to the memory of you?"

"Shut the fuck up!" Jay snapped. He grabbed Jake roughly, flipping him over onto his stomach before yanking his hips up, positioning himself at his ass. Using his own cum from earlier as lubrication, he pushed inside in one rough thrust.

Jake gasped, his mouth falling open in a silent moan before it turned into a loud, wanton cry. His fingers clawed at the couch, his back arching. "Fucking yes—"

Jay didn't wait, didn't give him time to adjust. He fucked into him—deep, brutal thrusts, each one fueled by the mess in his head, the tangled thoughts that refused to leave him alone.

"Fuck," Jay gritted out, his hands gripping Jake's waist hard enough to bruise. His pace was relentless, hips snapping forward with enough force to shove Jake up. "You think I give a shit about what she does?"

Jake moaned, back curving further as he pushed himself up onto his elbows, meeting Jay's thrusts. "I think you do," he panted, a teasing smirk tugging at his lips despite the way his body trembled from the rough pace. "I think you care—I think you hate that you care."

Jay growled, his fingers tangling in Jake's hair, yanking his head back roughly. "Shut. The fuck. Up."

Jake only moaned louder, his own cock leaking against the rough fabric of the couch. "That's right, baby," he gasped, voice breaking from pleasure. "Fuck me! Fuck me harder! Imagine her in my place—imagine that tight little pussy wrapped around your cock instead—"

Jay let out a loud, guttural groan, his pace turning frantic. His mind flashed to you—flashed to the way you bit your lip when you were nervous, the way your breath hitched when Jake touched you, the way your thighs clenched together when you thought no one was watching.

"Fuck, Jay!" Jake cried out when Jay angled his hips, slamming into his prostate repeatedly. His body trembled, fingers fisting at nothing, lost in the brutal rhythm. "God—yes! Just like that—faster—"

Jay's grip tightened. His vision blurred, thoughts colliding into each other, overwhelming him. Your lips. Your moans. The way your walls clenched around his fingers

His frustration boiled over. His jealousy. His confusion. His anger. And still, your name slipped from his lips.

Jake smirked despite the overwhelming pleasure wrecking his body. His teasing voice was broken between moans. "Fuck, Jay—do you want her?" His breath hitched when Jay thrust harder, his whole body shaking. "Are you gonna take her again? Ruin her—make her fucking yours?"

Jay groaned, his fingers bruising into Jake's skin. His answer came through gritted teeth.

"Fucking yes."

You plopped back into your seat, setting your tumbler down with a sigh, when your eyes landed on the unexpected sight in front of you.

A pack of marshmallows sat right on top of your notes, neatly placed beside your scattered belongings. Brows furrowing, you picked it up, turning it over in your hands. "Huh? Where did this come from?"

Jay barely spared you a glance, fingers typing away on his laptop. "That's been there since before you left to refill your water."

You blinked, confused. "What? No way."

"You got a goldfish brain or something?" Jay's brow twitched in irritation. "God, stop disturbing me."

You scowled at his attitude but chose to ignore it, more focused on the marshmallows that had seemingly appeared out of nowhere. Sunoo plopped down beside you, a cup of mint ice cream in hand. His spoon clinked against the container as he scooped a bite into his mouth.

"Hey, Sunoo." You turned to him, still holding up the marshmallow pack. "Did I buy these?"

Sunoo tilted his head, squinting as if trying to recall. "Uh... maybe? You did say you were craving marshmallows." He shrugged.

You frowned, glancing back at the pack before shaking your head. "Weird. I don't remember buying them."

"Maybe you did and just forgot. You've been drowning in schoolwork lately." Sunoo licked his spoon, then smirked. "Or maybe you've got a secret admirer."

You snorted, tearing open the pack. "Doubt it." Jay's typing faltered for half a second, but he quickly resumed. Shrugging off the thought, you popped a marshmallow into your mouth, savoring the soft, sugary texture.

"Either way, free marshmallows," you mumbled, offering the bag to Sunoo.

Sunoo happily grabbed one, humming in satisfaction. You turned to Jay, nudging the bag toward him, but he barely glanced up from his laptop. Instead, he waved you off with a dismissive shrug.

Typical. You didn't push, rolling your eyes as you stuffed another marshmallow into your mouth.

The following meetings were okay. No unnecessary arguments, no tension that made you want to shrink into yourself. Things were flowing smoothly.

Except, you started noticing something. Jake was around more often. He claimed it was because he preferred working on his research alongside his boyfriend, but Sunoo had made a dramatic gagging sound the moment Jake sat down, whispering, "Yeah, sure. Totally research-related."

Jake also seemed to be getting... casual with you. Too casual. His hand would rest on your thigh, just sitting, his fingers sometimes absentmindedly rubbing up and down. Or he'd casually hook his arm through yours while walking. You didn't really think much of it. Sunoo did the exact same thing. And, well, Jake was Jake—affectionate, playful, and friendly. You were comfortable with him. It felt natural.

Jay, on the other hand... His behavior was still sour. Or at least, that's what you'd call it if he actually interacted with you at all. He wasn't glaring anymore—not as much, anyway. But he also wasn't looking at you. At all. Not once. He'd walk behind you while you, Jake, and Sunoo chatted and laughed about whatever nonsense came to mind, Jay was always completely silent. Always present but never engaging.

"What the hell?!" Sunoo practically screeched, pointing an accusing finger at you and Jake. His face was twisted in pure betrayal. "I knew you two were fishy! Fucking traitors!"

You and Jake burst into laughter, barely holding onto your phones as you clutched your stomachs. The screen in your hands displayed 'Impostor Wins' in bold letters.

Jake was shaking with suppressed laughter, his head buried against your shoulder as his body trembled with the effort not to be too loud. Meanwhile, Sunoo sat there fuming, eyes narrowed in frustration as he dramatically crossed his arms.

"I trusted you," Sunoo huffed, glaring at Jake. "You were my partner! And you—" He turned to you, jabbing a finger in your direction. "You're supposed to be my best friend!"

"I'm sorry!" you wheezed, wiping a tear from your eye. "It was too easy! You fell for it!"

"Unbelievable," he muttered, shaking his head.

Jay, who had been slumped over the table, twitched at the sudden noise, lifting his head slightly to glance at the three of you. He looked exhausted, his jaw tightening slightly as he took in the way Jake was still pressed against you, his head resting against your shoulder, hand resting a little too comfortably on your thigh.

"Okay, okay, rematch?" you offered, nudging Sunoo with your foot. Sunoo huffed. "I'm not playing with you two anymore. I need new allies."

Jake grinned, finally lifting his head from your shoulder, his hand lazily tapping at his phone screen. "Come on, don't be like that, Sunoo. It's just a game."

"A game?" Sunoo repeated, looking personally offended. "I died for you. I defended you! I saw you kill someone, and I still voted for someone else!"

You and Jake exchanged amused glances before dissolving into laughter again. Jay slammed his laptop shut. The sound was loud enough to startle all three of you, making your heads snap toward him.

"I'm leaving." He said.

You stared at him, blinking in confusion. "Huh?"

Jake straightened up, his playful expression fading slightly. "You okay, babe?"

Jay didn't answer. Instead, he stood up abruptly, slinging his bag over his shoulder before shoving his chair back into place with more force than necessary.

You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, swallowing. "Uh... I thought we were gonna—"

"I want to sleep," Jay cut you off, his tone cold. His eyes flickered to you briefly, before looking away just as fast. And just like that, he walked out without another word.

The three of you exchanged glances, the silence stretching uncomfortably. Then, Jake sighed, standing up as well. "I'll go talk to him."

"Here we go again," Sunoo muttered under his breath, popping another piece of candy into his mouth.

You wrinkled your nose at him, nudging his leg under the table. "Shut up."

Sunoo smirked, nudging you back. "What? It's entertaining. "

You huffed, slumping back in your chair.

You told yourself over and over again that it wasn't your fault. That Jay's jealousy—because at this point, you were convinced that's what it was—was his own issue. Not yours.

But it was getting harder to ignore when Jake was pressed behind you, arms wrapped securely around your waist, his chest flush against your back. When he was nuzzling into the crook of your neck, murmuring things that weren't even remotely suggestive, but the warmth of his breath against your skin made your knees weak anyway.

And it was impossible to ignore when Jay was sitting right across from you, staring. You felt like a pawn in whatever unspoken battle Jay was having with himself.

Sunoo was oblivious—or maybe just used to this—was too busy fixing his makeup to acknowledge the suffocating tension in the air.

Jake would whisper little things in your ear, casual gossip, things that should not have been turning you on, but the way his lips brushed against your skin with every word sent sparks through your core.

You wanted Jay to do something about it.

You knew he hated you. But deep down, you still hoped—prayed—that whatever this was, whatever anger or frustration he was harboring, he would take it out on you.

That he would grab you by the waist and shove you into the nearest surface. That he would bruise you all over again, mark you up until you belonged to him. That he would shove his cock down your throat, just like last time, ignoring the way you gasped for air, not caring if you were still recovering. Fuck the doctors prescription.

God knows you wanted it. Every night, you would find yourself alone, your fingers curling between your thighs, biting down on your lip to stop from moaning their names. Jake, with his sweet kisses and lingering touches. Jay, with his rough hands and punishing pace.

Would they ever ask again? Would Jake pull you into his lap, whispering in your ear that they missed you? Would Jay finally snap, throw you onto the bed, and take you? Even though you don't deserve it?

You imagined them ruining you, stretching you out together, stuffing you full until there was nothing left of you but the sound of your own choked moans.

Or Jay filling you up, his cum dripping down your thighs. Jake licking it up, kissing your swollen clit before shoving his cock into you next.

"Shit—fuck!" you gasped, thighs clenching around your hand as your mini vibrator sent sharp pulses straight to your core. Your body arched violently off the mattress, hips trembling as waves of pleasure surged through you.

Your back hit the sheets again, your head tilting back as your mouth fell open in a silent scream. Every muscle in your body tensed, heat coiling tightly in your abdomen before snapping all at once.

"Thank you—thank you," you moaned breathlessly, tossing the vibrator aside, but your fingers didn't stop. Desperation clawed at your skin as you rubbed tight, insistent circles over your clit, the oversensitivity making your entire body jolt.

Your legs spasmed, toes curling as cold sweat slicked your skin. The tension didn't ease, it only built higher, higher, until suddenly their faces flashed behind your closed eyes.

Jake, whispering filth into your ear, his hands gripping your thighs as he kissed his way down.

Jay, pinning you in place, his fingers tight around your throat, his breath warm against your lips as he growled in your ear.

The image alone sent you spiraling.

Your hips twitched, grinding against your own fingers, chasing more, needing more. You whined, the sound escaping without your permission as your body trembled violently.

"Oh—fuck! Fuck! Ahh!"

Your release hit again, crashing into you, your entire body shuddering as liquid gushed from between your legs, soaking the sheets beneath you. Your thighs clamped shut, your fingers stalling against your clit as the aftershocks rolled through you.

Your chest heaved, your heartbeat erratic, the high still pulsing through your veins. You lay there, boneless, ruined, your sheets damp, your body twitching with every lingering spark of pleasure.

The only sound in the room was your heavy breathing and the faint, continuous buzzing of the forgotten vibrator beside you.

You sigh, staring at the ceiling. Post orgasm crashing into you. Frustration suddenly kicking in.

Frustrated because nothing seemed to satisfy you. Frustrated because no matter what you did—you couldn't forget them.

Frustrated because... God help you. You wanted it to happen again.

"How do you initiate sex?" You blurted out, glancing at Sunoo, who was casually fixing his hair in his compact mirror. "Like... how do you tell them you want to do it again?"

Sunoo froze, his reflection staring back at him before he slowly turned to you, eyes squinting in pure offense. "Are you seriously asking me that?"

You frowned. "Who else am I supposed to ask?"

He huffed, snapping his mirror shut. "Babe, first of all, I don't do seconds. If I hit once, it's a one-time event. No reruns." He gave you a pointed look. "But if you're desperate—which, let's be honest, you are—just text them 'hey, dtf?'"

You groaned dramatically, flopping back onto the bed. "No! It's—ugh!" You covered your face, muffling another groan. "Nevermind! Fuck!" You give up as you threw your hands up in defeat.

"Hey!"

You jumped slightly at the sudden voice, turning to see Jake standing behind you, his usual bright smile on his face.

Before you could say anything, he reached out and ruffled Sunoo's hair, only to get a sharp slap on the back in response. Jake laughed but winced at the impact, rubbing the spot where Sunoo had hit him.

"Huh? Where's Jay?" You asked, glancing behind him, trying to catch a glimpse of his boyfriend.

"Studying," Jake replied with a shrug. Sitting beside you, settling himself in the ground.

"What?! Midterms just ended!" Sunoo huffed, crossing his arms. "Force your boyfriend to take a break! We were planning to get caramel macchiatos with you guys." He muttered, still fussing over his hair that Jake had messed up.

Jake chuckled. "I'd love to, but you know Jay. He's—"

"Anyways, Jake, how do you initiate sex?" Sunoo cut him off, completely changing the topic.

Your eyes widened in horror. "Sunoo!" You hissed, tugging on his arm, but he only grinned mischievously.

Jake blinked, tilting his head in confusion. "Uh... what?"

"She was asking me earlier," Sunoo continued, completely throwing you under the bus. "How to tell someone she wants to do it again."

Jake's mouth fell open slightly, then a slow smirk spread across his lips. His eyes glinted with amusement as he turned to you.

Your grip on Sunoo tightened, your face heating up instantly. "I wasn't—I didn't—" You shook your head frantically, staring at Jake in sheer embarrassment. "Ignore him!"

Jake's smirk deepened, but he played it cool,  "Oh? And who exactly are we talking about here?"

Your heart nearly stopped. The way his eyes glinted with mischief, the way his lips curled slightly at the edges—he knew. Oh, he fucking knew exactly what Sunoo was referring to. But he was pretending not to.

Sunoo hummed thoughtfully. "Good question! She won't tell me either. Probably some random guy who dicked her down so good she wants seconds."

You choked on your own breath. "Sunoo!"

Jake snorted, biting back a laugh, but his gaze never left you. "Hmm," he mused, tapping his chin dramatically. "Well, if I had to give some advice..." He trailed off, his eyes flickering with amusement as he watched you squirm.

You shot him a warning glare, silently pleading for him to drop it.

He didn't. "I'd say just be straightforward," Jake continued, completely ignoring your flustered expression. "Just shoot them a text, something like, 'Hey, I can't stop thinking about that night. Wanna make it happen again?'" He shrugged. "Easy."

Sunoo nodded in agreement. "See? That's what I told her! But nooo, she wants to overthink it."

You groaned, pressing your hands against your burning face. "I hate both of you."

Jake chuckled, leaning closer, his voice dropping just slightly. "So... is this mystery guy really that good?"

Your breath caught, eyes snapping up to meet his. There was teasing in his tone.  He was fucking with you.

Sunoo rolled his eyes. "Obviously, if she's still thinking about him. Poor girl's down bad."

Jake hummed, tilting his head. "Yeah... must've been one hell of a night."

Thankfully, the topic shifted. Sunoo, being Sunoo, effortlessly steered the conversation toward food and cafés, but by the time 2:00 rolled around, Sunoo stretched his arms with a dramatic sigh. "Alright, I'm out. Gotta visit Wonyoung before she thinks I've abandoned her."

You barely had time to nod before he turned to you with a knowing smirk. "Thank me later."

Your stomach dropped. The realization hit you, before you could stop him, Sunoo was already strutting away, leaving you alone. With Jake.

You were too close to Jake, yet somehow, it still wasn't enough. Your throat felt tight, your heart hammering in your chest as you swallowed hard, trying to ignore the way your body reacted to his presence.

"I—uh," you started, your voice barely steady, "d-don't mind what Sunoo said—"

Jake didn't even let you finish. "I've been waiting for the perfect moment to ask you myself," he cut in smoothly.

Your eyes snapping to his. There was something about the way he spoke, like he already knew what you wanted—like he could see right through you.

"Ask me what?" You hated how weak your voice sounded, how your throat felt suddenly dry.

Jake leaned in just slightly, enough for you to catch the faintest scent of his cologne. His gaze never wavered. "If you want to do it again."

Your stomach twisted, heat pooling low in your abdomen at the way he said it. His presence was overwhelming, and it took everything in you to stay still, to not shrink away from the intensity in his eyes.

"I'm not a natural talker," he admitted, his fingers brushing against your cheek, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. "I'm not straightforward like Jay. But thank God for making things flow naturally my way." His lips curled into a small smirk, and before you could prepare yourself, he asked, "Did you miss us?"

Your pulse pounded. You shouldn't say it. You should make this harder for him, play coy, pretend you hadn't been thinking about them every damn night, imagining their hands, their mouths. But instead, the word slipped past your lips before you could stop it.

"Yes," you whispered.

Jake hummed, clearly pleased, but before he could say anything else, you hesitated. A weight sat heavy in your chest. "But Jay—" you paused, unsure how to phrase it without sounding pathetic. "Jay hates me."

Jake chuckled, shaking his head as if the idea itself was ridiculous. "Jay definitely does not hate you."

You frowned. "Then why—"

"He's just jealous." Jake cut you off, your heart stuttered. The idea was so absurd that it took a second to process.

"Jealous?" Your brows furrowed. "Of me?"

Jake's grin widened, and he leaned in closer, his breath fanning against your ear. "Of me."

Your breath caught, your mind struggling to keep up with what he was saying.

"He's jealous of me, baby," Jake murmured, his fingers tracing lightly against the inside of your wrist, his touch barely there, teasing but it makes your pulse jumped under his fingertips.

"Because I get to hug you," he continued, voice velvety smooth, almost hypnotic. "I get to nuzzle my head into your neck. I get your attention."

You exhaled sharply, your body tensing. The way he said it, like it was a privilege—like it was something Jay wanted.

Jake tilted his head, watching you carefully, eyes flickering with amusement. "Tell me," he whispered, his lips hovering just over your skin, "do you miss him too?"

He was toying with you, but damn it, it was working. You knew the answer before he even asked, but saying it out loud was dangerous. That was admitting to something you weren't sure you could handle.

Jake's fingers brushed against your wrist again, featherlight, teasing. He was waiting, watching for your reaction.

You swallowed, throat tight. "I—"

Jake smirked, sensing your hesitation. "You do, don't you?" You hated how easily he read you. How he knew exactly what buttons to press, exactly how to get under your skin.

You exhaled shakily, hands curling into fists on your lap. "If Jay's so jealous, then why does he act like he can't stand me?"

Jake hummed, considering. "Because Jay is a fucking idiot."

You blinked. "What?"

Jake leaned back slightly, arms crossing as he grinned at you. "He's stubborn. Prideful. And he's fighting something he doesn't want to admit."

You frowned, confused. "Fighting what?"

Jake tilted his head, studying you like you were missing something obvious. "You."

Your chest tightened. "Me?"

"You," Jake confirmed, grin widening. "He's pissed because he wants you. And because he doesn't know how to handle it, he's pushing you away instead."

Your stomach flipped. You had convinced yourself Jay hated you, that he regretted everything that happened. But now?

"You're lying." Your voice was weak, but you needed to say it. You needed to convince yourself that Jake was just messing with you.

Jake only chuckled. "Am I?"

You swallowed again, looking away, but Jake wasn't having it. He reached out, his fingers catching your chin, guiding your gaze back to his.

"Let me prove it to you," he murmured.

Your breath caught in your throat. "Prove it how?"

Jake smirked, his thumb brushing against your jaw. His next words sent a shiver straight down your spine.

"Let's give him something to be jealous about."

Desperation clouded every thought in your head, everything around you blurring into the background.

You barely remembered how you ended up stumbling into Jay's apartment, your lips locked feverishly with Jake's, hands grasping at each other like. Jay was out doing groceries. You had no idea when he'd be back. And maybe that was what made this so much hotter.

Anticipation coiled in your stomach, excitement tangled with nervous energy. How would Jay react if he walked in on this? Would he be pissed? The mere thought had heat pooling between your thighs, your panties dampening with want.

"Miss you," Jake whined against your lips, arms tightening around your waist. His movements were rushed, needy—like he'd been waiting for this, craving it just as much as you had. His lips parted against yours, the kiss turning sloppy, hot, all tongue and teeth as the two of you stumbled deeper into the apartment.

Neither of you cared to be careful. Jake kicked off his shoes with barely a thought, his fingers already fumbling with the buttons of your uniform blouse, eager to rid you of the fabric. You let him, hands curling around the back of his neck, tugging him down, pressing yourself against him.

Your back hit the couch, Jake's weight pressing into you, his hands tugging impatiently at your uniform. Your breath hitched as his fingers found the last button, parting the fabric to reveal the warmth of your skin. He groaned softly, dipping his head, his lips trailing down the side of your neck, sucking, licking, tasting.

Jake's lips hovered just over yours, teasing, making you chase him. His fingers trailed lower, ghosting over your ribs just enough to make your skin prickle with more anticipation.

"Remember what I told you?" He tilted his head, pressing a quick, featherlight kiss against your lips. But before you could answer, his fingers danced over your bra, fingertips teasing at the fabric, grazing over your already sensitive nipples. The sensation made you shiver, your back arching involuntarily, pressing your chest further into his touch.

A quiet whimper slipping from your lips, and Jake hummed approvingly. "Hey, baby, I asked you a question." Without warning, he tugged your bra down just enough to pinch your nipple between his fingers, rolling it between his fingertips, sending a sharp jolt of pleasure.

"Yes!" you gasped, your hands flying to wrap around his wrist, not to stop him—but to urge him for more. "Please!" Your body was burning with need, aching for him, for anything he'd give you.

Jake chuckled, his breath warm against your lips. "That's my girl," he murmured, before leaning down again, capturing your lips in another deep kiss. His tongue slid past your lips effortlessly, moving against yours.

You clung to him, fingers curling around the fabric of his uniform, tugging at it, silently begging him to take it off. He straightened, exhaling a sharp breath as he worked through each button, fumbling slightly when you kissed his neck, sucking gently at the skin just below his jaw.

"Ahh, fuck," he groaned, his breath hitching as you nipped lightly at his pulse point.

Taking advantage of the moment, you reached behind yourself, unclasping your bra, letting it slide down your arms before tossing it aside. The cool air against your bare skin sent another shiver on you, but it was quickly replaced by heat as you hooked your fingers into your skirt, dragging it down along with your underwear.

The second Jake finished undressing, he was on you again, his plump lips crashing into yours with renewed hunger. His hands roamed greedily over your bare skin, mapping out every dip, every curve.

He pressed you further into the couch, one hand slipping between your legs, fingers grazing against your already soaked folds. He groaned at the wetness he found there, pulling back just enough to smirk against your lips.

"Fuck, baby," he murmured, his fingers sliding through your slick, teasing but not giving you what you wanted just yet. "You're dripping for me already."

You whimpered, hips shifting toward his hand, but he pulled away slightly, denying you the friction you needed.

"Patience," he cooed, his lips brushing over your jaw, down your throat, leaving a trail of warm, open-mouthed kisses. "Let's take our time with this."

But you didn't want time. You wanted him. Now. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging him back up to crash your lips against his in a desperate kiss, your other hand reaching down, curling around his cock, stroking him slowly.

Jake groaned into your mouth, his hips twitching forward into your grip. "Fuck," he muttered, breaking the kiss, his forehead resting against yours. "You're gonna be the death of me."

And with that, he finally gave in, slipping a finger inside you, curling it just right, drawing a moan from your lips.

The two of you had long lost track of time, lost in the haze of pleasure, in the desperate push and pull of each other's bodies.

You didn't know how many times Jake had sunk himself deep inside you, how many times he had come, or how many times he had dragged another orgasm from your overstimulated body.

You were both drunk on each other—on the way his hands molded your body to fit against him, on the way your walls clenched around him so perfectly.

Your legs were pressed close to your chest, folded as Jake held you up, his arms wrapped under your thighs, supporting your weight as he thrust up into you. Your back arched against his chest, your head thrown back over his shoulder, eyes squeezed shut as you let him take you.

"I-I can't! I'm cumming again!" You cry.

Jake's whines mixed with your cries, his lips dragging over your neck, pressing soft gentle kisses. His pace quickened, each thrust are harder. Your toes curled, your nails digging into his arms, unable to do anything but take what he gave you.

You were lost, drowning in the sensation, in the heat, in him, until his fingers tangled into your hair, yanking just enough to make your eyes snap open.

You gasped, your walls clenching involuntarily around him at the sudden shift, earning a deep groan from his throat. Your dazed mind barely had time to process what was happening before your blurry vision sharpened—and landed on the figure standing in the doorway.

"Hah! Nghh, fuck! J-Jake!"

Jay was standing in front of you, motionless, his hands clenched at his sides, eyes locked onto the scene before him.

"Oh," Jake exhaled, breathless despite the way his thrusts never faltered. He smirked, leaning in just beside your ear, loud enough for Jay to hear. "Look who finally showed up."

Panic surged through you, heat creeping up your neck. Instinctively wanting to cover yourself, but Jake's grip on your thighs tightened, he instead separate your legs,wide open for Jay to see.

The obscene view of where Jake's cock was buried deep inside you—slick, glistening, your walls clenching around him with every drag of his hips.

You gasped, squirming under Jake's hold, your fingers digging into his shoulders.

"Jake!" you whined, the desperate plea slipping from your lips. You knew exactly what he was doing, what game he was playing. But seeing Jay right in front of you made you feel too exposed.

"What the hell, Jake?" Jay gaze flickered between the two of you, his lips parting slightly as if struggling to find the right words. His nostrils flared, his breath uneven despite his stillness. "We were supposed to take things slow with her. That's what we agreed on."

Jake only chuckled, his amusement evident. Instead of slowing down, he snapped his hips harder, his cock dragging against your sensitive walls in a way that made your body jolt under him, your breasts bouncing with the impact. A sinful moan tore from your throat, your head falling back against his shoulder again.

"Surprise," Jake murmured, his smirk widening.

The word sent a shiver down your spine, a sharp flashback hitting you—the first time this happened, the way you had watched them, except now, the roles were reversed.

Jay was the one watching.

His hands twitched at his sides, his jaw locked so tight you thought it might snap. His eyes darkened, tracking every movement, every reaction, every shuddering breath you took.

His gaze dipped lower, settling between your legs, watching the way Jake stretched you open, how greedily your body took him. His Adam's apple bobbed, his breathing getting heavier.

He was pissed. You could tell by the way his fingers flexed, by the tension coiling through his frame.

"Can't blame me," Jake exhaled, groaning at the way your walls clenched around him. "I mean, you were too slow. Kept sending her mixed signals." He nuzzled into your neck, pressing a soft, lingering kiss against your pulse, his breath warm against your damp skin. "Poor girl thought you hated her."

Jay's jaw ticked, his lips pressing into a thin line. His fists clenched tighter, the veins in his forearms standing out. He looked like he was on the verge of snapping.

Jake wasn't done. His fingers traced down your stomach, circling teasingly around your clit. He chuckled darkly, his eyes still locked on Jay. "She was too good to be true, Jay."

Jay remained silent, watching the scene you and Jake are making.

Jake smirked. "Did you know she's been taking medicines because you damaged her throat?"

Your breath hitched, eyes widening in panic. "Jake—"

You gripped onto his arms, a silent signal for him to stop, you did tell him that information but you didn't expect him to thrown it out there, in the middle of him fucking you, in the middle of Jay standing there, looking at you like he didn't know if he wanted to drag you into his arms or ruin you completely.

Jay stiffened at the sudden information, his eyes flickering briefly to your throat.

"But still, she wants us," Jake mused, his lips brushing your temple. His thrusts falter but still remain deep. "Still wants you."

Pleasure coiling in your stomach, overwhelming and intoxicating. You were right there, teetering on the edge.

"Jake, I'm close again!" you gasped, your voice trembling.

Jake didn't pull his gaze away from Jay, didn't even blink as he continued rolling his hips into you. His fingers never faltered against your clit, dragging you closer and closer to the brink. But he didn't let you fall—not yet.

"Do you think he deserves you, baby?" Jake asks you, still staring at Jay. You were too far gone, your mind hazy with pleasure, body trembling from the overwhelming sensations Jake was giving you. But even through the haze, you felt the weight of Jay's intense gaze on you.

Your breath hitching as you struggled to form words.

"J-Jay's been mean," you finally managed to stutter, voice shaky, breathless. Your legs twitched as the pleasure kept mounting

Jake hummed in agreement, tilting his head, his expression thoughtful as he slowed his movements, making you whimper in frustration. "Hmm, right?" His lips brushed against your ear. "He's been so mean to you."

You nodded desperately, your mind fogged with pleasure. Every nerve in you was on fire, desperate to finally tip over the edge.

"He should say sorry first, right?" Jake continued, his voice dripping with faux innocence as he looked back at Jay. His fingers on your clit stilled, applying just enough pressure to keep you on the edge but not enough to let you tip over.

Your breath hitched, your body twitching, so needy, so desperate. "Yes—fuck, yes."

"What the fuck?" Jay muttered, dripping with irritation. His patience was hanging by a thread, and Jake knew it.

Jake chuckled and feigned a pout. "Aww, see? Even she agrees. You've been such an asshole to her, Jay. Shouldn't you at least apologize?" His voice was sickeningly sweet, but the way his hips moved against yours, the way he continued to play with you, was anything but innocent.

Jay inhaled sharply, not please with any of this.

"Maybe," Jake drawled, "if you get down on your knees and apologize, she might forgive you."

Jay's nostrils flared. His gaze flickered between you and Jake, his fists tightening. "You're fucking kidding me," he said through gritted teeth.

Jake only grinned, his fingers finally starting to move against your clit again, making you gasp, your back arching into him.

"Not at all," Jake mused. "But, hey, if you don't want her that bad..."

"I guess I'll just keep her all to myself."

You forced your eyes open, looking at Jay—really looking at Jay. His breathing was heavy, his chest rising and falling unevenly. But it was the way his eyes darkened, the way his gaze flickered to where Jake disappeared inside you over and over again,

You whimpered, half-lidded eyes darting down—right to the prominent bulge in his pants. Your mouth went dry. He was hard. So fucking hard.

Jake felt the way your walls clenched tighter, and he groaned, pressing a kiss against the side of your neck. "Oh, baby," he cooed, "are you looking at him?"

"J-Ja—" You gasped. You couldn't hold back anymore. The pressure was unbearable, the fire burning through every inch of you. You moaned his name again, this time louder.

Please give in, please give in, please give in.

"Jake's making me feel so good, Jay!"

Jake groaned behind you, his hips snapping faster, chasing his own high. Your whole body convulsed, legs shaking violently as pleasure crashed through you.

A scream ripped from your throat, loud, raw—so much so that Jake had to clamp a hand over your mouth, muffling the sounds as his own breath hitched.

"Fuck," Jake gasped, his rhythm faltering as your walls tightened around him, making it almost impossible to move. He buried himself deep inside you, his breath coming out in ragged pants.

Your vision blurred, your body shaking from the intensity.

But then, you saw Jay, slowly, hesitantly, lowering himself to his knees in front of you.

"Jake," you breathe. You are overstimulated, exhausted, yet somehow—aching for more. The lingering echoes of your orgasm pulsed through your veins, but the sight of Jay kneeling between your legs sent another rush of heat straight to your core.

"That's it, baby," Jake murmured, voice dripping with satisfaction as he pressed soft kisses to your shoulder, his grip on your waist. "Let him see how good you look like this. Let him know who you really want."

A whimper escaped your lips, your body instinctively arching, pushing closer to Jay, despite the sensitivity.

Jay pride had been a stubborn thing, keeping him in denial, making him push you away. But now, as he knelt before you, his fingers flexing as if restraining himself from reaching out—he finally admitted it.

He wanted you.

Jake chuckled lowly, sensing the shift, his hold on you tightening as he spread your legs even wider, exposing every inch of you.

Then, with a teasing hum, Jake pulled out of you, his cock slipping free from your swollen, overstimulated cunt. The sudden emptiness made you whine, your walls fluttering around nothing, aching for the fullness you'd just lost.

"Fuck," Jake groaned, his hands flexing on your thighs. "Look at her, Jay. So fucking pretty like this."

Jay's eyes darkened as they dropped between your legs. His chest rose and fell sharply as he watched—his gaze fixed on the sight of his boyfriend's cum slowly dripping from your pussy, the way your cunt clenched involuntarily, like it was still hungry for more.

"Look at him," Jake whispered, the teasing lilt in his voice sending made you even wetter. "He wants to taste you, baby. Can you see it?"

You swallowed thickly, your fingers gripping onto Jake's arm for support. Your eyes fluttered down, meeting Jay's.

"J-Jay," you finally managed to breathe out.

Jay hands finally moving—gripping your thighs, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh. He leaned in, just close enough for you to feel the ghost of his breath against your still-sensitive skin.

His eyes flickered up, locking onto yours, and, he let you see it.

The gaze of hunger, want, need.

Jake chuckled once again, satisfied. "There you go, baby," he murmured, running his fingers along your stomach, feeling the way your body reacted to Jay's touch. "Now tell him—does he deserve a taste?"

Your breath hitched, heat crawling up your skin. The moment felt surreal—Jay, the man who spent weeks glaring at you, the man who made you feel small with just a look, was now on his knees, waiting.

"M-maybe if he a-apologizes," you stuttered, barely able to get the words out.

Jake chuckled against your neck. "You heard her, Jay," he said as his hand moved to cup your breast, kneading it in slow, deliberate motions. "Apologize."

Jay's jaw clenched, his hands tightening around your thighs as he stared at the two of you. He didn't know what kind of game this was, but fuck—he was getting tired of playing from the sidelines.

"Is your pride really that high?" Jake mused, fingers pinching at your nipple, making you whimper. He kissed the side of your temple, his tone light, teasing. "She said apologize."

Jay hesitated. His pride had always been his downfall, the thing that kept him from saying what needed to be said. But right now, with you trembling before him, with Jake so effortlessly pulling you apart—he knew he had no choice.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, grip tightening on your thighs.

Your breath hitched, the roughness in his voice sending a spark of excitement. Remembering Jake's plan, you frowned, your hands moving on their own, swatting at his hands.

"Not like that," you mumbled, half-lidded eyes peering down at him.

Jake hummed, his lips curling into a smirk as he ran soothing circles on your thigh. "Is that how you apologize?" He tsked, feigning disappointment. "Be sincere, Jay."

Your body leaned further into Jake, nuzzling against his neck. The sight made Jay's eye twitch. His patience was running thin.

"I'm sorry," he tried again, the words heavier this time.

Jake exhaled through his nose, fingers slipping between your folds once more. "She can't hear you," he teased, his tone singsong. His fingers pushed deeper, curling inside you.

Jay gritted his teeth, frustration bubbling inside him. "I said I'm sorry," he repeated, his fingers digging into your thighs.

Jake nipped at your ear, dragging his fingers along your walls at an unbearable pace. Your head lolled to the side, eyes locking onto Jay, pupils blown wide.

"Again," Jake commanded.

Jay exhaled sharply, his nails pressing into your skin. "I'm so sorr—"

Before he could finish, Jake suddenly withdrew his fingers and your hands shot out, gripping Jay's hair, pulling him closer.

Jay barely had time to react before his face was buried between your legs, his nose bumping against your clit.

You gasped, a loud, uncontrollable moan ripping from your throat. Jay stiffened, his hands instinctively gripping your thighs tighter.

"Fuck!" you cried out when you felt Jay's tongue slip inside you, the wet heat sending your mind into a spiral.

Instinctively, your grip on his hair tightened, but his hands kept you in place, stopping you from moving too much.

Jake clicked his tongue at the sight, smirking as he reached down and swatted at Jay's hands, forcing them to let go. He laced his fingers with Jay's instead, squeezing them tight

"Planning to give her more bruises? Is that how you apologize?" Jake teased, watching Jay's brows furrow in frustration.

The moment Jay's hold on you loosened, your body instantly relaxed, and you took advantage of it—hips rolling forward, grinding against his face. Jay let out a muffled grunt, his eyes flickering up to meet yours.

Your mouth fell open, breath coming in shaky gasps. "Are you even sincere, Jongie?" You exhaled, your grip easing slightly on his hair. "Maybe me and Jakey should just go to the bedroom and leave you out here all alone..."

Jay's response was immediate, his head shook fervently, tongue angling to flick against your clit before dragging down your folds.

Jake hummed in satisfaction, his fingers tightening around Jay's as he grinded his half-hard cock against your back. "Say sorry to her again," he commanded.

Jay shot him a glare, frustration evident in the sharpness of his gaze. How the fuck was he supposed to apologize when you kept grinding your cunt against his face, making it harder to focus? The constant brush of his nose against your clit, the way your slick coated his lips, the way your hips moved to chase your own pleasure.

He barely had room to breathe, but instead of pulling away, he let his tongue flatten, licking a long, slow stripe up your slit, tasting the mix of you and his boyfriend's fluid.

Jake let out a small chuckle at Jay's obvious struggle. "Come on, baby," he crooned, pressing a teasing kiss against the shell of your ear. "Make him say it properly."

You smile, just barely, though your voice trembled as you spoke. "Apologize, Park Jongseong."

Jay groaned, his entire face tensing before he finally gave in.

"I'm sorry," he gritted out against your cunt, the sound of his muffled desperate voice, combined with the way his mouth moved against you, made your legs tremble.

A choked moan escaped you as your fingers tangled deeper into his hair, pulling him closer, needing more.

"I'm close again," you whined, breath hitching as another wave of pleasure built inside you.

Jake hummed, thoughtful, his grip tightening around Jay's hand as he whispered, "Think you can take another one, baby?"

Through the haze of your arousal, you nodded quickly, too desperate to think of anything else.

Jay rolled his eyes at your eagerness before pressing his tongue deeper into your heat, the slick sound of his mouth working against you making your entire body shudder. His tongue curled inside you, swirling, tasting, fucking into you like he was starved.

A strangled whimper tore from your lips, your back arching as your senses blurred into overwhelming pleasure. You could barely think, barely breathe. The sheer intensity of it had your mind spinning, and you almost swore you saw the gates of heaven open for you.

Muttering incoherent words, your hands scrambled for something to hold onto—Jake's arm, Jay's hair, the couch beneath you.

"Yes! Right there!" you cried out.

Jay's eyes flicked up, peering through his lashes, and his cock twitched painfully at the sight before him.

You and Jake were kissing. Sloppy, heated, tongues sliding against each other. Jake swallowed your moans eagerly, rolling his hips into your back, panting softly into your mouth.

Your nipples were painfully hard, your chest rising and falling in time with the pleasure coursing through you. Beads of sweat trickled down your skin, glistening under the dim light, sliding from your collarbone down to your navel, following every curve of your trembling body.

Jay groaned at the sight, a deep, guttural sound vibrating through his throat.

Both of you were too fucking hot.

The way you came undone against his mouth, the way Jake lost himself in the feeling of you. It was too much. His cock throbbed painfully against the fabric of his pants, aching for relief, for attention, for you.

Jake pulled away from the kiss just enough to smirk, his lips swollen and wet. "You enjoying the show?" he teased.

Jay didn't answer. Instead, he doubled down, tongue working furiously against your clit, determined to pull another orgasm from you. If Jake thought he had the upper hand, Jay was more than willing to prove him wrong.

And judging by the way your body tensed, by the way your moans became louder, higher—he was succeeding.

Jay was lapping up everything you gave him, his mouth completely fixated on making you fall apart over and over again. The wet sounds of his tongue working against you mixed with your breathless whimpers, making the room feel unbearably hot.

"Fuck—Jay!" you sobbed, hands fisting into his hair, tugging at the strands in desperation. Your thighs twitched, trembling with the threat of overstimulation, but Jay didn't slow down. If anything, he only got rougher, hungrier.

Jake chuckled lowly, his lips ghosting over your temple before moving down to your jaw, then your neck, pressing light teasing kisses there. "Look at you... So fucking wrecked," he murmured.

Jake let go of Jay's hand, refocusing his attention on you, his fingers toying with your nipple—tweaking, rolling it in time with Jay's movements.

"You're close again, aren't you?" Jake whispered, lips curving against your skin.

You nodded weakly, unable to form words, your body trembling as wave after wave of pleasure built up inside you. It was almost too much—almost unbearable. They were both completely focused on you, every touch, every movement designed to push you further over the edge.

Jay's hands went to gripped your thighs, keeping you locked in place as he worked his tongue against you with ruthless precision.

"J-Jay—" you gasped, thighs threatening to clamp around his head, but his grip was firm, keeping them spread wide.

Jake exhaled sharply, his hips pressing tighter against your back, grinding into you as he watched. "That's it, baby," he encouraged, "let go. Make a mess all over his face."

Jay growled against you, and that was it.

Your orgasm slammed into you again, tearing through your body violently, leaving you shaking, gasping, completely wrecked. Your walls clenched around nothing.

Jay groaned, drinking in everything, his tongue flicking against you a few more times, pushing you through every last tremor. He didn't let up until you physically tried to push him away, whimpering from the overstimulation.

"Fuck," Jake muttered, watching the way your body slumped against him, your chest heaving, your skin flushed with heat. He pressed another lingering kiss against your temple, his arms wrapped around you protectively.

Jay finally pulled back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his lips glistening. His dark eyes flickered up to meet yours—hooded.

Jake's fingers tilted your chin up, guiding your gaze to him as he leaned in, his lips brushing against yours softly.

Then, his touch disappeared. He turned, grabbing Jay by the nape, pulling him in. You exhaled shakily, watching as their lips crashed together.

Your stomach tightened at the sight, the heat between them palpable. Jake didn't waste any time, licking along Jay's lips before dipping lower, dragging his tongue down his chin, licking up every last trace of you that lingered there. Jay let out a low groan, gripping Jake's wrist tightly as their mouths moved together

"Bedroom," Jake muttered against Jay's lips, breaking apart.

Jake lift you effortlessly into his arms. Your hands instinctively wrapped around his neck, your legs tightening around his waist.

Over Jake's shoulder, you caught Jay's eyes still watching you like he was trying to figure out what to do with you.

Jake carefully lowered you onto the bed, his lips trailing down your jaw, peppering soft kisses along your throat, his hands firm as they spread your legs apart. But your attention drifted beyond him, straight to Jay, who was already pulling off his clothes impatiently, eyes never leaving the two of you.

The moment he was fully bare, Jake smirked, reaching for him again, pulling him down for another kiss.

You laid back against the pillows, legs still spread, your fingers instinctively trailing down your stomach, teasing along your sensitive folds, rubbing slow, lazy circles against your clit as you watched them.

"Come on, lay down," Jake murmured against Jay's lips before pulling away, pushing Jay onto the mattress.

The second Jay's back hit the bed, you and Jake exchanged glances, a silent agreement passing between you.

Jay let out a sharp exhale as you swung your leg over him, straddling his thighs, your fingers trailing down the length of his cock. He twitched beneath your touch, eyes locked onto you.

You slowly rolled your hips forward, grinding against him, teasing the thick length of him against your folds, already dripping for him.

Jay groaned, hands instinctively moving to grip your waist—but before he could, Jake grabbed his wrists, pressing them down into the mattress.

"Hands off," Jake said, "you were too rough on her last time."

Jay gritted his teeth, glaring up at him. "No, I'm tired of playing whatever fucking game you two are—"

Jake cut him off by shoving his cock past his lips, silencing him instantly.

Jay's eyes widened, hands flying to Jake's hips, but Jake didn't budge, instead pushing himself deeper into Jay's mouth, letting out a breathy moan at the feeling of Jay's throat constricting around him.

"Fuck, yeah—" Jake groaned, his fingers tightening in Jay's hair.

Jay let out a muffled grunt, struggling against him, but you didn't give him a chance to resist further.

You sank down on him in one slow, deliberate motion.

A strangled noise tore from Jay's throat—half a groan, half a muffled curse—completely swallowed by Jake's cock still buried in his mouth.

Your head tipped back, your mouth falling open as the thick stretch of him filled you.

"Fuck!" you whimpered, hands on his abdomen for support. "Too big—"

Jay groaned beneath you, his hips twitching with the urge to thrust up, to take control—but Jake wasn't letting him. His hands remained firm on Jay's wrists, pinning them against his waist, making sure he stayed right where he was.

"You're so sexy, fuck," Jake murmured as he watched you struggle to take all of Jay. "So fucking full."

Your head tipped back, your lips parted, a whimper escaping you as you rocked your hips experimentally. Jay's cock twitched inside you, the thick stretch still bordering on painful—but the way he filled you, the way your walls clenched instinctively around him, made the burn feel so, so good.

Beneath you, Jay let out a frustrated growl, the vibrations from his throat sending jolts of pleasure straight through Jake's cock still buried between his lips. His nails dug deeper into Jake's hips, leaving crescent-shaped marks against his skin.

Jake hissed at the sensation, eyes darkening as he glanced down at him. "Getting impatient, baby?"

Jay glared up at him, unable to answer, his mouth still full. But the look he shot Jake was nothing short of a warning—one that promised payback the moment he got his hands free.

Jake smirked. "Too bad."

With that, he rolled his hips forward, pressing himself deeper into Jay's throat, making him gag slightly. At the same time, you shifted, rolling your hips again.

Jay's body tensed, his muffled groan vibrating around Jake's cock, making Jake shudder. "Fuck, that's it, baby," Jake rasped, "take it like a good boy."

You whimpered at the filthy sight in front of you—the way Jay's mouth stretched around Jake, the way his throat bobbed, the way his cock twitched inside you every time he moaned. It was too much.

Slowly, you move your hands on Jay's chest for balance, bracing yourself before you lifted your hips, only to slam them back down again.

Jay's reaction was instant. His whole body jerked, a choked noise escaping him.

You gasped at the feeling, the stretch, the way he filled you so completely.

Jake chuckled breathlessly. "Fuck, baby," he murmured, watching the way Jay's body tensed.

"He's losing his mind already."

You sighs, rolling your hips again, this time slower, dragging out the sensation.

"I don't think he's really sorry," you murmured, pouting down at him, fingers trailing over his chest.

Jake let out a low chuckle, his own hips rolling forward, forcing another muffled groan from Jay's throat. "You hear that, babe?" he mused. "You're being mean again."

Jay's eyes snapped up to you and when he tried to move, Jake tightened his grip on his wrists, keeping him in place.

"Be a good boy," Jake taunted, a wicked grin on his face. "Then maybe—just maybe—we'll let you fuck her the way you want to."

"I'm sorry," he mumbled around Jake's cock, the words muffled but there.

You shift your hips in slow, deliberate circles, grinding down on him just to watch him squirm.

Jay let out a muffled curse, his whole body trembling beneath you. His tongue flicked desperately against Jake's cock, his throat tightening around him as he tried again.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"

Jake cursed under his breath, looking down at Jay. His boyfriend's eyes were glossy, a tear slipping from the corner of one as he struggled to hold himself back.

"Fuck," Jake whispered, pulling away, his hand coming down to swipe the tear away with his thumb.

Jay exhaled sharply, his lips slick and swollen, his eyes burning into Jake's. "Please," he rasped, voice hoarse. His gaze flickered to you, "let me touch her already."

Jake was loving every second of this, watching Jay unravel, his pride stripped away. It reminded him of the first time they ever did this, when Jay had pretended he didn't want it, when he had fought it tooth and nail—until he couldn't anymore.

Until he was begging for it, just like this.

And God, Jake had missed it. Seeing Jay like this. Watching him break down, surrender to his own desires.

Jake smirked, letting go of his wrists. "Be gentle with her," he murmured, though the words carried no real weight. He knew Jay well enough to know he was barely capable of gentleness right now.

The moment his hands were free, Jay's fingers shot to your waist, gripping you tight. His breath shuddered as he finally felt you, the softness of your skin beneath his fingertips, the way your walls clenched down around him so perfectly.

"Fuck," he hissed, his head tipping back for just a second before his gaze snapped back to you. He gave your waist a slow, experimental roll, guiding you against him.

Jay groaned, his hands sliding from your waist down to your thighs, squeezing, spreading them wider. Then, with agonizing slowness, he moved upward again—over the curve of your hips, the dip of your waist, up to your breasts, rolling your nipples between his fingers just enough to make you gasp.

Anticipation crawling down your spine as his touch moved higher, his fingers brushing against your throat. Your eyes widened, breath stammering at what he was about to do—

But then he sat up, his grip shifting, his lips ghosting over your collarbone before trailing soft, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw.

The unexpected gentleness made your chest tighten. This wasn't the rough, punishing Jay you thought he would be.

"That's what she likes," Jake muttered. He had positioned himself beside you, stroking himself lazily as he watched the way your body arched against Jay's, completely entranced by the sight.

Jay's hands gripped your hips, steadying you as he rolled his hips upward, sinking deeper into your heat. A sharp gasp tore from your lips, your body instinctively adjusting, your back curving as your hands braced against his knees.

Jay groaned at the way you clenched around him, his fingers tightening against your waist, but he let you move at your own pace, letting you take what you needed.

"Ahhh, fuck!" you moaned, tilting your head back, surrendering to the feeling.

Jake sucked in a sharp breath beside you, his hand moving faster, grip tightening as he struggled to keep control. He had been holding back, savoring the view—watching the way Jay stretched you open.

But the moment he saw it. The outline of Jay's cock pressing against your stomach, the proof of just how deep he was inside you.

Jake's breath hitched, his restraint snapping instantly. His body tensed, muscles locking as a deep, guttural moan ripped from his throat. His release hit hard, ropes of hot cum streaking across your chest, trailing up to your throat. A few stray drops landed on your lips, warm and sticky.

"Goddamn it," Jake groaned, hating the sudden force of his release.

Jay exhaled sharply as he fought the urge to flip you over and take control. Instead, he leaned in, his tongue darting out to lap up the mess Jake had made on your skin. Wet strokes traced from your chest up to your chin.

A moan slipped past your lips as the sensation made your hips grind down harder, each movement pressing Jay deeper inside you, the head of his cock brushing dangerously close to your cervix.

Your fingers threaded through his hair as he kissed you, swallowing the gasp that escaped when his tongue slipped past your parted lips. He groaned into your mouth, his grip tightening on your waist.

Jay was grateful you weren't much of a talker because if you so much as whispered something filthy in his ear, he'd lose it right then and there. But the way you gasped? The breathy little whimpers spilling past your lips? Fuck, that wasn't helping either.

A low whine came from behind you, and then Jake pressed himself against your back, refusing to be left out. His warm breath fanned against your ear as he reached around, one hand claiming your breast, kneading. The other hand trailed lower, brushing over your clit.

"W-wait—too much," you panted, pulling back slightly, your hands weakly pressing against their chests. Jay barely let you go, his lips chasing yours as if he couldn't stand the distance.

Jake hushed you, pressing a lingering kiss against the side of your face. "Just one more, baby," he pleaded. His forehead rested against yours, his moans intertwining with yours as he watched Jay's expression shift—his brows knitting, jaw clenched, eyes fluttering shut as he snapped his hips up, hitting deeper, harder.

Your head tipped back with a cry, thighs trembling as the pleasure became a bit much.

"Just one more," Jake whispered again, his fingers working your clit in slow, teasing circles. "I know you can take it." 

"Fuck, I can't! I can't!" You shook your head wildly, tears slipping down your flushed cheeks. It was too much, too intense. You don't really know if you can handle another one again.

But your helpless cries only seemed to spur them on.

Jake groaned,  his hand tightening around your breast. "You're crying again," he murmured, more to himself. "So fucking pretty."

Jay's breath hitched beneath you, his grip bruising against your waist. "Jake, keep doing that—I'm gonna cum," he gritted out.

You could barely move anymore. Your body was trembling violently, you continue to shake your head, wanting to get up and take a break but Jake didn't let up, his fingers relentless, rubbing tight circles against your swollen clit. 

"You're taking it so well, baby," he praised. "Come on—let go again for us."

Your vision blurred, your breath caught in your throat as a scream tore from your lips. Your body convulsed, an electric shock of ecstasy tearing through every nerve ending. Your walls clenched around Jay, milking him, you didn't know orgasm could be this good. and the feeling make him lose his mind.

"Shit—fuck!" Jay's hips stuttered, his body tensing beneath you as he continue to thrust up, spilling deep inside you with a rough groan.

His fingers dug into your flesh, holding you flush against him, making sure you took every last drop.

The overstimulation sent you spiraling again, a second orgasm ripping through you, a broken sob leaving your lips as you soaked his stomach.

Jake moaned, his own hand stroking himself, eyes locked on the way your body twitched helplessly.

Jay let out a heavy breath, his head dropping back against the pillows, chest heaving. His fingers traced the curve of your spine absentmindedly. You collapsed against him, legs still shaking, your mind floating somewhere between bliss and exhaustion.

Jake's hands wrapped around your waist, dragging you away from Jay's warmth. You whimpered, your body too spent to resist. 

"Please," Jake murmured against your skin, lips pressing gentle kisses down your back, "one more, okay? It'll be fast, I promise."

A shaky sob left your lips. Your body was marked, every inch of your skin imprinted with their touch—bruised fingers on your hips, deep red marks across your thighs. 

You were sore, completely and utterly spent. You whisper a small "okay", praying to be done already.

Jake groaned in approval, tilting your hips up. His fingers spread over the swell of your ass, cursing under his breath as he watched Jay's cum drip from your hole.

"Holy shit," he exhaled, running his thumb through the mess before pressing it inside, watching it disappear into your heat. Your entire body twitched, another weak whine slipping past your lips.

Jay let out a breathy laugh, running a hand through his hair. He didn't think it was possible for him to be hard again so soon, but watching you collapse under Jake's touch—watching his own release spill from you, slicking up Jake's length as he slowly pressed inside—had his cock twitching to life.

"Oh my God," Jake groaned, sinking in inch by inch. The glide was effortless, Jay's cum making it easier for him to push into your overstimulated body. You were shaking beneath him, your fingers curling desperately into the bedsheets.

Jay shifted beside you, he propped himself up, watching as Jake started to move. His hand trailed down his own stomach, fingers wrapping around himself, already hard again.

Jake's rhythm grew faster, his nails digging into your waist as he slammed himself deeper, watching more of Jay's release spill down into your thigh with every thrust, no space available inside. 

"F-fuck, so hot." he stuttered, his voice breaking into a whine. His jaw clenched as he watched the obscene way his cock disappeared inside you.

Jay grip your chin, tilting your head towards him. Your tongue lolled slightly, your breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. Jay cursed under his breath at the sight, his strokes growing rougher on himself.

Jake let out a strangled moan. His pace turned erratic, hips snapping against yours desperately as he buried himself deep one last time, spilling inside you with a low, drawn-out groan.

"I can't! S-Stop!" You broke. Another pleasure hitting you in waves so intense it stole the breath from your lungs. Your back arched as your walls clenched down on Jake, milking every last drop from him. 

Your eyes rolled back, lips parting in a silent cry.

Jay let out a sharp breath, the image of you alone pushing him over the edge. His release spilling hot and messy across your face, dripping down your chin, pooling at the corners of your mouth.

Jake slumped forward against you, pressing his forehead against your shoulder, still catching his breath. Jay breathe, hand lazily brushing against your cheek, smearing the mess across your skin.

"Perfect," Jay muttered.

Jake hummed in agreement, shifting slightly, his lips brushing against your temple. "You did so good, hmm?" His voice was soft, full of warmth.

Your limbs were too heavy, your body sinking into the mattress. A weak whimper left your lips as you nuzzled deeper into the sheets, seeking warmth, comfort.

And just like the last time—you passed out.

Jake was the first to notice, lifting his head slightly to glance down at you. His lips curled into a tired smile before he carefully shifted, pulling out of you as gently as he could. You whimpered in protest at the loss, but Jay's hands were already smoothing over your skin, grounding you.

"She's out," Jake murmured, brushing a damp strand of hair from your face.

Jay huffed, stretching his arms before moving. "Come on, let's get her cleaned up."

Between the two of them, they carried you to the bathroom, handling your limp body with surprising gentleness. The warm water cascaded down your skin, Jake chuckled when your head lolled against Jay's shoulder, a soft sigh escaping your lips.

"She sleeps like a baby," Jake mused, reaching for a washcloth.

Jay, who was carefully holding you upright, rolled his eyes. "No shit. You wore her out."

Jake only laughed, pressing a kiss to the side of your head before rinsing you off.

Once you were clean and dry, Jay carried you back to bed while Jake changed the sheets, replacing them with fresh ones. He pulled the blanket over your bare body, making sure you were warm before slipping in beside you.

This time, you didn't wake up alone. 

Your eyes fluttered open. The first thing you noticed was warmth. A solid weight pressed against you from both sides.

Jake's arm was draped over your shoulder, pulling you flush against his chest. His face was nestled against your hair, his breath slow and deep as he snored softly.

Another hand rested against your waist, fingers barely curled against your skin. Blinking sluggishly, you tilted your head slightly, your heart stammering at the sight behind you. 

Jay was there—his body pressed firmly against your back, his face relaxed in a way you'd never seen before. No furrowed brows, no tight-lipped frown. Just stillness. The quiet rise and fall of his chest against you.

His grip on your waist was loose, as if he had reached for you in his sleep without thinking.

A small, unexpected smile tugged at your lips. You let your eyes flutter shut again, exhaling softly. This time, as sleep pulled you under, you let yourself sink into their warmth.

Sunoo eyed you suspiciously as he pulled out a chair beside you, dropping two plastic bottles onto the table with a dull thud.

"Good mood?" he asked, raising an eyebrow playfully.

You stretched your arms, a slow smile spreading across your lips. "Yeah, got the best sleep of my life."

Jay, who had just settled his laptop and books on the table, barely spared you a glance.

Sunoo hummed. "You said we were gonna hit the café today. What about later?"

Before you could answer, Jay cut in without looking up. "We're starting chapter four."

Sunoo blinked at him in disbelief. "What the fuck? Give me some slack! We'll do our part, just let us relax for once."

You laughed at his whining, your gaze flickering to Jay for a brief moment before reaching for one of the bottles. You twisted the cap, but it barely budged.

"God, do not buy this brand again," you groaned, straining against the stubborn lid. "It's impossible to open."

Sunoo grunted in agreement, grabbing his own bottle to try, only to meet the same struggle. "Shit, seriously. What is this? Childproof or some shit?"

Before either of you could complain further, Jay reached out, taking the bottle from your hands without a word. Effortlessly, he twisted the cap open and set it back down in front of you.

Your fingers twitched slightly, the unexpected gesture catching you off guard. Sunoo, mid-sulk, blinked at Jay in mild shock.

Jay, noticing the stare, let out a quiet sigh before grabbing Sunoo's bottle too. He twisted it open just as easily and placed it in front of him. 

"You’re welcome," Jay muttered, already flipping open his laptop. Sunoo stared at the bottle, then at you, then back at Jay like he had just witnessed a supernatural event.

"Jake will be here in an hour," Jay continued, completely unbothered. "We can go to the café you wanted after we start working on the results and findings."

Sunoo’s mouth dropped open slightly, his brain short-circuiting. But instead of responding, he reached under the table and pinched your arm—hard.

You flinched, glaring at him. "Ow! What the hell?" you hissed.

But Sunoo was too busy silently squealing, his eyes wide with barely contained excitement as he watched Jay sit down, fully immersed in your research.

"Wow! You’re in a good mood too!" Sunoo blurted out, his voice slightly high-pitched with suppressed glee.

Jay didn’t even look up. "No, I just want to get this over with."

Sunoo shot you a pointed look, wiggling his brows. but you ignored him, focusing on your screen.

The three of you fell into a comfortable rhythm, typing away, until the familiar sound of footsteps approached. Before you could react, Jake appeared behind you, nuzzling his cheek against yours with a content hum.

"Missed me?" he teased, before pulling back to press a quick kiss on Jay’s temple, his arms sneaking around his boyfriend’s waist.

Sunoo wrinkled his nose. "Ugh, can you two not?"

Jake only grinned, unbothered, before turning his attention back to you. "So, café time?"

You perked up, excitement buzzing through you. "Yes! I’ve been waiting all day to try that matcha-strawberry drink."

Sunoo clapped his hands together. "Finally, a reward for my suffering!"

Without hesitation, you pushed back your chair and stood up, eager to leave. Jake and Sunoo flanked you immediately, chatting animatedly about the menu, already making plans to order half the pastries just to "test them out properly."

As the three of you made your way down the hallway, you couldn’t help but peek over your shoulder.

Jay was trailing behind as usual, adjusting the strap of his bag over his shoulder, his pace slower.

Without thinking, you pulled away from Sunoo and Jake, slowing your steps until you were beside him. Without a word, you wrapped your arms around his, tugging him forward. 

"Come on, walk faster. We're starving for sweets already," you whispered, your voice light and teasing.

Jay stiffened for a second, his eyes flicking down to where you held onto him. But then, his shoulders relaxed, and to your surprise, the corner of his lips quirked up in the faintest half-smile.

Jake, watching the scene unfold, let out a small, pleased hum. His lips curled in amusement before he smoothly moved to Jay’s other side, slinging an arm around his boyfriend’s shoulders.

Sunoo, who had been watching with wide eyes, suddenly grinned. "Well, well, well," he muttered under his breath, clearly enjoying whatever was happening. Then, without hesitation, he threw himself onto your other side, dramatically resting his head against your shoulder.

The four of you continued walking, your steps now in sync, voices mixing together in overlapping conversation.

As you walked, still nestled against Jay’s side, you squinted at Jake, who was already watching you with mischief in his eyes.

Jake stuck his tongue out playfully, then made a ridiculous face, his brows wiggling as he tried to get a reaction out of you.

You rolled your eyes but couldn't fight the small smile creeping onto your lips.

Jay, stuck in the middle, let out a grunt, clearly unimpressed. "Do you two ever stop?" he muttered. 

Jake only grinned wider. "Nope."

Jay huffed, but his attention flickered to you again. He watched the way your eyes softened whenever you looked at Jake, the way your laughter was bright, effortless.

He had convinced himself that his irritation, his short fuse around you, was justified. That pushing you away, acting indifferent, was the only way to keep things from spiraling out of control. But now, walking beside you, his arm still loosely wrapped around your frame, he felt something shift.

Jay didn’t feel that usual, biting irritation clawing at his chest and more importantly—he wasn’t so sour about it.

[severelovewonderland]

I agree. Humans are naturally programmed to need quality connection. We are not built to live our lives in a sort of solitary confinement. We are built to live in communities, and to take care of each other. We need to take the time to talk to each other, to build deep connections with each other, to smile and to laugh from our hearts.

Yes, I know we do all that nowadays too. However, I don't believe we do enough of it. There needs to be a balance between work and play, and I think the balance is skewed.

Often times, I have wondered why it is that we strive so hard to earn more money. What is money, if not a concept that we ourselves thought up? Other animals don't need money, so why is it that we need it?

Think back to those days when we lived in small communities, one with nature. Did we need money back then? No, we didn't. We traded and we shared with one another. One person grew rice, another grew tomatoes, and another collected honey (just examples - I don't anything about which crops grow where). But, all of that belonged to the community. What someone had too much of, they shared with others less fortunate. They did not calculate their losses by doing this. They did it, much like how you'd take care of each other in a family. Everyone helped each other in whatever ways they could, and those contributions were not measured and quantified.

The reason that wouldn't work out nowadays is because we have destroyed so many ecosystems in the pursuit of advancements. We built more houses to accommodate the rising factory workers and so on. Thus, the farms and ecosystems dwindled and the population increased. We no longer have the capacity to naturally, individually, provide food for everyone in the world, without making it a business.

Only by trying to reverse that change can we attempt to go back to simpler times, when all we needed was food, shelter, water and community.

Many people don't even live. They survive and that is something different. They pass through each day, enduring jobs they hate, just to earn the money needed to pay for their homes. Through all this, they miss out on what humans truly need - that connection with loved ones.

We are all trying our best to attain what we need deep down, through membership in societies and clubs, through mindfulness and family get togethers. Hopefully, the world will revert back to when we could live slower lives, enjoying the present moment.

Anyways, that was my take on this issue, so I apologise if I am wrong about any of it.

[gyuuberryy]

baby, come and get it

part 2 to teeth

"feel the bite between my jaw, so tasty"

pairing: vampire!heeseung x reader

synopsis: after the intimate moment you shared with heeseung, he starts to avoid you, leaving you confused and frustrated. you cannot stop craving him, resulting in a confrontation which gives you exactly what you want...and more.

genre: enemies to lovers, vampire au, neighbours au, angst, fluff

warnings: lots of suggestive content!!(read at your own discretion), blood and biting, making out, swearing

note: so many of you wanted a second part so here you go! this is the final installment. the writing style may be a bit different from the previous part because it's almost been a year whew. listen to teeth while reading this, enjoy!

word count: 3.8k

if you liked it please reblog or comment to give me your feedback! <3 | taglist

the door clicks shut behind you, sealing the two of you inside the dimly lit sanctuary of your apartment. 

you don’t turn around immediately. you can’t. your pulse is a frantic drum against your ribs, and you know he can hear it, feel it, with the way his breath hitches behind you.

you take a slow, measured step forward, but it’s futile. heeseung is faster. always faster. his presence looms before you can gain any distance, his body heat—or lack thereof—ghosting against your back.

"so," he drawls, voice smooth, teasing. "how do you want me to repay you?"

you swallow. hard. heeseung steps closer, close enough that the faint scent of him—something dark, something rich—clouds your thoughts. you know you should say something, make some sharp remark, but your words fail you when his fingers ghost down your arm, featherlight and deliberate.

you turn to face him, finally, but the motion makes the room spin. the sudden wave of dizziness nearly knocks you off your feet.

heeseung’s expression shifts in an instant. his teasing smirk vanishes, replaced by something unreadable, something almost concerned. before you can collapse, his hands are on you, strong, steady, holding you up with ease.

"shit," he mutters, barely above a whisper. "you’re weaker than i thought."

you blink up at him, disoriented, your body strangely light, like your limbs aren't fully your own. the effects of his bite are still there, lingering like a phantom touch, a whisper of pleasure tangled with exhaustion.

his hands tighten around you, firm but careful. you expect him to make a joke, to smirk down at you and say something insufferable. but he doesn't. his jaw is clenched, his gaze dark, serious.

"you need to rest," he says, and for once, there's no teasing lilt to his voice, no flirtation. just quiet authority.

you want to protest, but the weight pressing on your limbs betrays you. heeseung exhales sharply, like he’s irritated, like he's mad at you for being this fragile. but his actions betray him. his arm hooks around your waist, guiding you toward the couch with a touch gentler than you’ve ever known from him.

"sit," he orders, and you’re too drained to argue.

he watches you for a beat, something unreadable flickering behind his dark eyes. then, without another word, he steps away, disappearing toward the door.

your stomach knots. "where are you—"

"just sleep," he says, not turning back. "i’ll be back."

and then he's gone.

but the tension he leaves behind lingers, curling in your chest, coiling in your veins. sleep does not come easily. not with the memory of his hands still burning against your skin. not with the echo of his voice, rough and low, still whispering through your mind.

not with the reminder that, for all the danger heeseung poses, you still let him in.

you wake up with a sharp inhale, the kind that feels like resurfacing from deep underwater. for a second, you expect the weight of exhaustion to drag you back down, to feel the lingering ache of what heeseung took from you. but when you push yourself upright, there’s nothing. no dizziness, no weakness, no soreness in your limbs.

physically, you feel fine. too fine.

your fingers ghost over your neck, searching for evidence of his touch—of his bite—but your skin is smooth, unmarked. as if it never happened. but you know it did. you can still feel it, phantom traces of the way his lips had burned against your skin before his fangs had pierced through. the way he had held you afterwards, firm but careful, something unreadable in his darkened gaze.

something had changed. you felt it.

but now, in the cold quiet of morning, it almost seems like a fever dream.

you exhale, slow and controlled, forcing yourself to push past it. you are not going to sit here analysing a moment that clearly meant nothing to him. heeseung had left without a word. again.

if he can move on, so can you.

so you do.

you wake up early, run until your legs ache, drink coffee even though you don’t need it, just for something warm to hold onto. you take extra shifts, bury yourself in work, fill the empty spaces of your day with anything and everything that will keep your mind from circling back to him.

and yet.

no matter what you do, his absence lingers.

not once do you hear his voice in the hallway, teasing or otherwise. not once do you catch his gaze from across the courtyard, that knowing smirk playing at his lips. you don’t see him by the elevators, don’t hear his steps behind you, don’t feel his presence like a shadow at your back.

and it’s wrong.

because for weeks, heeseung was everywhere. inescapable. a constant thorn in your side, always watching, always pushing, always there.

but now?

nothing.

and you hate that it bothers you. hate that a part of you waits for something—anything—to prove that you didn’t imagine it all. that what happened between you mattered.

by the fifth day, you’re frustrated. restless. itching for something, for him, just so you don’t have to sit with this stupid, unbearable silence.

and then, finally, he appears.

not in some dramatic moment, not in some fateful encounter charged with tension, but in the mailroom.

you nearly miss him entirely, too lost in your thoughts to notice at first. but then, there he is. standing in front of the row of metal mailboxes, effortlessly composed, as if nothing has changed.

except it has.

you stop mid-step, heart hammering. heeseung is right there. close enough to touch. close enough that if he just looked up, just met your eyes—

but he doesn’t.

he doesn’t even hesitate. just opens his mailbox, pulls out a single envelope, tucks it into the pocket of his jacket.

no teasing. no smirk. not even a glance in your direction.

heeseung doesn’t acknowledge you at all.

your breath catches, a sharp pang blooming in your chest. you don’t know what you expected—some sign that he’s affected, that he remembers everything as vividly as you do—but the complete indifference?

it stings.

more than you care to admit.

you watch as he turns, his movements smooth, unhurried. his gaze flickers past you, impassive, as if you’re just another person in the building. just another insignificant moment in his day.

then, without a word, he walks away.

just like that.

you stand frozen, heart pounding, anger rising to smother the ache.

days have passed since the encounter in the mailroom, since heeseung brushed past you as if you were nothing. you hate how much it gets to you. how much you miss the push and pull, the way he used to get under your skin like it was his favourite pastime. but if he wants to act like nothing happened, fine. you’ll just have to remind him.

the opportunity comes unexpectedly.

you’re standing in the hallway, ripping open a package with more force than necessary, frustration still simmering beneath your skin. the cardboard is stubborn, sealed too tightly, and in your impatience, the jagged edge of the tape slices cleanly across your fingertip.

"fuck," you hiss, pulling your hand back. a single bead of blood wells up, bright and rich against your skin.

at that exact moment, the elevator dings.

the doors slide open, and heeseung steps out.

your breath catches.

his reaction is immediate, visceral. his entire body goes still, eyes locking onto your hand before you can even think to move. his pupils dilate, dark swallowing lighter brown, his lips parting slightly as if he’s just been hit with a scent too intoxicating to ignore.

for the first time in days, you have him.

it’s reckless and stupid, but you do it anyway.

without breaking eye contact, you bring your hand to your lips, tongue darting out to slowly lick away the blood.

it’s a calculated move, a challenge, a dare. you see it the moment something cracks in him—his jaw tightens, his hands curling into fists at his sides. the hunger is there, raw and barely restrained, flickering across his face like a fire he’s desperately trying to smother.

you expect him to snap. to say something cutting, to lunge, to do anything.

but instead, his expression hardens.

just like in the mailroom, he schools his features into cold indifference, locks every bit of his hunger behind a wall of steel.

without a word, he walks past you.

you’re left standing there, lips tingling, the taste of your own blood still faint on your tongue.

at first, it feels like victory.

but later, when you’re lying in bed, staring at the ceiling with your body burning too hot beneath the sheets, it doesn’t feel like winning at all.

you shift restlessly, fingers clenching at your comforter, but nothing soothes the restless ache under your skin. the teasing had been for him. a way to make him react. so why does your body feel unsatisfied? why does your breath still hitch at the memory of his eyes, dark and hungry, before he forced himself to walk away?

why does your throat feel dry at the thought of his teeth against your skin again?

he’s a vampire, for fuck’s sake. you shouldn’t be acting like this.

you squeeze your eyes shut, willing the thoughts away, but they remain, curling around you like an addiction you refuse to name.

you tell yourself you’re still in control.

you don’t quite believe it.

you don’t know when it happens—when the frustration festers into something unbearable, when the tension morphs into something that demands to be acknowledged.

all you know is that it’s late, and you’re standing outside heeseung’s door, pulse hammering, knuckles hovering just inches from the dark wood.

your body feels wrong. too warm, too tight, every inch of you coiled with an ache you don’t want to name. sleep has evaded you for nights, ever since that moment in the hallway, ever since you tasted your own blood on your tongue and saw the raw hunger flicker across his face.

he hadn’t touched you. hadn’t spoken. hadn’t given you anything.

and yet, he’s everywhere. in the silence of your apartment, in the ghost of his hands on your body, in the phantom heat of his breath against your skin. he’s burrowed under your skin, insidious and intoxicating, refusing to let go.

your fist connects with the door before you can second-guess yourself. once. twice. sharp, deliberate knocks that feel like surrender.

the sound echoes in the hallway. there’s just the presence of silence thick enough to choke you—then, you hear the faint creak of movement inside.

your breath catches.

seconds later, the door swings open, and he’s there.

heeseung leans against the frame, one hand braced above his head, and every thought in your head blanks at the sight of him.

he’s shirtless.

his skin gleams under the dim hallway lights, the planes of his collarbones sharp and distracting. his hair is tousled and messy—like he’s been running his hands through it, like he’s been restless, pacing, waiting for something he never wanted to name.

but his eyes—his eyes—are the worst part.

they flicker over you, taking in your tense stance, your parted lips, the way you’re still catching your breath like you ran here.

for a moment, just for a brief, flickering second—he looks wrecked.

then he schools his expression, forces something cold into his gaze, and when he finally speaks, his voice is hoarse.

"what are you doing here?"

you swallow hard, fingers curling at your sides. "i think you already know."

heeseung exhales sharply, turning his head away for a second, like he needs to think. like he needs to remind himself why this is a bad idea.

"you shouldn’t be here." his voice is rough, frayed at the edges.

"but i am."

that gets his attention.

his gaze snaps back to yours, and something flickers in the depths of his dark eyes—something dangerous.

"you don’t know what you’re asking for," he murmurs, voice quieter now, like he’s losing the will to fight this.

you take a step closer. "then show me."

his throat bobs, the muscle in his jaw ticking, tension rolling through his frame like he’s seconds away from breaking.

heeseung sways forward.

it’s so subtle you almost miss it, but you don’t.

"say it," he rasps, his fingers twitching at his sides like he wants to reach for you, like he’s still holding himself back.

"say what you want."

you know what he’s doing. he’s giving you one last chance. one final moment to walk away before this turns into something neither of you can take back.

but you don’t move.

"you."

the single word leaves your lips breathlessly quiet, dripping with your true feelings. and then, in the span of a heartbeat, he breaks.

his hands are on you before you can process it, shoving you back against the doorframe, his lips crashing into yours, all heat and hunger and frustration.

his mouth is relentless, desperate, claiming yours with a kind of urgency that makes your knees go weak. heeseung kisses you like he’s trying to devour you, like he’s spent weeks, months, forever waiting for this moment. his lips are soft but unrelenting, molding perfectly against yours, his breath hot and uneven as he drinks you in.

his hands are everywhere—gripping at your waist, your hips, sliding up your spine, pulling you against him like he doesn’t just want you close, he needs you closer. your fingers tangle into his hair, tugging slightly, and the sound that rumbles from his throat is a deep, hungry growl that sends a sharp jolt of heat straight through you.

his tongue brushes against your bottom lip, slow and teasing, before he deepens the kiss. it’s intoxicating, the way he moves, the way he controls the moment without ever taking it away from you. his lips part yours easily, his tongue sliding against yours, coaxing, demanding, taking.

a gasp catches in your throat, and heeseung seizes the moment, swallowing it whole, his fingers pressing deeper into your skin. he tilts his head, angling the kiss even deeper, his body pressing flush against yours, pinning you between him and the door.

"i hate you," he mutters between kisses, teeth catching your bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth. "do you know how hard i tried to stay away?"

"then why didn’t you?" your voice is a whisper, barely a breath.

his forehead presses against yours, his eyes dark and wild.

"because i fucking can’t."

his mouth is on you again before you can respond. this time, it’s slower—more deliberate. his tongue parts your lips, tasting you, savoring the way you melt beneath him. he deepens the kiss, his hands roaming, sliding beneath your shirt, gripping at your bare skin like he can’t stand the distance.

your teeth graze his bottom lip, and he groans as his grip tightens on you.

"tell me to stop," he breathes against your lips, voice strained, shaking with restraint.

but you don’t.

you tilt your head, exposing the side of your neck, pulse hammering beneath your skin.

and heeseung shatters.

his breath hitches, a sharp, broken sound, before his fangs sink into your skin.

the pain is brief, sharp, before it melts into something else entirely—something warm and dizzying and consuming. a moan slips past your lips, your fingers flying to his shoulders, gripping onto him as a wave of unbearable pleasure crashes through you.

he holds you steady, arms locking around your waist, pulling you flush against him as he drinks deep.

it’s too much. not enough.

your body trembles, caught in the haze of sensation, every nerve alight. the tension that’s been coiling inside you for days—finally breaks.

and relief floods through you.

heeseung pulls back too soon, licking over the fresh wound, soothing the sting. his breath is ragged, his hands still gripping you tightly, his body trembling with the force of his own restraint.

but you don’t let go.

your fingers curl into his skin, your own body still burning, still aching, and it’s only when heeseung lifts his head, his lips brushing over your pulse point, that you realize—

you don’t want this to end.

his eyes meet yours, darker than you’ve ever seen them.

"sweetheart," he murmurs, voice thick with satisfaction, with possession that made you shudder.

heeseung smirks, but there’s something softer beneath it now—something dangerously close to fondness.

his hands slide down your back, grounding you, keeping you steady.

"i hope you know," he says, his lips brushing against the fresh mark on your neck, "you’re mine now."

your breath catches.

and god help you, but you want to be.

his lips are still slick with your blood. you can feel it in the way they drag against your skin, slow and deliberate, a silent claim that makes heat coil low in your stomach. his breath is uneven, his grip firm on your waist like he’s holding himself back—or holding himself together.

your head tilts slightly, trying to catch your breath, trying to regain some semblance of control. but you don’t get the chance, because he suddenly picks you up, hands gripping your thighs as your legs instinctively wrap around his waist. you squeal as he carries you effortlessly, like you weigh nothing, like he’s been waiting to do this.

you barely register the way your back collides with the mattress, how his weight follows, pressing you down, his body caging yours in. his lips don’t leave yours—not for a second. he kisses you softly, like you’re the only thing that can sate the hunger clawing at his insides.

his hand slides beneath your shirt, fingers skimming over your burning skin, and you shudder. your own hands roam desperately—grasping at his bare shoulders, threading through his hair, clinging to him like you’ll fall apart if you let go.

everything blurs—a feverish mess of heat, tangled limbs, whispered breaths. every touch stokes the fire burning in your veins, every movement winds the tension between you tighter.

but then, he stops.

his forehead rests against yours, his breathing uneven.

"not tonight," he murmurs, voice strained, reluctant.

you blink up at him, dazed, lips tingling, body thrumming with electricity. "why not?"

heeseung’s fingers trace absent circles against your skin, his touch soothing. "because if i start, i won’t stop."

he exhales sharply, his lips ghosting over your cheek. "and you deserve better than that."

your chest tightens, but not with disappointment. with something else. something warmer.

"stay," he says softly, his voice quieter now, his hand curling around your wrist. "just for tonight."

and somehow, that’s enough.

he pulls you against him, arms wrapping around you, pressing you into the sheets. he shifts until you’re tucked against his chest, one arm draped over your waist, the other beneath the pillows. the way he holds you is instinctive, like he’s done this a thousand times before—like he’s been waiting to do this.

your breath is uneven as you try to process it all—the way his body fits against yours, the warmth of his skin, the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your palm.

"you okay?" heeseung’s voice is quieter now, rough with exhaustion but laced with something else. something deeper.

you swallow, nodding. "yeah."

he hums softly, his fingers tracing idle circles against your back.

"this is new," you murmur, barely above a whisper.

"what is?"

"you," you say, tilting your head to meet his gaze. "not pushing me away."

heeseung’s lips twitch, but his smirk doesn’t hold its usual sharpness. instead, he watches you, studying your face like he’s trying to commit every inch of it to memory.

"i think i got tired of running."

your breath catches. you don’t know what to say to that—what to do with that. so you don’t say anything.

instead, you shift closer, letting your fingers trace over the bare skin of his chest, over the sharp planes of his collarbones, the steady beat of his heart beneath your touch. heeseung shivers, his breath hitching just slightly.

he shifts, rolling onto his side, bringing you with him so you’re pressed against his chest, so close you can feel his breath against your lips.

his fingers tilt your chin up, and the moment stretches, charged, waiting—until he leans in, pressing the softest kiss against your lips.

it’s nothing like before. nothing like the desperation, the hunger, the madness that had consumed you both just minutes ago.

this one is slow. lingering. almost tender.

his hand settles against your jaw, thumb tracing delicate patterns along your cheekbone.

then after a long silence he hesitantly speaks up, "why were you looking for me?"

your breath stills.

heeseung’s voice is careful, but not indifferent. it’s something softer, something almost uncertain.

"you were avoiding me," you murmur, pressing your palm flat against his chest. "i wanted to know why."

heeseung doesn’t answer right away. his fingers still, hesitating, before he exhales, a slow, heavy sound.

"because i was afraid."

that makes you look up. "afraid?"

his jaw tenses. "afraid that if i let myself have this—have you—i wouldn't be able to stop."

your throat tightens. "and now?"

heeseung’s lips twitch, but it’s not quite a smirk. "i already lost that fight, sweetheart."

your heart clenches, something warm unfurling deep in your chest.

"then stop pretending you don’t want this." your voice is quieter now, steadier.

his eyes flicker over your face, searching, considering.

"and what if i do?" he murmurs. "what if i want all of it?"

you feel your breath hitch, pulse stuttering beneath your skin.

"then we figure it out."

the silence stretches, but this time, it’s not heavy. it’s something else, something warm.

heeseung exhales softly, then leans in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your temple.

"you drive me insane," he mumbles, lips brushing against your skin.

"good," you whisper, smiling against his shoulder.

heeseung shifts slightly, pressing you closer, his fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt, tracing absentminded patterns against your spine.

"so," he says after a beat, voice tinged with amusement, "what do you think people will say when they find out you’re dating a vampire?"

your stomach flips.

"who said anything about dating?" you tease, lifting your head slightly.

heeseung raises an eyebrow, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. "oh? you want me all to yourself, but you don’t want to call it dating?"

you roll your eyes, nudging him playfully. "you’re impossible."

"and you’re stuck with me now."

his voice is light, teasing, but there’s something real underneath it—something steady, something sure.

something that tells you this isn’t just tonight.

it’s more.

you let out a soft laugh, burying your face in the crook of his neck, breathing him in.

"guess i am."

𝗰𝗼𝗽𝘆𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 ©𝗴𝘆𝘂𝘂𝗯𝗲𝗿𝗿𝘆𝘆 on Tumblr˚ · .𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝘀 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗲𝗿𝘃𝗲𝗱

[screamlet]

BuckTommy Angst Week - Day 3 - Kidnapping

@bucktommyangstweek

notes: doing my part for the 8x14/8x15 helicopter hostage spec parade! ~500 words.

---

Athena calls him when he's already 10 minutes from the scene.

"TikTok told me about the hot LAFD pilot in a hostage situation like a half-hour ago! When was someone gonna call me?"

"Well I apologize, Buck, but I've spent the past hour reviewing protocols on when to call a hostage's ex-boyfriend and I couldn't find anything until this very moment."

Buck sulks, even though she can't see him. "I'm 10 minutes away." He swallows hard. "Why were you gonna call me? If I'm—"

"Because they have demands and Tommy won't share them until he talks to you."

"He's probably just buying time."

"Maybe, but it won't work much longer. When you hit the barricades, just get out and run."

Buck knows he's close from the number of helicopters overhead. If the 118 reports to a disaster, the sky can be crowded with newscopters trying to get footage. Right now there's a single LAFD helicopter circling overhead while black helicopters hover menacingly nearby. He has to push aside the thought: You're going to watch Tommy die today.

Athena meets him, a mean-looking guy in a black FBI jacket on her heels. "Evan Buckley, this is Agent—"

The agent roughly drags Buck over to a crowd of cops and agents, then picks up a radio. "Kinard, we have your guy here. Start talking."

Buck shoots him a look. "This is a little stressful, okay? Could you give us a second?"

The agent makes sure his thumb is off the talk button. "There's a bomb on that chopper and if they don't land willingly in the next 30 minutes, we have authorization to chase them to the ocean and shoot it down." The agent smiles tightly and hands back the radio. "Good luck."

Athena glares over the agent's shoulder: Real piece of work. Buck takes a breath and hits the button.

"Tommy, it's me. It's Buck."

"Evan? I can see the scene from here, wave to me."

Buck waves, wishes he had worn some brighter colors. "Can you see me?"

"Yeah, I see you fine." Tommy laughs; he sounds breathless. "Listen, I'm gonna hand over the radio in a second so everyone can do their negotiating thing—shit, get that out of my side, would you?"

"What are they doing to you, Tommy?"

"Nothing, I'm fine," Tommy says, like a liar. "Evan, listen. I love you, okay? I love you and I get if you don't want to stick around and see something horrible, but if I get out of this alive—do you want to grab dinner later? You pick the place. Not our usual."

Buck covers his mouth, smothering a sob. It's so intimate, even as a hundred people listen to the last words Tommy will ever say to him. "Yeah, maybe Thai? Let me know when you're on your way. I'll order ahead."

"It's a date."

Buck nods. "I love you. I'll see you soon. Don't be late."

[puppygirlclick]

Help Prevent Two Disabled Trans Women From Losing Their Car

We're still relying on donations to keep us afloat right now. They've nearly stopped completely despite people still reblogging our post, and it's all we have at the moment to keep our only source of transportation for the household. My girlfriend and I are stuck here until I can heal up and find a job or we can find a way of saving up for an RV to get the hell out dodge before then and leave this all behind us. I'll hopefully be seeing a nerve specialist sooner rather than later to have some of the nerves ablated in my abdomen to deal with my constant pain since having hernia surgery and my left testicle removed. With everything going on in the household, the money that's been donated to us has been having to go our car note in full every month, as my parents can't afford to pay for anything more than they already are as they tend to waste money going out shopping and buying shit they don't need on a consistent basis while the problems keep piling up. We're still living in a run down shed with our cat, a former stray, with no insulation, poorly installed electricity and no running water along with the water in the house not being on right now. In the coming months, we're expecting for there to be more rain fall and for it to get hotter as summer approaches. Recently it rained all day long and we were barely able to keep the shed from flooding, and despite our efforts, things still ended up getting ruined from the rainwater that flooded in. We're in a desperate situation right now and anything that you can donate genuinely helps us in the long run to getting out of here sometime hopefully soon. I appreciate all those who have been able to help us out so far and I'm sorry that we're having to continue to e-beg like this but we're not sure what else there is that we can do right now. We can't afford to lose our only source of transportation in a situation like this, even just $1 helps. Thank you for taking the time to read, even if you can't donate, sharing helps us as well.

C*sh*pp $StSeeSee (@stcecilia’s account) P*yp*l@"schrodingersbird" (also Cici's without quotes, someone on here has that username) Ask for V*nmo (Not listing here because of my deadname)

DO NOT TAG

[delicatetigerobject]

So I used to be diagnosed with ADHD until I got diagnosed with autism because the ADHD was a misdiagnosis, and I remember in sixth grade my best friend would get made fun of, and I wasn't sure why because sure she was weird but she never even initiated interactions with these people, so I defended her because she was just going to let them make fun of her otherwise (she's not a very confrontational person) and then of course that made them notice me enough that they decided to make me a target as well, and none of the teachers I told did anything about it. I remember that at the time, my diagnosis was still ADHD, and I couldn't get any of my work done, so I think that may have been a bit of the reason why they didn't do anything, the kids bullying me and my friend did get their assignments turned in. They also had more friends in that class. The kid who was doing it most only got moved to a different class after he threw my computer off of a table and broke the screen, and somehow they still wanted to punish me. And one of the strange things is that if you actually talk to us, me and that friend are incredibly similar- We're like the same person but with different interests, skills, and appearances. We act the same and have the same friend group and to anyone who doesn't know us, the main difference was how we looked and how we socialized. She's always been more blunt and confident as well as lacking some social skills, and dresses for comfort. I've always been more shy around people I'm not friends with, pretty pushover-y unless a friend is being made fun of, so it seems like I've got better social skills (I just overthink and make myself overly anxious about it lol) and I dress in clothing that I think makes me look good (luckily I think jeans are comfy). So now, in 8th grade, I'm diagnosed with autism, and me and my friend are in choir together with these kids and there's this group of them who we'll call Bob, Lexie, and Emmy, and we'll call my friend Mary (not real names). Last week, we had a choir concert, and we had some free time before the concert and after finishing warmups and practicing for it. So me and Mary were in the hallwway together, and the group (Bob, Lexie, Emmy) were there too. So they lied and said they'd found her Instagram account ("It's called [something they guess she'd have her account name set to] or something, right?") and said a fake name so that she would correct them and they could search it up (dirty move, they aren't very nice to her so they weren't being friendly) and then they searched it up and all followed her on it, and as we were walking away I could hear them laughing and see them pointing at Bob's phone, even though all she uses the account for is to post softball related things (it's her favorite sport, her dad is even gonna be coaching the team next year), and to be honest that pissed me off so much because she never even does anything to the, and they make fun of her in choir all the time and the teacher doesn't even stop them. She's diagnosed with ADHD at the moment btw. But yeah just felt like sharing this story here idk I thought it was kinda on topic and might share another flavor of experience if that makes any sense at all (probably doesn't)

every piece of ""autistic representation"" in hollywood sucks not just because of the infantalization and inspiration porn but because movie executives always fail to realize the real universal autistic experience: spending your childhood slowly and unfalteringly realizing all of your friends not so secretly hated and/or merely tolerated you at best and you've missed every social signal about it ever

[stylesispunk]

Blind faith | part ii

priest! Joel miller x night club dancer!reader

masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter |

summary: Priest Joel feels a strong need to get to know you better and help you, soon he would end up finding out more of you than he thought.

wc: 8,4k (i think)

warnings: age gap (joel is in his late 40s and reader last 20s), angst, fluff, mutual pining, women being misogynist towards reader, forbidden relationship. All topics will be addressed with all the respect.

a/n: The picture of him smoking was for a scene when reader finds him smoking, hidden behind the church but i forgot to write it I'm sorry for taking so long with this chapter, I've had a thousand of intrusive thoughts and no time to think. I hope you like this one and how is being built. Reblogs and comments are really appreciated. Happy reading! 💌

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

In the warm sunny spring of May when the night met the dark and lights reflected on the streets bustled with kids playing and families enjoyed meals. Joel was thinking about you. The cold had been replaced by the warmth irradiating from your smiled when you passed by, the way you spoke to him.

The cold had left him on May 3rd, the night you walked into town with the kind of presence that made people take a second look without knowing why. Since then, things had shifted in ways Joel hadn’t expected.

He felt it now, watching the world outside from the steps of the church. The night was warm, carrying the scent of fresh bread from the bakery down the street. Laughter echoed as children played in the dim glow of streetlights, their voices mixing with the low murmur of families gathered at restaurants.

But Joel wasn’t thinking about any of them. He was thinking about you.

Again, and again.

He caught himself doing that more than he should. Thinking about the way your smile softened the sharp edges of this town. The way you spoke to him—teasing, light, but never unkind. You had a way of making silence feel like something shared instead of something empty.

Joel sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw. He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t let his mind wander to you the way it did. Shouldn’t let himself anticipate the moment he’d see you again, even if it was just in passing.

But it was too late for that, wasn’t it?

Because two weeks had passed, and somewhere along the way, he had stopped feeling cold.

Joel stepped out of the Langdons’ house, nodding his thanks as Mrs. Langdon insisted, as always, that he take some leftovers home. He tucked the small bundle of bread and stew under his arm, offering her husband a firm handshake before stepping out into the warm May night.

Every Friday was the same—dinner at the Langdons'. Their children had all gone off to college, and the quiet of their home had settled into something heavy. He wasn’t sure if it was duty or habit that kept him coming back, but he knew what loneliness looked like, and he could never turn away from it.

The streets were lively tonight. Laughter spilled from open windows, the scent of grilled meat from the food stalls blending with the floral perfume of spring. Joel walked the familiar path home, nodding at those who greeted him. He offered quiet blessings to the older folks who still stopped to ask for them, shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries as he always did.

Then he reached The Paradise.

Joel never lingered near that place. The club sat at the edge of town like it had been dropped there by mistake, neon lights flickering against the darkened street. Tonight, it was more crowded than he’d ever seen. People lined up outside, men and women laughing, their faces half-lit by the pink glow of the sign above the door.

He tried not to judge. He really tried. But that place—it didn’t belong here. Not in a town where everything else was measured and quiet, where folks prided themselves on tradition. And yet, it stood, thriving in the shadows of the life he knew.

Joel kept walking, pushing it from his mind.

Then he thought about you.

You hadn’t come by the church in three days. He told himself it wasn’t strange. You were new in town, surely busy settling in. Maybe you had no reason to stop by.

But the thought sat heavy in his chest. Where were you now? Were you sleeping well? Joel shook his head. No. It wasn’t his place to wonder. It wasn’t his place to care.

And yet, as he turned onto his street, the question lingered in his head.

At Sunday, Joel stood in the pulpit, his voice echoing through the church with measure in his words. The warmth sunlight filtered through the glass windows, painting soft color along the wooden benches where people sat on. It was a beautiful morning, the church was full of families gathering, elders sitting in their usual spot, and children sitting beside their parents.

His preaching was about peace, about opening their hearts to love, forgiveness, to the unexpected kindness the world could offer to us when we pay attention.

"And sometimes," Joel preached, his gaze sweeping over the congregation, and people "beautiful things come when we least expect them. When we stop fighting, when we stop closing ourselves off… we find grace in the most unlikely places, like sunlight bathing our faces in a cold a day."

He had meant it as a general message, something for people to take home, to reflect on. But the moment the words left his lips; his breath came in short.

The moment you walked in.

The church doors let in a slant of golden morning light, and in the middle of it, there you were. It was almost cruel, the way you looked in that moment, how you fitted to his own words, like the light itself had been waiting to land on your skin. His breath hitched, his fingers tightening against the pulpit.

You scanned the room, looking for a seat, completely unaware of the way his entire body had gone still. When you finally settled in a pew at the back, he forced himself to swallow, to look away, to breathe.

The sight of you, bathed in the warm glow of the morning sun, framed by the high arch of the

Joel took a slow breath.

Joel had led countless sermons before, stood in front of his congregation so many times he could do it with his eyes closed. But now? Now, every word felt like it was meant for you.

“Beautiful things,” he said, his voice quieter now, rougher, “they come when you least expect them. They show up in places you never thought to look. And sometimes… sometimes, they scare us. Because letting them in means changing something in ourselves.”

Your eyes met his. Joel’s grip on the pulpit tightened.

You held his gaze, unmoving, unblinking, like you knew, like you could hear what he wasn’t saying.

He exhaled slowly.

“And when they come,” he murmured, the weight of you pressing against his chest from across the room, “it’s up to us whether we let them stay.”

The room was silent, save for the occasional rustle of people’s steps, the quiet shifting of bodies in the pews. But Joel only saw you.

Your lips parted slightly, your fingers clutching at the hem of your dress, and the air between you felt charged, thick with something unsaid. His heart slammed against his ribs, and he knew, he knew, you understood what he meant.

He forced himself to finish the sermon, though the words blurred together, though his mouth felt dry. When it was over, he lingered longer than usual, shaking hands, nodding along to pleasantries, but his mind was elsewhere. It was on you.

Who was there, standing by the door, waiting.

He gathered all his courage, to go and find you outside, standing near the side of the church, your arms wrapped around yourself, as if bracing against the warmth of the sun. You didn’t look at him right away, but when you did, your expression was kind.

“That was a nice sermon,” you murmured when he stood, I front of you.

Joel huffed out something like a laugh, but there was no humor in it. “You think so?”

You nodded, but your gaze was unreadable, cutting through him in a way that made his stomach tighten. “I think you were talking about me.”

He swallowed. “Maybe.”

You let out a breath, slow and measured, before stepping closer, close enough that he could see the gold flecks in your eyes, close enough that he caught the faintest hint of something sweet on your skin.

“Thank you, for trying to be kind and spread it” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

Joel searched your face, his jaw tightening, like he was fighting something within himself. The way you looked at him, it made him uneasy, like you could see right through him. Like you could see the way he was holding himself back.

He exhaled sharply, glancing around to make sure no one was lingering before lowering his voice. “Do you wanna talk?”

Your brows lifted slightly, like you hadn’t expected it.

“Talk?” you repeated, almost testing the word, rolling it over your tongue.

Joel shifted on his feet. “Yeah. If you want.”

You hesitated, but only for a moment before nodding, laughing a bit “I actually came here to talk to you. I’m just nervous about people on here.”

“Why?” He asked

“I don’t belong here and I can feel it.”

“You belong where I am as long as you need” He reassured, looking at you with the kindness you were craving for weeks.

“Thank you, father.” you replied, smiling shyly at him.   

“Do you want to come inside?”

You nodded.

Joel signaled towards the door, letting you step inside first. The church was quiet now, emptied of its congregation, save for the lingering scent of incense and the dim glow of candles flickering near the altar.

You walked slowly down the aisle, your footsteps echoing in the vast space. The glass windows painted soft colors onto the worn pews that you hadn’t noticed before, casting patterns of blues and golds across the floor.

Joel watched as you moved, your fingers ghosting over the smooth wood of the benches, your gaze lifting toward the high ceiling. There was something in your expression, something lost, something looking for an answer.

“Have you ever prayed before?” he asked, his voice quiet in the stillness.

You turned slightly, your eyes meeting his. “I haven’t. Not in a long time, at least.”

He nodded, stepping closer, his presence warm, grounding. “You don’t have to do it now if you don’t want to.”

You exhaled softly, looking away. “I wouldn’t know what to say.”

Joel tilted his head. “Then don’t say anything.”

You swallowed, pressing your lips together, feeling the weight of his words settle deep in your chest.

Slowly, you lowered yourself onto a pew, your hands clasped in your lap. Joel sat beside you, close enough that you could feel his warmth but not touching.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

“Are you gonna tell me why you ended up here?” He asked.

You stiffed slightly, “I can’t tell you that.”

Joel studied you for a moment, his gaze steady but unreadable. He didn’t push; didn’t press for answers you weren’t ready to give. Instead, he exhaled through his nose, leaning back slightly against the pew.

"Alright," he murmured. "I won’t ask."

You turned your head toward him, surprised by his easy acceptance. You had been waiting for more questions, for suspicion, for doubt. Instead, you were met with something else entirely, understanding.

"You’re not curious?" you asked, voice quieter now.

Joel’s fingers drummed lightly against his knee before he sighed. "‘Course I am. But if you ain’t ready, you ain’t ready."

You swallowed hard, glancing down at your hands. No one had ever let you keep your secrets without demanding something in return.

For a moment, the only sound in the church was the faint crackle of the candles burning near the altar.

Then, hesitantly, you spoke. "It’s not that I don’t want to tell you."

Joel turned his head slightly, waiting.

You inhaled, steadying yourself. "It’s just… if I say it out loud, it makes it real and I don’t want you to be tangled in my mess, you don’t deserve it."

Joel’s jaw clenched, something flickering in his expression. His voice was lower when he finally answered, rough around the edges.

"It’s already real, darling."

Your breath caught. It has been a really long time since someone had called you “Darling” and the way the nickname had come out his lips made it feel softer, more real.

You turned to face him fully now, heart pounding just a little too hard in your chest. "Father…"

He held your gaze, and for the first time since you had met, he looked like he was fighting something strong, something he wasn’t sure he should want.

And then, just as quickly as the moment came, he looked away.

"You are not gonna tell me, ”He murmured. "Just know that if you ever do… I’ll listen."

Your throat tightened, the warmth in your chest warring with the fear still tangled around your ribs.

"Okay, thank you" you whispered.

And for now, that was enough.

Joel hesitated only for a second before he reached out, offering you his hand.

You stared at it, his rough, calloused fingers, inviting you to hold it. For a moment, you didn’t move. Then, slowly, you placed your hand in his.

Warm. Solid. Protective.

Your fingers curled slightly around his, and Joel squeezed, just once, gentle and grounding, like he was telling you that he meant what he said. That he’d listen, that he’d be there.

The weight in your chest didn’t feel so heavy anymore. You felt light as a feather, and safe.

But then, the sound of the church doors creaking open shattered the moment.

Joel let go of your hand instantly, straightening, his expression shifting into something unreadable as footsteps echoed down the aisle.

A woman dressed in a modest blue dress, dark hair pinned neatly back, and the look in her eyes as she saw you sent a chill down your spine.

Her gaze flicked between you and Joel before she spoke, her voice tight. "Father Miller."

You recognized her. You’d seen her in town before, always watching, always whispering with the others when you passed.

Joel stiffened beside you. "Miss Elizabeth."

She barely acknowledged him before turning her sharp gaze to you. "You should go; I want to talk to the father privately. " she said flatly.

Something hot curled in your stomach, shame and sadness hitting at once.

"I was just leaving," you bit out, standing. You didn’t look at Joel as you stepped past him, willing your face to stay unreadable, unwilling to let this woman see how easily she could cut you down.

But just as you reached the door, you heard her voice again.

"You shouldn’t let her stay around you, Father," Evelyn said, her tone full of quiet disapproval. "She’s a bad influence."

Your breath hitched. You pushed the church doors open, stepping into the cool evening air. Your breath was unsteady, your pulse thrumming with anger, with hurt. You shouldn’t have let it get to you. You knew what people thought, what they whispered when they saw you. But hearing it out loud, hearing it in his presence, it stung more than you wanted to admit.

You didn’t know why, but what the priest thought about you was important.

Inside the church, Evelyn watched you go, her lips pressed into a thin line before she turned back to Joel.

Joel exhaled through his nose, his jaw tightening. "That so?" he pressed.

Evelyn nodded, stepping closer. "We all see it. You see it too. She doesn’t belong here. She is sin."

Joel’s fingers curled against the wooden pew. His shoulders were tense, a muscle twitching in his jaw as he considered his next words.

"Think that’s for me to decide," he said, his voice steady, but there was anger beneath it. “You cannot come to a church and preach bad things about someone. That’s sin.”

Evelyn scoffed, unimpressed. "I only hope you don’t regret it."

“What?”

“When she ruined the reputation, you hold on this place.” She warned.

Joel didn’t answer. He just watched the space you had left, sitting as a void on his heart.

“I have no reputation to keep on. I’m simply a priest, I offer help and guidance to people, so if you came here to spread bad words on someone, I would kindly ask you to leave.”

Evelyn’s expression hardened, her lips pressing into a thin line. “I’m only looking out for you, Father. And for this town.”

Joel’s jaw tensed, his patience wearing thin. “You look out for yourself, Evelyn. I’ll look after the people who need it.”

She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “People talk, Joel. They see the way you look at her.”

His chest tightened. “Then they should mind their own business.”

Evelyn’s mouth parted slightly, as if she wasn’t expecting him to be so blunt. But she recovered quickly, straightening her spine. “Suit yourself,” she muttered before turning on her heel and striding out of the church.

The heavy doors groaned as they shut behind her, leaving Joel in silence. But he didn’t feel peaceful. He felt rage.

His fists curled against his sides, his pulse still thrumming from the conversation, from the way Evelyn had spat those words like they were undeniable truths. Like he didn’t know what was best for himself.

And maybe he didn’t. Maybe he didn’t want to know it.

Joel exhaled slowly, running a hand over his face, cursing. He couldn’t let you to carry the whispers alone.

Later, at night you were nursing a cup of tea, trying to erase the memories and the twisting feeling inside your stomach. The truth was that you weren’t used to this, to be point out all the time or to receive glance and stares as if you were a witch waiting to be eliminated.

Without even wanting, your mind drifted to the priest, Joel. To his kindness, to his scent, or the warmth touch of his hands fitting yours. You smiled a bit at the memory, not even knowing why it was so special.

You noticed Carmen adjusting her dress in the small mirror by the door, smoothing the fabric over her hips before reaching for her earrings. The dim light of the house cast shadows on the walls, the air full with the scent of her perfume.

“You know,” she mused, glancing at you with a smirk, “ever since you got here, the club’s been busier.”

You looked up from where you sat on the worn-out couch, your arms wrapped around your knees. “What do you mean?”

Carmen chuckled, slipping her earrings on. “Men are curious creatures. They see something new, something mysterious, and they can’t help themselves.” She gave you a knowing look. “Some of them come just hoping to catch a glimpse of you.”

Your stomach twisted. You didn’t like that idea at all “I don’t—”

“I’m not saying you did anything.” She waved a hand. “You barely speak to them, barely even look at them. And that’s what makes them even more interested.”

You swallowed, shifting uncomfortably. “That’s not a thing I feel proud of.”

Carmen shrugged, grabbing her shawl. “It’s business. And business is good.” She studied you for a moment before softening. “Look, I know you don’t love this place, but you have a way of drawing people in, chiquita.”

You exhaled, rubbing at your arms. “That’s not what I want.”

Carmen sighed, walking over and perching on the arm of the couch beside you. “Then what do you want?”

You hesitated. If you had been asked that question a few weeks ago, the answer would have been simple. You wanted to dance. You wanted to teach. You wanted a quiet, normal life, away from the danger.

Now? Now, you didn’t know.

Carmen must have seen the struggle on your face because she reached out, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “You don’t have to stay here forever, you know.”

You blinked up at her. “Then why does it feel like I do?”

She sighed, squeezing your shoulder before standing up. “Because you haven’t figured out where else you want to be.”

You sat there, watching her drape her shawl over her shoulders, watching as she gave herself one last glance in the mirror before heading toward the door.

“I’ll be back late,” she called over her shoulder. “Get some rest.”

“Where are you going?”

“I have a date!” She told, opening the door, and then she was gone.

The silence that followed was heavy, pressing against your chest. You sat there for a long moment before finally pushing yourself up, grabbing your coat, and stepping out into the fresh night.

You needed air. You needed to think. You need to dismiss the longing feeling settled on your chest.

And before you even realized where your feet had carried you, you were standing at the street corner. You caressed your arms to keep yourself warm form the chilly cold air of the night, as you walked to the public telephone stood at the corner of the street, its metal surface cool against your fingers as you picked up the receiver and fed in the coins with shaking hands.

The dial tone buzzed in your ear, and then—

"Hola?"

Your chest tightened with sadness at the familiar voice. “Mateo,” you breathed.

"Hermana.” (sister) Relief laced his voice. “¿Dónde has estado? ¿Estás bien? (Where have you been? Are you okay?)

You swallowed hard, gripping the phone tighter. “Lo sé..Yo…” (I know…I-) You hesitated, your eyes darting around the empty street. “¿Cómo están las cosas? ¿Cómo está mi mamá y mi papá? (How are things going? How are mom and dad?)

There was silence on the other end, then a heavy sigh. "Preguntando por ti cada día. Están preocupados.” (They ask for you every day. They’re worried about you)

Guilt curled in your stomach. “Estoy bien, te lo juro.” (I swear I’m fine)

"¿Segura?” (Are you sure?) Mateo’s voice was softer now, filled with something you didn’t want to name. "Suenas diferente.” (You sounds different)

You exhaled, closing your eyes for a moment. “Es obvio que lo estoy, mateo.” (That’s obvious, Mateo) Your grip on the phone tightened. “No puedo ir a casa, ¿Cómo crees que me siento?” (I can’t go back home, How do you think that makes me feel?)

Because you had nothing to return to. Because the life you had before was gone.

Mateo sighed "¿Estás Segura que estás bien?" (Are you sure you’re okay?)

“¿Siguen buscándome?” you asked. (Are they still looking for me?)

Silence stretched between you both, thick with things left unsaid. “Vinieron a casa hace unos días” (They came home a few days ago)

Your throat tightened. “¿Encontraron algo?” (Did the find something?)

“No” he replied, “No hay rastro de ti.” (No, there´s no trace of you)

You hesitated before whispering, “Te extraño.” (I miss you)

"Yo también, hermana” (I miss you too, sister)

The line went dead. You stood there for a moment, the receiver still pressed to your ear, as if you could will his voice back.  You hang up the phone with force.

“Damn it!”

Joel had been walking back from the church, his mind tangled in thoughts he didn't want to face. The night air was cool against his skin, the quiet hum of the town settling into its usual lull. He didn’t expect to see you.

At least not like this.

He slowed when he caught sight of you by the public telephone, shoulders hunched, one hand still gripping the receiver like you wanted to crush it. Even from a distance, he could tell something was wrong.

Then you hung up the phone, hard, the sound of plastic smacking against metal sharp in the empty street.

“Damn it,” you hissed again, under your breath, pressing the heels of your palms against your eyes.

Joel hesitated for only a moment before stepping closer. “You alright?”

You startled slightly, turning to look at him, eyes glassy, lips parted as if you wanted to speak but couldn’t find the words.

Joel took in the sight of you—the way your face was drawn tight, the way your hands trembled at your sides. Something twisted deep in his chest.

“Hey,” he said, softer this time, “what happened?”

You shook your head quickly, taking a step back as if trying to put space between you and the concern in his eyes. “It’s nothing.”

Joel’s gaze flickered to the telephone, “Don’t look like nothing.”

You wiped at your eyes, like that could erase the evidence of your tears. “I just—” You swallowed hard, glancing away. “I was talking to my brother.”

Joel frowned, watching the way your jaw tightened, the way your fingers clenched at your sides.

“Do you have a brother?”

You let out a hollow laugh, nodding your head. “Yes,” You exhaled sharply, wrapping your arms around yourself. “He just reminds me how much I miss him and I can’t go back.”

Joel felt something in his chest pull at that.

He took a step closer to you, closing the space between you.

“You are not alone,” he said quietly.

You blinked up at him, your expression unreadable. “I’m pretty much I am”

Joel exhaled, then, without thinking, without second-guessing, he reached out for you.

His fingers brushed over your elbow first, just the faintest touch, before he slid his hand down, wrapping around yours.

You didn’t pull away.

Instead, your fingers tightened around his, just enough that he could feel the warmth of your skin, the way you were holding onto him like you weren’t sure if you should—but you needed to.

And maybe he needed to, too.

“Come on” he murmured. “Let’s get you something warm.”

For a moment, you just looked at him in awe, then, slowly, you nodded.

Joel didn’t let go of your hand as he led you away from the phone booth, his grip firm but gentle, like he wasn’t about to let you disappear into the night.

The town was quiet this late, the streets empty except for the occasional glow of a porch light. The fresh night air bit at your skin, but Joel’s warmth beside you made it bearable.

His house wasn’t far. A modest place, tucked behind a small white picket fence, next to the church, the porch light flickering softly. He pushed open the front door, stepping aside to let you in first.

Inside, it smelled like vanilla and something faintly familiar, leather, soap, a trace of coffee lingering in the air. It was tidy but lived-in, books stacked on a side table, a jacket slung over a chair. The kind of place that felt like it had roots.

Joel shut the door behind you, locking it out of habit.

“You sit,” he murmured, nodding toward the couch. “I’ll make you some tea.”

You hesitated for a second before sinking onto the couch, your hands still curled into fists in your lap. You felt exposed. Like if he asked the right question, everything would spill out.

Joel disappeared into the kitchen, and you listened to the quiet clatter of cups, the whistle of the kettle warming up. It was strangely intimate, this moment. Like you belonged here. Like he wanted you here.

He returned after a moment, two mugs in his hands. He passed one to you before lowering himself onto the couch beside you, close but not too close.

“Hope chamomile’s alright,” he said. “Don’t got much else. I have to buy groceries.”

You wrapped your hands around the warmth of the cup, staring down into the steam. “Chamomile’s good.”

Joel hummed, watching you. You could feel his gaze on you, like he was waiting for you to say something.

Instead, you lifted the cup and took a sip. The warmth spread through your chest, soothing the tightness that had been there all night.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

“Do you want to tell me what’s really going on?” His voice was gentle, but there was an edge of something else. Something protective.

You exhaled, staring down into your tea. And then, in the quiet of Joel’s home, in the safety of his presence, you whispered—

“I don’t feel like it yet” you said.

Joel didn’t push, just nodded, leaning back against the couch with his own mug in hand. The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable. If anything, it felt steady. Like you didn’t have to fill it with words just to be understood.

The tea warmed your hands, and for the first time in what felt like days, you didn’t feel like you had to keep your guard up.

Joel watched you for a moment, then exhaled softly. “Alright,” he said. “If you change your mind, there’s food in the kitchen.”

You nodded, taking another slow sip.

“You can stay as long as you need,” he added. His voice was softer now, carrying something else beneath it. Something unspoken.

You swallowed. “I don’t want to be a burden.”

Joel let out a quiet scoff, shaking his head. “You’re not.”

Your chest tightened at that. At the quiet conviction in his voice. You glanced at him, finding his gaze already on you, steady and unwavering. You opened your mouth, then closed it, unsure of what you even wanted to say.

Instead, you just nodded again, gripping your mug a little tighter.

Joel didn’t push. He just sat there, sipping his tea, letting the night settle around you both.

Joel took another slow sip of his tea before setting the cup down on the table. His voice was quiet when he spoke again.

“What was it like? When you were a kid?”

You blinked, surprised by the question. “Why do you want to know?”

He shrugged. “Figured it might be nice to talk about something else.”

You hesitated, fingers tightening around the warm mug, but then you sighed, letting your shoulders relax just a little.

“I used to climb trees,” you admitted after a moment. “There was this big one near our house. My brother and I would spend hours up there, making up stories, pretending we were somewhere else.” A soft smile tugged at your lips, the memory warming something deep inside you. “My mom used to scold me for coming home with dirt all over my clothes.”

Joel chuckled, the sound deep and warm. “Bet you gave her hell.”

You laughed softly. “I did.”

He was quiet for a moment, then asked, “And your best memory?”

You thought about it, searching through years of moments before settling on one. “Oh, I remember my dad took me to the ocean once. Just him and me. It was the first time I ever saw it. I remember how endless it felt, how small I was standing next to it.” You swallowed, fingers tracing the rim of your cup. “It was the first time I really felt there was a world beyond my home.”

Joel nodded, like he understood that feeling more than you realized.

“What about you?” you asked. “What was your childhood like?”

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Simple, I guess. Spent most of it in Texas, running around with my brother. We’d get into all kinds of trouble, nothing too bad, but enough to keep our mom on edge.” A fond look crossed his face. “She worked hard. Did her best to raise us right.”

You tilted your head. “And when did you decide to become a priest?”

Joel exhaled slowly, like he’d been expecting the question but still needed a moment to gather his thoughts. “Took me a long time,” he admitted. “Wasn’t always on this path. But after losing some people I cared about… I guess I needed something to hold onto. Something to believe in.”

You studied him, the flickering candlelight on his center table casting soft shadows over his face. There was something heavy in his voice, a weight he carried that you didn’t dare press into.

You hummed softly, resting your head against the back of the couch. “Sounds like you were looking for some peace.”

Joel glanced at you; his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he nodded. “Yeah. I guess I was.”

A comfortable silence settled between you. The warmth of the tea, the dim glow of the room, the safety around Joel’s presence was all too much, too soothing for you. It didn’t take you so much time for your eyelids grew heavier, and before you realized it, your head had dipped onto his shoulder.

Your face was softened in the dim glow of the room, free of the tension that had been clinging to you all night. Your breathing was steady, your lips slightly parted, your lashes resting gently against your cheeks.

Joel swallowed hard. His heart felt heavy with something towards you.

He shouldn’t be looking at you like this. Shouldn’t be feeling the warmth of you against him like it was something sacred, something meant for him. But he couldn’t stop.

Carefully, he shifted, reaching for the blanket draped over the back of the couch. He hesitated, watching the way a strand of hair had fallen over your face, the way your fingers twitched slightly in sleep. Then, with a slow movement, he pulled the blanket over you, tucking it carefully around your shoulders.

Still, he didn’t move away. His eyes traced your features, the soft curve of your cheek, the way your lashes fluttered briefly like you were dreaming. He wondered what kind of dreams you had. If they were peaceful. If they ever brought you the comfort you seemed to be searching for.

Joel exhaled, a long, quiet breath. He knew he should get up. Should put some distance between you. But instead, he stayed and his exhaustion eventually crept in. The steady rhythm of your breathing beside him pulled him under like a tide.

His head tilted slightly, his body instinctively leaning toward yours. His shoulder pressed more firmly against you, the weight of you grounding him in a way he hadn’t felt in years.

Sleep came slowly, but when it did, it was deep. Joel didn’t dream of regret, or of things lost.

Instead, he dreamed of warmth. Of something soft, something that smelled faintly sweet. Something that, for the first time in forever, didn’t feel so far out of reach.

The morning came too soon, with light filtering softly through the curtains, making you stir first, shifting slightly, only to realize you were pressed against someone.

Joel.

His arms were wrapped around you, one draped loosely over your waist, the other resting near your shoulder. His breathing was deep and steady, his body relaxed in a way you’d never seen before.

Your heart pounded as you stayed still, unsure of what to do. But the moment stretched too long, and eventually, Joel shifted, a low hum escaping his throat as he woke.

His grip on you tightened instinctively before realization dawned. His breath hitched. Slowly, he pulled back, his arms withdrawing as if burned. His eyes met yours, still heavy with sleep but now filled with something else, something hesitant and vulnerable.

“Morning,” he murmured, his voice rough, laced with something softer beneath.

You swallowed, your voice barely above a whisper. “Morning.”

Neither of you moved. Neither of you looked away.

You swallowed, suddenly hyperaware of the warmth that still clung to your skin, of the way Joel was looking at you, like he wasn’t sure if he should apologize or pull you closer or even touch fire.

“I should get going,” you murmured, your voice quieter than you intended.

Joel’s jaw tensed, and for a moment, he didn’t say anything. Just studied you, like he was trying to memorize something. Then, finally, he nodded. “Yeah… yeah, you should.”

You sat up slowly, letting the blanket slip from your shoulders. The absence of his warmth made the morning chill settle deeper into your bones.

Joel rubbed the back of his neck, still watching you. “You—uh—need me to walk you back?”

You shook your head. “I’ll be fine.”

But neither of you moved.

Joel’s fingers tapped against his knee, restless. “Did you sleep, okay?”

You nodded, offering the smallest of smiles. “Yeah. Better than I have in a while.”

Something flickered in his expression, something almost like relief. He exhaled through his nose, then stood, running a hand through his hair. “Good.”

You forced yourself to move, to put distance between you both before you did something reckless. Like staying. Like telling him how safe you felt with him around.

You reached the door, hesitating with your hand on the knob. You glanced back at him, at the way he was still standing there, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words.

You offered a quiet, “See you around, father.”

“Joel” he said, “Just call me by my name.”

You froze for a moment, your hand still on the door, the weight of his words sinking into you. Just call me by my name.

It was simple, but it felt like a shift, like something important was happening without either of you fully understanding it.

You nodded slowly, the softest of smiles curving your lips. “Okay. See you around, Joel.”

His gaze softened, just a little, but you could see the conflict in his eyes, the same conflict that had been there since the first day you'd met. It was like he was trying to find a way to make things simpler, even though neither of you were sure how.

You opened the door, stepping out into the morning, but for a moment, you stood there, just outside, with your back to him. The silence between you stretched, and in the stillness, you almost expected him to call out to you.

But he didn’t.

You swallowed and took a step away, then another. Each step felt heavier than the last. You didn’t want to go. But you knew you had to.

And Joel? How could he even stop thinking about you when you had turned this town technicolor after ages of scarlet rusting maroon. How he could even stop thinking about the way your eyes wrinkled when you smiled, how they shone under the lights, or how you felt against his chest?

You had turned his life upside down the moment he saw you there, sleeping the church pew. You had settled a warm feeling on his chest, stuck there strangling his heart in a way he feared. He hadn’t felt like this before your orbit crashed into his.  

Joel sat quietly in the church, his hands clasped in his lap, his gaze fixed on the altar. He couldn’t help but think about you, how you had walked out of his house that morning, and how your absence already felt like a quiet ache in the pit of his chest.

His thoughts were interrupted by the soft murmur of voices coming from the entrance. A group of ladies from the town had entered, their soft footsteps echoing in the vast space. They gathered near the back, speaking in low tones. Joel, still lost in his thoughts, didn’t immediately notice them approaching.

One of the women, Evelyn, caught his attention first. Her eyes were sharp, her smile polite but lacking warmth. She was one of the more outspoken people in the town—always quick to comment on matters she found troubling.

“Father Joel,” she called out, her voice cutting through the quiet.

He turned toward them, nodding in greeting. “Good morning, Evelyn. Ladies, How are you today?”

Evelyn gave a tight smile, but there was something in her eyes that made Joel wary. She wasn’t here for a casual conversation.

“We’re doing well, Father. Just came to see you,” she said, her gaze flickering briefly to the side before returning to him. “I heard something troubling... about you spending time with that girl.” Her tone was deliberate, like she wanted to plant a seed of doubt.

Joel’s stomach tightened, but he kept his voice steady. “What exactly are you referring to?”

“The new girl in town,” Evelyn continued, her voice lowering as if sharing a secret. “You know, the one who came in from out of nowhere. We’ve all seen the way she’s been acting, and we’re concerned, Father. You’ve always been such a pillar in this community... we don’t want to see you caught up in anything... inappropriate.”

The words hit him like a cold gust of wind, but he didn’t show it. Instead, he stared at her, his jaw clenched. “She’s a member of this town now,” he said, his voice firm, but controlled. “She’s just as much a part of this community as anyone else, and she deserves kindness and support, just like everyone else.”

Evelyn’s smile faltered for a moment, but she quickly recovered, her voice laced with venom. “Of course, Father. But kindness and support don’t always mean turning a blind eye to things that don’t belong. We just want to make sure you're not... getting too close to someone who might cause trouble for you.”

The group of women exchanged glances, their murmurs growing louder now, but Joel didn’t care. He could feel the sting of their judgment, but he wasn’t about to let it change him. Not today. Not after everything he’d felt in the past few days.

“What do you mean?” He asked, looking at them.

“Do you know the reason why there are so many people going to that club? The paradise?” Evely asked, testing the waters. “It’s her! She dances there, she is seducing men and perhaps women too, who knows?”

Joel's body stiffened at the words, a cold wave of anger sweeping through him, but he kept his face neutral, not allowing them the satisfaction of seeing how deeply their accusations cut. The audacity of the women to come into his sacred space, spreading lies about you.

"That’s a serious accusation," he said, his voice dangerously calm, his eyes narrowing slightly as he stared at Evelyn. "And it's based on nothing but rumors and gossip."

Evelyn smirked, clearly pleased by the effect her words had. "Rumors? You know as well as we do that the truth isn’t always so clean. She came here from nowhere, and now look—more men are visiting the club than ever before. It's obvious. You might be blind to it, Father, but we're not."

Joel took a deep breath, willing himself to remain composed, but inside, he was seething. He could feel the lies curling around his chest, suffocating him. How dare they accuse you like that, especially when they had no idea what you were going through? He had seen you at your lowest, and not once had he seen any evidence of the things they claimed.

"What you’re saying is based on assumptions," Joel replied evenly. "You don’t know her. You don’t know what she’s been through. And as for what happens in the club, it’s not for any of you to judge." He took a step forward, his voice rising slightly, but still under control. "I will not stand here and listen to these baseless accusations. You know nothing of her, and you certainly know nothing about me."

The women were silent for a moment, unsure of how to respond. Evelyn’s smile slipped, but she quickly recovered, trying to keep control of the conversation. "We’re just worried, Father. We want what’s best for you. We care about you."

Joel didn’t respond immediately. He couldn’t bring himself to care about their concern when they were so willing to tear down someone he had come to care for. Instead, he stood his ground, the weight of his words hanging in the air between them.

“I don’t need you to protect me,” he said finally, his voice firm. “And I don’t need you to make decisions about who I spend time with. I will not be part of any of this. If you want to continue to talk about people behind their backs, you can do it without me.”

Without waiting for another word, he turned and walked away from them, his footsteps echoing through the church. He didn't look back as he left, the sense of their eyes on his back weighing heavily, but he refused to let it break him.

He didn’t want to believe it.

But the thought lingered on his head the whole day.

So, when the night came and it felt darker than usual, Joel walked through the quiet streets. He had changed into a worn-out jacket and a baseball cap, trying to blend into the shadows, to not be seen. He couldn’t bear the idea of anyone recognizing him, not in a place like this. The rumors had been eating at him all day, and he couldn’t ignore the need to see for himself, to find the truth.

His footsteps were almost silent as he approached the entrance of The Paradise. The neon lights flickered, casting an eerie glow over the sidewalk, and the sound of muffled bass and chatter seeped through the walls. As he stepped inside, the dimness hit him first, the low, seductive hum of the music, the scent of alcohol and smoke lingering in the air. The people inside were lost in their own worlds, laughing, shouting, and watching the stage with eager anticipation.

He stood still for a moment, taking in the scene. His heart pounded in his chest, and he swallowed hard. The place was everything he had imagined, and yet it felt so foreign to him. He never thought he would set foot in a club like this, let alone come to watch you perform.

The house lights dimmed, and a hush fell over the crowd. The host’s voice echoed through the speakers presenting the next dancer.

Joel’s breath caught in his throat as the music shifted, slow and sultry. He watched as the spotlight flickered, landing on the stage just in time for you to emerge from the shadows. The crowd erupted into applause, but to Joel, it felt like the world had stopped.

You appeared, standing in the center of the stage, your silhouette framed by the soft red glow of the lights. You were wearing a red lace outfit, the fabric clinging to your body in all the right places. For a moment, Joel couldn’t breathe. The way you moved, the way you owned the space, graceful, mesmerizing, and completely unbothered by the eyes that followed your every step.

The applause from the crowd blurred into background noise as Joel’s gaze locked on you. Every motion you made was fluid, confident, hypnotic. His eyes traced the curve of your body as you moved with a sensuality that made his heart race, his mind spinning. There was something about the way you held yourself, the way you seemed so comfortable in your own skin, that had him entranced.

This was different from the woman he had get to know. This was you, unapologetically owning the stage, every movement a story, every sway of your hips a command. He had never seen you like this before.

Joel’s body tensed as he watched, his heart beating faster than he could keep up with. He tried to remind himself that this wasn’t you, this was just the person you had created, the role you were playing.

The music pulsed through you, guiding your movements as you danced. The crowd's cheers and whistles blended into the background, but all you could focus on was the rhythm of your body and the heat in the air. Every step, every sway was a release, a moment to escape. You had become this character, this untouchable, confident woman who commanded the stage. It was easy to disappear into it.

But then, amidst the sea of faces, your eyes found his.

Joel’s presence felt like a sudden pull, a gravity you hadn’t prepared for. You froze, your body stilling mid-motion as your gaze locked with his. His dark eyes, usually so calm and guarded, were wide with something raw, something you couldn't quite name. The moment seemed to stretch, as if the world around you had disappeared, leaving just the two of you in a charged uncomfortable silence.

For a split second, everything around you was muffled, the music, the applause, the cheering, none of it mattered anymore. The only thing that mattered was the look on his face, the way he stood there, frozen, watching you. And the shock in your chest came crashing in, like a wave pulling you under.

Your heart skipped, the rhythm of your dance faltering. Your breath hitched as you felt your skin flush, your mind racing. You hadn’t expected him to be here, not like this. You hadn’t expected him to be watching you, not with that look on his face. And yet, there he was, standing in the darkened corner, his eyes wide, his body rigid, as if he had been caught in a moment he hadn’t anticipated.

For a moment, you couldn’t move. It was as though your body had forgotten how to do anything but stare back at him.

Joel didn’t look away. His eyes didn’t flicker. There was no mask of indifference this time. The look he gave you was so intense, so filled with something, disappointment, perhaps. It made your heart race and your legs feel weak. It was like you had broken through some invisible barrier between you, and for a moment, you weren’t the dancer on stage, you weren’t the woman who hid behind this person. You were just…you. And he could see it.

You blinked, your breath catching. And then, before you could stop yourself, you took a step back, your mind fighting against the weight of the moment. The music swirled around you again, but you couldn’t focus on it anymore. You felt like you were suffocating under the weight of his gaze.

Forcing yourself to continue, you tried to pick up the rhythm, but the fluidity of your movements had disappeared. The grace, the confidence, it was all gone. All that was left was the shock of that moment, the stunned recognition that maybe, just maybe, you had let him in. And he had seen more than you had ever intended.

The music seemed to echo louder now, a backdrop to the chaos in your head. You couldn’t shake the feeling of his eyes on you, burning through your every motion.

The song neared its end, and as you finished the routine, you stood still for a moment, your eyes once again locking with his across the room. The crowd erupted in applause, but you didn’t hear it. All you heard was the rapid beat of your own heart and the thoughts racing in your mind.

His heart raced as he turned and walked quickly toward the exit, avoiding the curious glances of the people around him. He pushed the door open to the night air, stepping out into the dimly lit street, his thoughts in a chaotic spiral.

tags: if you want to be removed, you're free to tell me.

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[shaiyasstuff]

wilted promises | sylus

synopsis : Once, he swore love was enough. He chose you despite his world of wealth and expectations, despite everything that should have kept you apart. But time has turned your marriage into a gilded cage, your love into something distant and fractured. The boy who once promised to protect you is now a man of cold silences and sharp words. As you stand among the ruins of what once was, you wonder—was it ever truly love, or just the fleeting illusion of it?

content : non-canon!, marriage!AU, Sylus is mean, ANGST with little comfort(?), reader goes insane, set in somewhat victorian era, painter!reader, childhood lovers.

writer’s note : I initially had no vision of how this would go but I winged it. (Also I do not own any pictures used, all creds go back to their creators)

parts : one | two

quote : "It’s amazing how someone can break your heart and you can still love them with all the little pieces." – Ella Harper

“The datura blooms in the dark—beautiful, intoxicating, and laced with quiet poison. Much like love once promised, and now turned to ruin.”

The day you became his wife, you thought you were stepping into a dream—a life built on whispered promises and stolen glances.

But dreams fade quickly, and yours shattered beneath the weight of cold indifference.

Sylus, once the boy who traced love across your skin with gentle hands, had become a man of ice, his tenderness buried beneath sharp words and colder silences.

It’s been years since then.

Now, your marriage was a gilded cage, and you stood within it, wondering if the love you once shared was a lie—or if it still lingered, buried beneath the ruins of what you had become.

“I promise to you now, with this datura flower that I will protect and love you for all eternity!”

Do you still remember when you made that promise to me?

—•

It was like any other night when he held a celebration at the estate. The grand foyer buzzed with laughter and clinking glasses.

You tried to blend in, but it wasn’t enough.

He found you.

His hand seized your wrist, dragging you into the shadowed hallway. The wall was cold against your back as he pressed you into it.

“I warned you,” he muttered, voice low and sharp.

“Don’t act like you know me. It’s bad enough that I married you.”

You became a ghost in your own life, unseen and unwanted.

“You do not belong here.”

But still, everytime you looked up at him, your eyes shimmered with a tender, melancholic longing—an unspoken plea for a love that might one day heal your wounded soul.

Did you not say you would protect me forever?

You closed your eyes, as if shielding yourself from his harsh words, while you stood helpless, your own tears slipping free—mourning the love you deserved but were denied.

After a while, he released you, frustration flickering in his eyes as your silence offered no satisfaction. With a huff, he stormed off, leaving you alone with the echo of his absence.

You lingered for a moment, then pushed yourself off the wall that had held you captive. Your steps were slow but steady as you walked away, blinking back the sting of unshed tears, determined not to let them fall.

Because you understood him, you always did.

—•

You found yourself curled by the windowsill, your knees drawn tightly to your chest as though they could shield you from the heaviness pressing against your heart.

Your gaze stretched beyond the glass, tracing the endless expanse of the meadow, its silver-tinged grasses swaying gently beneath the hush of night.

Lifting your head, your eyes, heavy with unshed tears, lingered on the sky above, where countless stars glittered like scattered diamonds across a velvet canvas.

Their distant beauty seemed almost cruel, each shimmering point a quiet mockery of your own helplessness—so close to your longing, yet forever out of reach.

The moon hung low, casting a soft, ethereal glow that bathed the world in a ghostly silver sheen.

Its pale light painted the landscape with shadows and whispers, and within that stillness, you felt a hollow ache settle deep in your chest—a longing for something you could neither name nor grasp, a yearning as endless and unreachable as the stars themselves.

Your fingers trembled as they traced the delicate fabric of the scarf draped around your body—a fragile barrier against the chill that crept beneath your skin, a cruel reminder of the warmth you craved but could never grasp.

It was his warmth you longed for, the comfort of an embrace that now seemed as distant as the stars.

You closed your eyes, your heart aching as you sent a silent plea to the moon, begging it to carry you away, to lift you from the shadows that bound you.

You longed for escape, for freedom from the coldness that had settled not just in the room, but in the space where his love had once lived.

But your hands tightened around the scarf when you felt the sharp sting of realization.

How foolish you had been to seek escape when all you truly wanted was to stay—if only it meant feeling his warmth again.

How could you dream of running when your deepest yearning was not for freedom, but for the love you still clung to, the love that once made you feel alive?

How could you have been so blind, so desperate, to believe that fleeing would ease the ache when it was his love you craved most of all?

Your gaze remained fixed on the tranquil meadow beyond the window, its quiet beauty a stark contrast to the chaos that lingered behind you.

You didn’t turn, not even when the heavy shuffle of footsteps broke the silence, nor when the sharp, bitter scent of alcohol invaded the air.

You stayed still, rooted in place, unwilling to disturb the fragile calm you’d wrapped around yourself.

He stopped just short of you, his shadow falling over you like a cloud.

You felt his eyes on you, lingering, uncertain.

He swayed slightly, an uneasy smile tugging at his lips—one that never quite reached his eyes.

He’d stumble into the room, words slurred with remorse, apologies falling from his lips like broken promises.

And every time, you wondered if they held any truth.

Did he really regret it?

Or were his apologies just another habit, as hollow as the love that used to bind you?

“There’s my pretty wife,” he murmured, his voice soft but unsteady as he stumbled forward.

His hands were warm, almost tender, as they wrapped around your upper arms, pulling you gently against his chest.

You stiffened, but he didn’t seem to notice, burying his face into the curve of your neck.

The sharp scent of whiskey clung to his breath, stinging more than the words that followed.

“I’m so sorry…” he whispered, the words broken, fragile.

“I never meant… never meant for things to end up like this.”

For a moment, your heart faltered, warmth blooming in your chest at the sound of his vulnerability.

But it was a cruel warmth, laced with pain—because your heart wasn’t just softening, it was breaking. Over and over again.

Your expression softened despite the ache, and you coaxed him gently toward the bed, guiding him with a touch that was both careful and resigned.

He sank into the mattress, his body curling toward you, seeking comfort he didn’t deserve.

As his breathing slowed, heavy with exhaustion, his voice broke through the quiet one last time, a whisper soaked in regret.

“Why can’t I stop hurting you…?”

The question lingered, thick and suffocating. You said nothing, only brushed your fingers through his hair, your silence an answer in itself.

And as his breaths deepened and sleep took him, you stared at the shadows on the ceiling, your heart echoing the words you could never speak aloud.

“I ask myself that every day, Sy.”

—•

You stood by the mirror, your fingers brushing over the fabric of your dress, smoothing it as if that could erase the doubt gnawing at you.

The softest of hopes lingered in your eyes, a silent question you didn’t dare voice.

He stood behind you, his reflection sharp and cold in the glass. His gaze slid over you, lingering too long, too critically, before his lips curled into something cruel.

“I don’t want them to know I’m married to an ugly woman like you.”

The words sliced through the air, sharp and precise, cutting deeper than any blade. Your breath hitched, but you said nothing. You only lowered your gaze, focusing on the tremble in your hands, the sting in your chest.

Silence stretched between you both, heavy and suffocating.

He turned away first, already dismissing you, already walking out the door as though you were nothing more than a shadow.

You stayed where you were, staring into the mirror, wondering if the glass reflected the truth—or just the broken pieces of what you had once believed yourself to be.

—•

You woke with a start, your breath catching in your throat as the cold emptiness of the room pressed in around you.

“I don’t want them to know I’m married to an ugly woman like you.”

The memories of that night rushed in like an unwelcome tide, blurring the edges of sleep with bitter reality.

But the harsh morning light, spilling cold and indifferent across the floor, offered no comfort.

The bed beside you was empty, cold, and the realization struck you like a blow to the gut.

You were still here, still trapped in this hollow existence, your hopes dangling by the thinnest of threads.

Later, you sat in the quiet of the garden.

The air was cool, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and wilting blossoms.

It should have been peaceful, but the silence weighed heavy, mirroring the ache in your chest.

A servant approached, his footsteps soft against the stone path.

He set down a tray with careful hands, his gaze lingering on your face, etched with sadness too deep to hide.

His smile was gentle, laced with understanding—he had seen enough to know the truth that lingered behind closed doors.

He spoke softly, his voice carrying a warmth you rarely felt anymore.

“Missus, I’ve brought your tea. Would you like me to pour it for you?”

You nodded, your lips curving into a faint smile, though it barely touched your eyes.

The servant poured the tea with steady hands, the delicate stream of amber liquid filling the porcelain cup. Steam rose in soft tendrils, curling into the morning air like a ghost of comfort, ephemeral and fleeting.

You watched in silence, your gaze distant, as though the simple ritual might offer you some measure of solace.

But the warmth of the tea would be fleeting, just like everything else you had once believed in.

The red datura bloomed in defiant splendor, their crimson petals unfurling like drops of blood against the pale green leaves.

Each flower stood as a silent testament to the pain you carried, a reflection of the suffering that rooted itself deep within your soul.

As you sat in the garden, the delicate porcelain cup warm between your fingers, you couldn’t help but remember his words—sharp and cutting, carved into your memory like stone.

“I don’t want them to know I’m married to an ugly woman like you.”

The bitterness of the tea was nothing compared to the bitterness of those words, still echoing in your mind.

Your fingers trembled as they reached out, tracing the soft outline of a datura’s petal.

The texture was smooth, delicate, a stark contrast to the raw ache in your heart.

For a fleeting moment, the flower’s beauty offered you a distraction, something to focus on besides the hollow weight of rejection.

The garden was your only refuge, the one place where silence was a comfort rather than a weapon.

Here, you could be alone with your thoughts, your pain, and the quiet longing that pulsed through you like a second heartbeat.

“I wish I was as beautiful as you,” you whispered, your voice fragile and uncertain, the words trembling on the edge of hope and despair.

It wasn’t just a wish—it was a desperate plea, a longing to be seen, to be wanted, to be loved in the way you once believed was possible.

The daturas swayed gently in the breeze, their movements soft and graceful, as though they had heard you and offered some unspoken comfort.

But their beauty only deepened the hollow ache within you, a cruel reminder of all that you were not.

The flowers were perfect, untouched by harsh words or cold gazes.

And as you looked upon them, you wondered if you would ever feel beautiful again—or if you had ever truly been so at all.

As you stared at the delicate petals of the flower, you wondered if you would ever truly find acceptance, not just from your husband, but from yourself.

The doubts and fears you carried weighed heavy on your heart, a constant reminder of your unhappiness.

Loneliness was your constant companion.

“What happened to eternity?”

You were not born beneath gilded ceilings or within the embrace of wealth.

Your hands knew the weight of labor, your feet the uneven paths of cobbled streets.

You did not have the luxury of a name that commanded respect, nor the safety of connections that shielded one from the world’s cruelties.

You had nothing but your own spirit, your own quiet resilience.

And yet, against all odds, he loved you.

Once.

In the early days, his love had been a promise whispered beneath moonlit skies, a vow pressed into your palm like something sacred.

He had looked at you as if the stars themselves had settled in your eyes, as if wealth and status were mere trifles before the force of what you shared.

You had thought he did not care for such things.

That love, your love, was enough.

When he took your hand and led you into his world, you believed it was because nothing else mattered—his family’s disdain, the weight of his image, the whispers of high society.

He had chosen you despite them all.

And in return, you had given him everything.

But time has a cruel way of unraveling the illusions we cherish.

Now, you stand upon uncertain ground, watching the distance between you grow wider with each passing day.

The love that once defied the world now wilts under the weight of expectations, of cold glances and unspoken regrets.

You search his eyes for the boy who once swore to love you, but all you find is a man sculpted by duty, hardened by obligation.

And for the first time, you wonder—was it ever truly love?

Or had you simply been a dream he once indulged, only to wake and realize it had no place in his world?

—•

“I’ll protect you from all harm,” the young boy had said, silver hair gleaming under the sun, red eyes sharp with confidence.

He had pushed a red datura behind your ear, his smirk as bold as his promise.

“I’ll marry you and take care of you for the rest of my life. You can’t escape me.”

You had only beamed up at him, your laughter light and carefree. “Okay!” you had giggled, eyes crinkling into crescents, unaware of the weight those words would one day carry.

It was true. You couldn’t escape. You didn’t want to.

You stood in the garden, fingers brushing over the dark blooms—black and red daturas that thrived beneath your gentle hands.

You misted them gently, marveling at their deceptive beauty, at how something so poisonous could flourish under your care.

A low, gruff voice broke the silence behind you. “May I join you?”

Ah, your beloved.

You gestured for him to sit while you continued tending to your flowers. Even as sunlight bathed the garden, a shadow seemed to linger—an unseen presence, like the grim reaper waiting to claim the death of what remained between you.

“Why do you love daturas so much?”

You could’ve told him about the care and patience it took, the time you’d poured into nurturing them.

But that wasn’t the whole truth.

“No reason,” you said softly.

Because he doesn’t even remember why.

—•

As the years passed, and you learned to exist in the quiet, in the absence of warmth and words.

The house now felt colder, larger, echoing with memories that no longer seemed to belong to you.

You moved through it like a shadow, your steps soft, your eyes distant. You learned to stop waiting—for his gaze, his words, his apologies.

You caught glimpses of him, glass in hand, shoulders heavy with regret he wouldn’t voice.

There were nights you heard him outside your door, a faint presence, as if he lingered there, torn between entering and walking away.

But he never knocked.

Never crossed the threshold.

And that hurt more than his anger ever had.

It was simply easier to pretend you didn’t notice.

Easier to let the silence stretch between you both like a vast, impassable sea.

You couldn’t bear to reach for him again, to extend your hand only to feel it slapped away by his indifference.

So, you built your own walls.

You found comfort in the loneliness, in the numbness that settled over you like a shroud.

If he wouldn’t come to you, if he wouldn’t speak, then you would learn to exist without him.

And yet, when you sat by the window, eyes on the dark horizon, there were moments when you thought you felt him standing there, just beyond the door.

Close, but not close enough.

That’s what was painful. Not the insults. Not the cruelty.

The distance that seemed to stretch on forever.

The distance that he did not dare cross.

—•

A giggle echoed through the empty, abandoned chapel.

A young girl stood radiant in the wedding gown her father had sacrificed his life’s savings for, its fabric a symbol of hope and dreams.

Beside her, young Sylus looked dashing in his tuxedo, his hands warm as they clasped hers.

Two souls, bound by innocent promises, painfully unaware of the cruel, unrelenting pull of the future.

Now, you sob quietly, your forehead pressed against the cool pane of glass.

Outside, the trees sway gently, whispering their silent consolation.

The moon drapes the world in silver, casting a serene glow that masks the storm within you.

In these moments of despair, you wonder how your life has unraveled into this—a marriage in name only, a gilded prison built from wealth and social standing.

A promise once made in love, now broken beneath the weight of reality.

You could have left—walked away from it all and started anew.

But you didn’t.

Some deep, stubborn part of you still clings to the hope that he could change, that beneath the hardened facade, the boy you once loved could be saved.

But the more reasonable part of your mind whispers the truth you try so hard to ignore.

People like him don’t change, no matter how badly you want them to.

No, because to you.

He’s still the boy you loved all those years ago.

You wanted to believe in love’s power to heal, to transform.

You wanted to believe that love could reach into the coldest heart and warm it again.

But the more you let yourself fall into nostalgia, the sharper the ache in your chest becomes.

“How could I have loved him?”

The thought tears through you, painful and bitter.

It’s as though you’re seeing the world for the first time since your youth—seeing it without the haze of love that had shielded you from the truth.

And with that clarity came pain, sharp and unyielding, as if the illusion you’d clung to had shattered all at once.

You surrendered.

Because he’s gone.

—•

You were in the garden again today, much like all your days.

You were knelt in front of the bed of daturas that you had so painstakingly nurtured to life.

They were your hope, your last thread tethering you to him.

You heard the familiar crunch of footsteps behind you again, only this time, they sounded angry.

You turned around to see your beloved.

But.

It all happened too fast.

Snap.

“..no..”

Crunch.

“…stop...”

Snap.

“…please...”

Crack.

Another stem bent, snapping underfoot, followed by the weightless thud of a petal hitting the ground, fading into the soft rustle of the air.

You silently fell to your knees, reaching for the broken remains.

Your hands trembled as they hovered over the crushed petals, fingertips brushing over them as if trying to piece the beauty back together.

But nothing could fix it now.

Your garden lay ruined—just as your love had long been.

You knelt among the wreckage, your fingers ghosting over the ruined flowers as if touch alone could mend what was lost.

The soil was still warm, the scent of crushed blooms lingering in the air—faintly sweet, but tinged with bitterness.

It felt like a funeral, not just for the daturas, but for every unspoken word, every quiet hope you’d buried deep within yourself.

He stood above you, silent and unmoving, his shadow falling over you like a storm cloud.

Yet he said nothing, offered no apology, no explanation.

Perhaps there was none to give.

And as you gathered the shattered petals into your trembling hands, your heart echoed with a single, hollow truth—some things, once broken, could never be made whole again.

You didn’t cry—you simply sat there, as if mourning something deeper than flowers. Something far older, far more fragile.

It wasn’t just the flowers he’d destroyed that morning.

—•

Days blurred into weeks, and the grand, empty halls of your home became suffocating.

You stopped reaching for him, stopped pleading for affection that was never returned.

Your tears had long dried, your heart hardened beneath the weight of rejection and cruelty.

You retreated into yourself, building walls of cold indifference that even his sharpest words couldn’t pierce.

It was safer this way.

You met it all with silence.

Your face an emotionless mask.

You wouldn’t offer him another fragment of your heart.

Not when he had crushed it beneath his heel so many times before.

You became a shadow, drifting through rooms that once held memories of laughter and hope.

You lingered in the garden, not for solace, but out of habit.

You sat by the fire, not for comfort, but because the silence was easier to bear than his presence.

And though it hurt—God, it hurt— you told yourself this was better.

Safer.

Because indifference was easier than hope, and distance was easier than love.

And yet, you knew he was there.

He was always there.

You felt his presence linger just beyond the doorway, heavy and hesitant.

But you didn’t turn, didn’t acknowledge him.

What was the point? Words had failed you long ago.

The glass trembled in your hand, though you weren’t sure if it was from the chill in the air or the ache in your heart.

You traced the rim of the glass with slow, deliberate motions, focusing on the sensation, on anything but the weight of his stare.

Once, you might’ve called to him.

Once, you would have reached out, hoping for warmth, for comfort, for the man you had loved in another life.

But that man was gone, buried beneath cold words and cruel actions. And the woman you had been?

You weren’t sure if there was anything of you left.

So you sat there, still and silent, letting the firelight dance across your face.

If he wanted to speak, he would.

If he wanted to leave, he would. It didn’t matter.

Because you were already alone anyway.

You heard him take a hesitant step forward.

“I never wanted it to be like this.”

You didn’t turn to face him, your gaze still fixed on the fire. “But it is.”

His jaw tightened. “It doesn’t have to be.”

A bitter laugh escaped you, soft but sharp.

“I was angry,” he said, his words rushed, desperate.

“I didn’t know what I was doing.”

“You knew. You just didn’t care.”

His hands clenched at his sides. “I care now.”

“It’s too late, leave.”

The words settled between you, heavy and final.

“Fine,” he growled, bitterness lacing his words.

“Stay in your prison, then,” he said, his voice sharp as glass.

“It’s what you seem to want.”

And with that, he walked away, the finality of his words lingered like smoke in the air.

You didn’t move. You didn’t call after him.

But as the silence settled, a single tear traced the curve of your cheek, falling into your lap—silent, unseen, and unanswered.

His footsteps echoed down the hall, each one hammering against the walls of your heart.

You didn’t move, didn’t speak.

You remained by the fire, your gaze fixed on nothing, your hands cold and still.

The finality of his words echoed in your mind, bitter and heavy.

Stay in your prison, then.

You swallowed hard, the tear slipping down your cheek burning like acid against your skin.

But you didn’t wipe it away.

You let it fall, let it soak into the fabric of your dress, a quiet mark of pain you refused to acknowledge.

Because wasn’t this your prison?

These walls, this silence, this love turned to ash?

It’s what you seem to want.

He’s wrong.

You had wanted him—his warmth, his love, his promise of forever.

You had wanted the boy who once tucked a datura flower behind your ear and vowed to protect you.

But that boy was long gone, replaced by a man who wielded his cruelty like a weapon.

And yet, even as you sat there, your heart breaking in the quiet, you could still feel the remnants of that old love clinging to you like a child.

Love that refused to die, no matter how much pain it cost you.

You let the silence fill the room, heavy and suffocating, and wondered if this was how it would end—not with screams or accusations, but with quiet indifference, with love burned down to its embers.

Still, you waited.

Even after his footsteps had faded into the depths of the house, after the walls swallowed the last echo of his retreat, you waited for him to come back.

The silence pressed in, thick and suffocating, filling the space where his presence had once been.

But he never did.

The realization struck you like a blade to the chest, sharp and merciless.

He wasn’t coming back.

Not tonight.

Not tomorrow.

Not ever—not to that room, not to you, not to the memory of the promises you had once shared.

Your breath shuddered, a ragged, broken thing that tore through the stillness.

You clenched your fists, nails biting into your palms as if pain could anchor you to something real, something that wasn’t crumbling beneath you.

And perhaps that was the cruelest wound of all.

Not his harsh words. Not the fights.

Not even the destruction of the things you had once held dear.

It was this—his absence.

His choice to walk away, to leave you there in the cold wreckage of your love.

His silence said more than any apology ever could.

He had left you.

Willingly.

And you hated him for it.

But more than that, you hated yourself for still wishing he would come back.

—•

Mindlessly, you began to paint with swift, deliberate strokes.

You drew upon the storm of anger and sorrow within you, channeling every raw emotion into the canvas.

Colors bled and swirled, each hue a reflection of your inner turmoil, a silent confession of all you could not speak.

When you finally leaned back, surprise flickered in your eyes.

There, staring back at you, was a portrait of your husband—his gaze dark, piercing, and unrelenting.

The image was shadowed yet captivating, an honest depiction of the conflicting emotions he stirred within you.

Your heart splintered beneath the weight of realization.

No matter how cruel he had become, you still loved him—the boy who had once held your hands and whispered comfort into the darkness.

It was a bittersweet truth, a love laced with quiet agony.

How could you still care for a man who brought you nothing but pain?

How could the warmth of old memories survive beneath the shadow of his cruelty?

As your emotions tangled with the strokes of your brush, you traced the outline of a delicate datura blossom along the portrait’s edge.

Its beauty was deceptive, hiding a venomous danger beneath its soft petals.

Just like him.

You were exhausted. The relentless push and pull had begun to erode you, wearing you down piece by piece.

Staring at your creation—those crimson eyes that seemed to pierce through you—as the weight of it all crashed over your body.

Your hand flew to your mouth, but it couldn’t muffle the sobs that tore free, raw and broken.

The loneliness of the room closed in, wrapping around you like a suffocating shroud.

That was the moment your descent into madness began.

—•

You didn’t look at him. You didn’t even pause.

Another painting—another part of your memories, another part of the past you shared, slipped into the fire, its edges curling as the flames devoured it with you alongside with it.

“Why?”

“Because I don’t need them anymore,” you said, your voice low, steady.

“They were only ever reminders of what I could never have.”

You didn’t need them.

You didn’t need him.

“Everything can burn for all I care.”

—•

It had been days since you had last eaten a proper meal, and your body felt as though it was devouring itself from the inside out.

Hunger gnawed at you, a relentless ache that clawed through your stomach and seeped into your bones.

Each movement was sluggish, weighed down by exhaustion, and the simple act of standing felt like a battle against your own frailty.

The meals prepared by the staff, once rich and enticing, now repulsed you. The aroma that drifted through the halls, once comforting, now turned your stomach.

Everything tasted of ash and regret, and the thought of swallowing even a morsel felt impossible.

You weren’t sure if it was defiance or despair that drove your refusal, but either way, you welcomed the sharp pangs of hunger.

It was a punishment you could control, a pain of your own choosing.

Your gaze lingered on the portrait—your hollow eyes, the pallor of your painted skin.

The woman in the frame looked brittle, fragile, like she might break with a single breath. Perhaps she would.

The datura blossom in your painted hair mocked you, its delicate beauty a cruel contrast to your suffering.

Like the flower, you were toxic—wilting beneath the weight of your own pain.

And with each passing day, as your body weakened and your ribs pressed sharper against your skin, you wondered how long it would take before you faded completely.

You watched as it burned, the flames hungrily consuming the portrait until it was nothing but a pile of smoldering ash.

A hollow ache settled deep in your chest, heavy and suffocating. The image of yourself—those tired eyes, that weary smile—crumbled beneath the heat, dissolving into smoke and shadow.

Yet, even as the portrait vanished, the bitterness it had captured lingered, thick in the air, clinging to you like a second skin.

You stared at the ashes at your feet, feeling as though they mirrored your own ruin.

All the hurt, all the broken pieces of your heart, lay scattered there—burnt and lifeless.

And yet, beneath the weight of it all, one truth pulsed relentlessly within you.

You loved him. You still did.

Despite every cruel word, every wound he carved into your soul, your heart remained bound to him.

You had wanted nothing more than to love him, to be enough, to be seen and cherished by the boy who once promised to protect you.

And that was the final straw.

Not the sharp sting of his words, nor the weight of his silence.

But the slow, aching truth that love had unraveled between your fingers.

Thread by thread, until nothing remained but emptiness where warmth once lived.

—•

It’s been weeks.

You stood there, watching him from the threshold, the dim light casting shadows across his face.

The man slouched in the armchair was no longer the Sylus you had once known.

There was no trace of the boy who had promised to protect you, nor the man you’d vowed to love.

All that remained was a hollow shell drowning in liquor and self-loathing.

His laugh echoed in the stillness, sharp and cruel, but it did nothing to stir your heart. You felt nothing.

No anger.

No pity.

Only emptiness.

This was who he had become, and maybe who he had always been.

Your eyes lingered on the glass in his hand, the tremor in his fingers, the desperation in his gaze.

You wondered if it was the alcohol that made his voice so brittle, or if it was the weight of regret.

Either way, it wasn’t your burden to bear anymore.

When he raised his glass and whispered, “To strangers, then,” you didn’t flinch.

You didn’t speak.

There was nothing left to say.

Some things didn’t deserve words.

Only silence.

And so, you turned. Your footsteps echoed down the hall, fading into the shadows.

You didn’t look back.

You didn’t need to.

The sound of glass shattering behind you was the only thing you needed—a final, broken farewell.

—•

Soon, you holed yourself in the studio, the scent of turpentine and oil paints thick in the air, wrapping you like a drunken haze.

You painted with a feverish intensity, your hands trembling, your eyes wide and unfocused.

The brush moved as though guided by something outside of your control—desperate, frantic, relentless.

And always, it was daturas.

Daturas blooming in the dark.

Daturas wilting beneath heavy skies.

Daturas twisting around faceless figures, their vines coiling like serpents.

You painted them over and over, their red and black, poisonous petals staining the canvas like blood.

You whispered to them as you worked, your words soft and broken. “You’re all I have left,” you’d murmur, your fingers tracing the curve of painted petals.

“You’re the only ones who stayed.”

You looked deranged, the way you watched them dry, your gaze lingering as though they were speaking back to you.

You no longer saw the man who had torn you apart—only the flowers. Only the symbols of beauty, of danger, of betrayal.

They were your audience, your confidants, the only ones who understood the hollow ache gnawing inside you.

Sleep and food became distant memories.

You survived on bitter sips of water and the scent of paint.

Your body grew weaker, your mind sharper—every shadow in the corner of the room another datura blooming on a canvas.

And sometimes, you swore they bloomed for you.

You swore they watched you, their pale faces turned toward you as though they, too, mourned the pieces of yourself you’d lost.

“Ah, what pretty datura.” You’d say as you admired your work.

The brush quivered in your grip, dragging across the canvas with trembling intensity. Your voice, low and sharp, sliced through the silence.

“I promise to protect you from all harm.”

Stroke. A smear of red, like blood blooming on white.

“To love and care for you.”

Drag. The bristles tore the paint, rough and unforgiving.

“I’ll marry you and make you the happiest girl in the world!”

Scrape. Hard, cruel, final.

You laughed—a jagged, broken sound that echoed off the walls, sharp with sarcasm and bitterness.

“Oh, how happy I am,” you whispered mockingly.

The datura bloomed beneath your brush, dark and venomous. A twisted parody of love, petals inked with betrayal.

Each stroke felt like a wound reopened, each flower a grave for every promise he’d shattered.

Soon, the datura multiplied. Like a plague of ghostly blooms spreading across the canvases, like a sickness you couldn’t escape.

Each stroke was feverish, each flower more twisted, more grotesque than the last—petals like blades, stems like nooses.

They weren’t just paintings; they were screams, confessions, curses etched in oil and pain.

The studio reeked of turpentine and madness, suffocating in its intensity.

The walls closed in, adorned with your torment, each canvas a tombstone for the love you’d buried with your own hands.

What was once a sanctuary had become a crypt, a shrine to the betrayal that gnawed at your bones.

And still, you painted.

As if capturing the poison would give you control over it.

As if every brushstroke could bleed the agony from your veins.

The words echoed in your mind like a chant, a twisted mantra that danced around your thoughts, taunting you with the remnants of something you had once believed in.

Your fingers gripped the brush tighter, the bristles scraping the canvas with a violence that mirrored the chaos inside you.

Your movements were robotic, each stroke deliberate yet erratic.

The red of the datura on the canvas burned like a fever in your veins, painting the room in a scarlet haze.

You couldn’t escape them.

They consumed you.

Its delicate petals now mocking you, reminding you of every promise broken.

Every hope crushed.

The words from him, once sweet and tender, were now nothing more than a cruel joke.

“Your eyes are the most beautiful I have ever seen.”

They were beautiful, yes, but they had dried from endless tears, had grown cold from the endless betrayals.

The sparkle had dulled, replaced by an emptiness you couldn’t fill, not even with the most feverish painting session.

Your laugh was hollow, a bitter sound that barely rose above a whisper.

Your eyes flicked back to the canvas, staring into the crimson abyss you had created.

The flowers stared back at you, indifferent, cold—like him.

The promise of beauty and love had been nothing but a lie.

You dropped the brush, your hands trembling, covered in paint you did not bother to wash.

You were consumed by the endless sea of datura, but you knew one thing for certain: you were never going to escape.

“I’ll always protect you.”

“What a beautiful lie.”

Insanity came knocking, and you had welcomed it.

—•

Day and night, you remain in front of the easel, lost in a whirlwind of crimson and black, colors that bleed from your heart onto the canvas.

The vibrant hues reflect the chaos within you, the echoes of a silver-haired man who once vowed to protect you, only to become the shadow that haunts your steps.

Your mind becomes consumed with painting, each stroke of your brush a desperate attempt to give shape to the emotions you can no longer voice.

The portraits of blood-red daturas that bloom across your canvases are more than mere art—they are confessions, silent screams captured in color.

Every petal, every shadow is a testament to the love and agony entwined within you.

Your art becomes your only sanctuary, the brush your sole weapon against the pain.

Each painting is a battle fought in silence, an offering of your soul laid bare, layer by layer, stroke by stroke.

And though your hands ache and your eyes burn, you paint on—because it is the only way to feel again.

You could feel his eyes on you, heavy and searching.

There was a time when his gaze had meant the world to you—a silent approval you craved, a warmth you clung to.

But that woman is gone, buried beneath years of indifference and pain.

Now, his stare feels like a shadow, something you can step out of whenever you choose.

“Came to see the show?” Sarcastic, bitter.

His eyes flickered, confused, surprised.

A part of you wants to feel satisfaction at that, but all you feel is emptiness.

He can no longer break you, because there is nothing left to break.

And yet, beneath your calm exterior, something aches.

The smallest, cruelest part of you wonders if he would fight for you, if he would peel back the layers of distance and try to reach you like he once had.

But the silence between you both only stretches, confirming what you already know.

He wouldn’t.

He never would.

Let him linger in the doorway, unsure and powerless.

You were done waiting.

—•

The studio felt like a tomb, every inch of the room suffocating with the weight of your despair.

The canvas is an unforgiving witness to the storm that has consumed you—a mixture of vivid reds and sickly hues, each stroke painted with the agony of a love that has withered to nothing.

The datura flowers bloom in grotesque profusion, their twisted forms reflecting the nightmare your life has become.

But it isn’t just the canvas that carries the weight of your pain.

You feel it in your body—your very soul burning with exhaustion.

Your hands tremble violently as you tried to reach up to your mouth.

You can taste the blood, warm and metallic, as it splatters across the canvas.

Each breath feels like it could be your last, the world around you blurring as darkness creeps in from the edges of your vision.

You felt warm hands gripping your shoulders, shaking you with desperate urgency.

You try to focus, to make sense of the blurry figure hovering above you, but your mind is fading.

Sylus..?

Your heart, heavy with confusion and sorrow, still called out to him, the name slipping past your lips as though it were a forgotten prayer.

His pale face swims into view, panic etching every line of his features, his wild, silver hair rippled softly as he shook your shoulders, those carmine eyes that you loved so much reflected panic, but you can’t find the energy to care about him anymore.

You had no more strength left.

The world around you grows distant as you fall into unconsciousness, the last thing you see—the twisted flowers you have painted and the shattered remnants of what once was.

And for a fleeting moment, you wish that you could forget it all.

It’s the last bit of warmth, a small comfort before everything slips away into the darkness.

“Ah, what pretty datura.”

.

.

[antimonyandthyme]

Halfway through the flight, after Carlos stupidly opens his mouth and tells Oscar about L'Oreal, after Oscar grins, like he doesn’t find it strange that Carlos would share such information, and instead decides it suits Carlos, very seriously tilting his head at Carlos and considering him like a cat would before its meal, Oscar makes a point to fall asleep.

Carlos does not begrudge Oscar falling asleep. He does however, find it exceedingly infuriating that Oscar would choose to leave Carlos alone with his thoughts after throwing the equivalent of a boomerang into Carlos’s face. Saying something ridiculous like, the deal couldn’t have been a better fit, all the while smiling at Carlos like he meant it. It’s not fair leaving Carlos to simmer like that, without someone he can talk at. Mark Webber’s sitting two rows down, and he hasn’t even done anything to earn Carlos’s ire, just looked between the two of them with a weary squint, before shuffling away and muttering something about kids.

Also Oscar snuffles lightly in his sleep, a fact Carlos files away as equally important as it is annoying, if only because it’s endearing.

Contrary to what his father must think, Carlos hates losing. After fifteen minutes of fidgety waiting, after he’s almost a hundred percent certain Oscar isn’t faking sleep, Carlos picks up the teaspoon leftover from snack time. He waves the teaspoon in and out of Oscar’s slack, open mouth, testing the waters. Acting so much like a child sticking a hand into a cookie jar, greedy and guilty. Mostly greedy.

Oscar sleeps on, blissfully unaware. Tufts of hair stick out from beneath his orange hoodie. The steadfastly deadpan expression he so often wears as armour has smoothed out into something wondrously soft. Carlos isn’t allowed to touch, so he leaves the teaspoon balancing on Oscar’s lower lip, an extension of his own finger. It wobbles precariously at first, but then hangs on for dear life, see-sawing up and down. As attracted to Oscar’s mouth as Carlos is.

If Mark chooses this exact moment to turn around, he’d probably see fit to file a HR complaint to the FIA for bullying. Manhandling. And several other things Carlos has zero explanation for. Carlos sneaks his phone out and takes so many photos of Oscar deepthroating a teaspoon that if his phone ever were to get stolen, HR would be the least of his worries. Some of the photos are crisp and clear. Some of them are blurry, with Oscar’s fringe in the focus instead. Carlos's hands must be shaky.

Carlos leans back into his seat and considers his collection. The slant of Oscar’s nose, and the three spots on his left cheek. As an afterthought, he remembers to remove the teaspoon from Oscar’s mouth.

“Hey,” Oscar says throatily, when they deplane. His eyes are bleary, but they sharpen when they land on Carlos. “I’m sorry for, you know. Passing out on you.”

“That’s alright.” Carlos doesn’t know what prompts him to say it. The need to get an edge in, probably, after spending ten minutes or two hours staring at Oscar’s sleeping face. “I got some good photos of you sleeping.”

However Carlos expects Oscar to react, he doesn’t anticipate this:

Oscar going pink, Oscar’s eyes going wide and panicked. His perfect mouth making a surprised O. It arouses something catastrophic in Carlos’s chest.

“What,” Oscar hisses. “What do you mean good photos?”

See, what he said about winning? Carlos likes the feeling. “I could sell them and make a fortune,” Carlos says seriously. “Retire with the earnings. Quit driving entirely.”

“Carlos,” Oscar says, clambering all over Carlos to reach for his phone in his right hand, now held as far away from Oscar as possible. “What photos do you have, come on. Show me.”

Carlos laughs, bright, delighted. In front of them, Mark finally turns around to glare, before rolling his eyes and leaving his poor charge to fend for himself. Oscar clutches at Carlos, trying to get the leverage he needs. He makes two pathetic hops into the air, still swiping for Carlos’s phone, and bumping his chin so hard into Carlos’s shoulder that Carlos suspects it’ll bruise. Good.

“Carlos,” Oscar tries again, voice suspiciously close to a whine. “That’s not fair.”

“I didn’t expect you to care,” Carlos says.

Oscar’s expression ripples, even though Carlos hadn’t meant it as a dig. “Of course I. I mean. The photos. Of course I care.” He worries his lip. “Was my mouth open?”

“Yep,” Carlos says.

“Asshole.” Oscar redoubles his efforts to steal the phone. “You. You’re terrible. Show me, show me.”

“Fine,” Carlos says. “Just this one.” He swipes through all the blackmail material, settling on a suitably flattering photo. Or as flattering as one can be with a teaspoon hanging from his mouth. Oscar makes it work. “Look, not too bad, right?”

The teaspoon is out of focus, so really, it isn’t too bad. Oscar stares at the photo, scowling. As inconvenienced as a cat doused in water. And then, three, two, one, his frown smooths out by sheer force of will, like he’s made peace with the fact this photo now exists in the world.

“At least I can be prepared,” he says. “For whenever you release this to the papers.”

“Oh you don’t have to worry,” Carlos says absently. “These are just for me.”

Oscar glances up quick. There’s that waver in his face, a crack in the geode, a hint of something shiny underneath. The one Carlos likes so much, gone in a blink of an eye. Oscar settles on elbowing Carlos in the ribs, hard. Fair play.

“Remind me never to sleep in front of you again.”

“Hah,” Carlos says. He slips the phone into his back pocket, safe. Heavier now with a hundred photos of Oscar in it.

Challenge accepted.

(he really talked about incriminating photos and expected me not to do anything about it)

[nickssidewitch]

🌪️ ❓ What Is Going On W/ The Sturniolo Triplets? - A Tarot Reading & Honest Conversation 🤔

In this post, I will be answering common questions and tackling misconceptions and assumptions of who they were/are, where their careers are going, and why they seem to be losing some part of their audience. 🥰

While this is mainly based on me channeling their energies (as long with the energies of their general fans / ex-supporters), this is also based on things I have heard them speak on before. If you don't believe in spirituality in this way, that's okay! It ain't for everyone!

I will also include advice for the fans and for the boys within this post, so you can take these into consideration!

This is such an important conversation to have. I feel like as a community, we do not talk transparently in fear of adverse reactions and judgment. We need to be open, honest, and transparent. And yes, this involves the Triplets themselves as well because they are the leaders of this community, and whatever happens within our community should also be tackled by them as well.

I REALLY want the boys and other fans on other platforms to see this. Hopefully y’all post this on other places because I feel that it is veryyyy important for growth, honesty, and transparency. ✨💖💞

“They are losing interest in their YouTube career / fame, or they do not love their jobs anymore.”

This is not true. They love their jobs. They've been dreaming of doing something similar to the YouTubers and streamers they grew up watching. They love to entertain and see smiles on people's faces when they do so. They have a natural need to connect with people through art and encapsulating almost every bit of their lives through a lens.

The reason people may feel that they've lost interest is more related to the fact that they don't post intimate aspects of their lives anymore. In the beginning of their careers, even when it was mainly Chris posting, they would post and include everything and anything in their content. They'd go anywhere and vlog anything. They'd post silly things and post unserious things. They'd even post about their relationships and interests (platonic and romantic). They look back at this period and realize that yes, it helped them gain a significant following, but it also harmed the expectations that fans have of the content they expect now. Fans who were around in pre-2023 may hold the old content near and dear in their hearts because it was every part of their lives shared 2-3 times a week, with other social media apps included. All of their friends were involved and included, even those that are the closest to them. The triplets realize that if they were to do this now with the surplus amount of fans they have currently, it would do their careers more harm than good. I will explain more of what I mean by "harm" further in this post.

They also post not just for the entertainment aspect of it, but also for the nostalgia and comfort it brings them. They grew up in a household where photographs and videos hold every single memory for them. Almost all of their lives have been captured on media, and they would like to keep that going for when they get older, and for their future children. They embrace their youth heavily. They value their inner children deeply. Their inner children feel satisfied and loved when they look back at old content and relive those times. Whether it's a silly moment or a moment where they're fighting, those moments are memories that they can look back on, relive, and reminisce. So posting on YouTube brings their inner children immense satisfaction and comfort.

"They don't interact with fans anymore. This means they do not love their fans."

Part of this is wrong. They do not interact with fans as much as they used to because, for one, there is a higher quantity of fans. It is genuinely hard and stressful to keep up with so many ideas and opinions. They are only human, and they can't handle interacting with so many people.

Secondly, they experience threats, harassment, and stalking a lot more. The new influx of fans has unfortunately made them feel a little bit more unsafe. They have had experiences that they do not share with their fans because they don't want to add onto those experiences. They've shared one that has happened on their Versus Tour where someone threatened to physically harm them (mentioned in the podcast episode but I forgot which one). I can feel that even recently, they've had to deal with someone stalking them online and in person. SO while they will want to establish a better connection with fans, it is harder to do that now because they can't trust everyone and have to protect themselves and their loved ones.

They really want to establish a community. This is a big goal of their careers. But they just don't know how to fully do that, especially with the first two things I mentioned. They want the fans to create a safe space for each other, but they see the fights that occur online and pull back a bit. And again, I said a community, not a fandom. There's a difference. A fandom will all like the same things, but they are more susceptible to full-on fights due to their obsessive or possessive nature. A community supports each other, even when they disagree on certain things, and they also make each other feel accepted and safe. The triplets would love a community, but it's difficult with some of the "fans" or "supporters" they have (quotation marks for a reason lol).

They do have a problem with not listening to the fans, and even if they do listen to them, they aren't transparent with it and sometimes don't even show it. They sometimes turn a blind eye to some ideas. Sometimes, it's because they are focused on one idea that they begin to have tunnel vision and block out everything else. But sometimes it's because they judge it before they try it. This isn't just in YouTube videos, but also Twitch streams. The triplets need to take some suggestions into consideration a lot more. Even if it means doing a trial run of a suggested game on stream and then coming to the conclusion of "This isn't for us, but hey, at least we tried", that will be good enough for the fans. Watching only one form of content from YouTubers who have promised switching things up at times can be exhausting (Yes, I am referring to watching just Fortnite streams).

"Their management is terrible."

Yes, I would agree, but managements always change. And to be honest, they've been looking for a change for a while. They love their manager deeply. They've known her for a good amount of time in their transition between amateur YouTubers to social media stars with fame and recognition, so that love will always be there. But, they also do recognize that in order to grow, they need to change things up and rearrange things. Whatever this translates to, whether its getting a new team altogether or changing who does what within their teams. they are doing their best to do better, even outside of their team.

But fans should also not just blame things on their management. The boys also manage themselves. They have to recognize and be transparent with their audience about whether they are lazy or not, whether they are losing interest in certain things or not, whether they like certain things or not, what they want their schedules to be like, if any schedule at all, or if they are themselves unclear about what they are doing or what they want to do. They do this sometimes, but not all of the time. Transparency is key for a YouTuber's relationship with their fans. Even some gaming YouTubers (who aren't even recording their real lives) are more successful in their careers than others because of their transparency with their supporters (Markiplier, CoryxKenshin, etc.).

“Matt and Nick are rude and judgmental. Chris is the only "good" brother.”

From what I can read on their energies, this is not true. Matt and Nick are as lovely as Chris is in terms of their intentions and hearts. They are warm and accepting people who do care a lot for others. But sometimes they fall into scenes where they will snap and project if they have been particularly triggered by something. Matt and Nick don't trust many. Chris trusts too much too fast.

What I'm saying is not an excuse for poor behavior though. I, and other fans, will not sugarcoat shit just for the sake of saving them. But this is a time where they have to recognize when they say things that are a little too far, not only about the fans. Even if they're telling a silly story about people they'll never meet again, it's not necessarily just about those people. It's about the rhetoric. That way of speaking can just translate to others unintentionally. It's a psychological thing where if you say/phrase something for a long time, it starts to slip in your everyday vernacular and will unintentionally be said to people you didn't mean for it to be said to, and they will take it personally.

And to add onto that, parasocial relationships can make this effect worse. These fans do not know them off camera. So when they say certain things in a certain way, of course the fans are going to take it as rude even if it is not intentional. There is a natural disconnect between them and the fans that can only be mended by fixing the way they speak to the fans, or clarifying with every sarcastic or fake-rude thing that "Hey, I'm joking" or "Don't take this seriously because ..." They do that only sometimes, not every time, and that's why fans get antsy sometimes when they speak. There are also fans who cannot pick up on tone easily (neurodiverse people exist!), so when talking directly to fans they will have to clarify themselves more or just be more direct in their speech.

They all have their shit to work on and get through. This period between 2025 and 2027/28 will be a huge shift in how their personalities and behaviors develop. To the fans, you can stay for the ride and see that journey. But if you don't want to just for the sake of preserving your energy as a fan, that is valid!

“The triplets aren't the same anymore. They have changed.”

Yes, they have. But people also change. That's how humans work. The fans and the triplets lives are on a parallel trajectory where they are constantly evolving. Think of it as two parallel lines. They are both going the same direction. But then something happens and the lines may change angle and intersect. That intersection may be an interaction with them, seeing them on tour, meeting them in person, finding a community of fans that you interact with, creating edits, and so on. But then another change happens down the line where the lines do not intersect anymore. They become parallel again, and may even diverge from each other. But they are still growing. I use this analogy to paint the picture that sometimes people disconnect when change occurs because their values, humor, outlooks on life may not align anymore. And that is totally okay. If a fan feels disconnected to them due to change, that is valid. Their lives are going in completely separate paths that the triplets' and their content aren't compatible with.

People are afraid of change. It's uncomfortable for many, especially the younger or less mature/experienced they are with changes. The triplets have grown up so much, but are in that transition stage between teenager to adult (they are 21 turning 22 this year; still young but definitely getting older and their frontal lobes are still developing and shifting with new traits and ideals). Change is expected.

Don't bash them for natural change. You can totally call them out on bullshit. But if it's Nick standing up for himself and his brothers or being more vocal about his opinions in a way that isn't rude, or if it's Matt being more loud and energetic, these things just happen. If it doesn't align with the personalities or behaviors you like or feel comfortable with, it is okay to not follow them anymore!

"The tours are cash-grabs."

No, they genuinely do want to connect with their audience live. They want to see people's faces in the crowd. Their smiles, their laughs, their snorting even, are all infectious and a great morale booster. They definitely find enjoyment in other people's enjoyment.

Of course, money is going to be earned from this. But that's just a part of the process. To be honest, they'd even do this without the money, but obviously a venue ain't gonna give them their stage for free. They're not trying to rob anyone or make people's pockets hurt. They want people to have a good time.

But they do accept criticism. If something isn't working, they'll take that as a learning experience and won't do it for the next tour. This is a community, and this will work if the community is transparent and honest with each other.

"The triplets are one-trick ponies. They promise better content and preach 'quality over quantity', but aren't showing that. They don't live up to their promises."

This adds onto my previous point of them not listening to fans because they simply just give off the energy that they are one-trick ponies based on their behaviors. I don't personally think they are one-trick ponies, but I can see how people translate them to be this way.

They don't switch up editing styles. Their editing is boring. It is unique, but it's boring unique. That ain't even subjective. This is objectively why their content doesn't seem better in quality. Where's the little cuts and funny sounds in almost every video? That keeps people engaged. We're in an era where if people are consuming long-form content, it has to be engaging almost every minute. It isn't like mid-2010s YouTube vlogging where people didn't really have to do that. We're in a TikTok era where YouTubers have to keep up with that sort of engagement and humor. The triplets don't serve that at all.

I'm not bashing Nick's editing style. Just saying that they can level up the quality of that, especially since they're talking about improving quality all the time. I'm speaking from a technical and business side of this YouTube career. They can hire an editor who they can communicate with if the editing is becoming an issue (idk if it is; I'm just spitballing).

Quality over quantity isn't being shown. Their content as of lately (not referring to the videos where they are obviously posting just to post because they are preparing for tour) is pretty mundane. They just talk and use certain props and topics as vehicles (not actual cars lmao) for conversation. That isn't entertaining all of the time and gets long-winded. Do some challenges outside! Do that little gameshow thing like how they did it in that one Christmas video where Nick was some gameshow host named Barry. Do a little gaming video every now and then (they don't have to do series). Pranks? Trying new things that aren't just food and cooking and toys? More exploring and travelling? Individual channel content? Doing things outside of your comfort zones? Even videos that are heavy-hitters where you talk about some real and deep shit. Idk. Just think of something.

"The Sturniolo Triplets are in their downfall."

There's some saying that says "in order to gain something, you have to lose something". This applies to the triplets 100%. They are losing a good amount of their audience and viewership, which you can obviously see in their statistics.

However, would I call this their "downfall"? Not quite. This is a wake-up call if anything. Losing these fans and followers allows them to get a reality check of what is working and what isn't working in the most obvious way. I'm not telling people to mass unfollow so they can get better. That's not how this works. I'm saying that when there is an obvious decline of numbers, it is surely an eye-opener.

These are the ones I can think of for now. If you have any other things you would like me to tackle in a post like this, whether it be the Sturniolos as a group or individually, leave those assumptions or questions in the replies of this post. 💕💕

I REALLY want the boys and other fans on other platforms to see this.

Again, this obviously isn't hate, nor is it me coming up with excuses for them. Just a little something-something. 🤷🏾‍♀️🫶🏾

[my-castles-crumbling]

believe - @rosekillermicrofic - word count: 348

“I don’t like him,” Barty nearly-yelled, glaring at Regulus, who remained stubbornly stone-faced. “I don’t know why you all insist that I do!”

“Because every time he’s not looking at you, you’re looking at him. Because you both have ridiculous nicknames for each other. Because you have tattoos for him all over your body. Because every time he so much as holds hands with someone, you get jealous,” Regulus rattled off, smirking.

“We’re best friends!” he hissed. “Those- those are best friend things! I have a tattoo for you, too! You don’t seem convinced that I want to secretly shag you!”

“We have shagged before, Barty,” Regulus reminded him, voice flat.

“Exactly!” he cried triumphantly. “Exactly. And I’m not in love with your stuck-up arse, so-”

“You’ve shagged me. You’ve snogged Sirius,” Regulus ticked off each person on his hand, grimacing at the mention of The Snog that Shall Not Be Named. “You’ve kissed Pandora, Dorcas, Marlene, Peter Remus, James,” he winced again. “Basically everyone we know.”

“A lot of those were dares!” Barty argued, but he was losing some of his edge.

“Still. You know the one person you’ve always refused to kiss? Evan,” Regulus said firmly, raising an eyebrow. 

“Well, that’s proof, then! Obviously, I don’t like him if I haven’t kissed him!” he insisted.

“Sure. Or maybe you don’t want to kiss him because you know then it’ll confirm feelings you’ve been repressing for ten fucking years,” Regulus countered venomously.

“I-”

But, like some sort of sign sent from a vengeful god, Evan chose that moment to walk through the door of the flat they all shared. And instantly, the air went tense, because Barty picked up on Regulus’s devious expression. Terrified, he looked back and forth between his two best friends, heart hammering in his chest.

“Reg, no-”

“Barty. I dare you to kiss Evan,” Regulus said casually, as if he didn’t usually insist that Truth or Dare was the most ridiculously childish game on the planet.

And all he could do then was look over at Evan, who stared at him, eyes wide.

[theodorenmyth]

Hi!!

Just wanted to start off by saying I love your writing and hope you're doing well! Also no pressure to write this fic!

I was wondering if you could do a fic where mattheo has a hufflepuff!sibling and no one really knows that they're related and when everyone finds out they're all like "WHAT!?!"

Secret Siblings

Pairings ; Mattheo Riddle & GN!reader (slight Cedric Diggory x GN!reader

Summary ; No one knew you were Mattheo Riddle’s sibling until he accidentally revealed it at breakfast. The entire school was shocked, with Pansy furious, Theo pointing out Mattheo’s protectiveness, and the professors struggling to restore order. Mattheo, however, found the chaos amusing while you were absolutely done with him.

A/N ; this was so funny in my head, enjoy :3

Warnings ; none

Word count ; 3.4k+

If there was one thing you prided yourself on, it was the fact that no one at Hogwarts knew you were Mattheo Riddle’s sibling.

You had spent years ensuring it stayed that way. It wasn’t that you were ashamed—well, maybe a little—but Mattheo had a reputation. The fights, the detentions, the way he and his Slytherin friends ruled the school like they were untouchable. Meanwhile, you were… well, you. A Hufflepuff through and through, more interested in helping first-years find their way around than getting into fights in the Astronomy Tower.

It wasn’t like you and Mattheo hated each other either. In fact, in private, you got along pretty well. He was protective in the way older brothers were, making sure no one messed with you while also respecting your need for space. It was an unspoken agreement—he did his thing, you did yours, and no one at Hogwarts needed to know you shared blood.

At least, that was the plan.

You remembered the first time you arrived at Hogwarts, sitting in the Great Hall as the Sorting Hat was placed on your head. You’d felt Mattheo’s eyes burning into you from the Slytherin table, silently willing you to join him. But when the hat cheerfully announced, "Hufflepuff!", the look on his face had been nothing short of hilarious.

Later that night, he had pulled you aside.

“Hufflepuff? Seriously?” he had asked, arms crossed.

You had shrugged. “What’s wrong with Hufflepuff?”

Mattheo groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s not wrong, it’s just… unexpected.”

That was the first and last time you discussed it. From then on, it was an unspoken rule: in public, you weren’t related. You didn’t acknowledge each other unless necessary, and no one questioned it because—well, who would suspect that the hotheaded, sharp-tongued Slytherin had a sibling as patient and kind as you?

Sure, there had been close calls. That one time in your second year when Mattheo had hexed a Ravenclaw who had insulted you, or the time in fourth year when you’d patched him up after he got into a fight, and Theo Nott had almost walked in on you both.

But for five years, the secret had held.

Until today.

──── ୨୧ ──────── ୨୧ ────

It started at breakfast.

You were sitting with your usual group of Hufflepuffs, laughing about something Cedric Diggory had said, when a commotion at the Slytherin table caught your attention.

Mattheo was on his feet, eyes burning with fury as he grabbed a younger Slytherin by the collar.

“You think you can just talk about my family like that?” Mattheo growled, his voice carrying across the Great Hall.

The younger student stammered, clearly regretting whatever words had left his mouth. The entire room was now watching, intrigued by the outburst.

“Mattheo,” Draco muttered, placing a hand on his friend’s arm. “Let it go.”

Mattheo’s jaw tightened, but after a moment, he shoved the kid back into his seat. The tension slowly dissipated as people turned back to their breakfasts, whispering about what had just happened.

You, however, had frozen mid-bite.

He said ‘my family.’

You had a very, very bad feeling about this.

But maybe—just maybe—people wouldn’t notice. Maybe they’d assume he was talking about his parents, or some long-lost relative, or something entirely unrelated to you. You glanced around, scanning the students at your table. No one was looking at you weirdly. No one seemed to have connected the dots.

Yet.

“Damn,” one of your housemates muttered, eyes still flickering toward the Slytherin table. “Mattheo’s really got a temper.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” another Hufflepuff snorted. “I swear, that guy wakes up angry.”

“Did you hear what that kid said to him?” a third chimed in. “It must’ve been bad for him to go off like that.”

You kept your head down, focusing on your toast. Maybe if you acted normal, no one would—

“So,” Cedric’s voice broke through your thoughts, too casual for your liking, “who do you think Mattheo meant by ‘my family’?”

Your hand twitched.

“Probably his parents,” one of the Hufflepuff girls replied. “Everyone knows his dad’s—you know.”

You risked a glance toward the Slytherin table. Mattheo was still standing, breathing heavily, eyes flickering toward you for a split second before looking away.

He knew what he’d done.

You wanted to strangle him.

Cedric hummed, resting his chin on his hand. “Yeah, maybe. Or…” His gaze slid toward you, sharp and calculating. “Could be someone else.”

You gave him your best blank stare. “Why are you looking at me?”

“I don’t know,” Cedric said, smiling like he absolutely did know. “You just look suspicious.”

“I always look suspicious.”

“That’s true,” another Hufflepuff agreed, nodding. “You’ve got a very ‘secret double life’ kind of face.”

“That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Is it, though?” Cedric grinned. “Because I think Mattheo just gave us something very interesting to think about.”

You groaned, shoving the rest of your toast into your mouth before standing up. “I’m leaving.”

“See?” Cedric laughed. “Suspicious behavior.”

You ignored him, walking as fast as you could out of the Great Hall.

──── ୨୧ ──────── ୨୧ ────

You were proven right about an hour later when you were leaving Charms and found yourself cornered by a group of curious Gryffindors.

Seamus Finnigan was the first to speak, eyes wide with disbelief. “Oi, Y/N, is it true?”

You blinked. “Is what true?”

Dean Thomas scoffed. “Oh, come on, don’t play dumb. We all heard Mattheo this morning.”

Your stomach dropped. “Uh…”

“Are you actually related to Mattheo Riddle?” Lavender Brown cut in, looking positively giddy.

You forced a nervous laugh. “You know, I suddenly remembered that I—uh—left my Potions essay in the common room. Gotta go—”

Before you could take a single step, Seamus grabbed your arm. “Oh no, you don’t! We need answers.”

Damn it.

You tried to keep a neutral expression. “Look, I don’t know where you’re getting these ridiculous ideas, but—”

“Mattheo literally said ‘my family,’” Dean interrupted. “And unless he considers some first-year a long-lost cousin, we can put two and two together.”

You swallowed hard. “I mean… family is a broad term, you know? Found family, distant family, metaphorical family—”

“Oh my Merlin,” Lavender gasped dramatically. “IT’S TRUE, ISN’T IT?”

“NO!” you said way too quickly. “I mean—no, as in, I really have to be somewhere. Right now. Urgent meeting. Important business. Secret mission. Goodbye!”

And before anyone could stop you, you spun on your heel and bolted down the corridor.

“GET BACK HERE!” Seamus yelled, but you didn’t dare slow down.

You turned a corner sharply, nearly knocking over a group of Ravenclaws.

“Hey, watch it—oh, wait, Y/N!” Anthony Goldstein called out. “You’re Mattheo Riddle’s sibling?!”

You let out a strangled noise that wasn’t quite a yes or a no and kept running.

You thought you were in the clear until you ran straight into Cedric near the entrance to the Hufflepuff common room.

“Whoa, slow down there!” Cedric steadied you, his eyebrows raised. “Where’s the fire?”

“No time—gotta go—” you huffed, trying to sidestep him.

Cedric squinted at you, then tilted his head. “Wait a second. Are the rumors true? About you and Mattheo?”

Your eyes darted around, searching for an escape. “What rumors? Who said that? I mean, what’s a rumor, really? A social construct? A—LOOK OVER THERE!”

You pointed dramatically in a random direction.

Cedric, being the nice, trusting Hufflepuff that he was, actually turned to look.

And you took off.

“Y/N!” Cedric called after you, but you were already sprinting toward the Grand Staircase.

You were nearly home free until—

“Y/N!”

Oh, for the love of—

You skidded to a stop as none other than Theodore Nott and Blaise Zabini stepped in front of you, blocking your path.

“I thought I saw you running around like a lunatic,” Theodore drawled, looking mildly amused. “Tell me, why exactly is the entire school suddenly interested in you?”

Blaise crossed his arms. “Yeah, and why did I just hear a fourth-year say that Mattheo Riddle has a secret Hufflepuff sibling?”

Your face twitched. “...I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Blaise raised an eyebrow.

Theodore smirked. “You’re a terrible liar, Y/N.”

You groaned, rubbing your temples. “I hate this school.”

“Mm,” Blaise hummed. “That doesn’t answer the question, though.”

“I—uh—have to get to class.”

Theodore deadpanned. “It’s lunchtime.”

Damn it.

“Uh—detention?” you tried.

Blaise smirked. “With who?”

“Uh… Snape?”

Theodore chuckled. “Snape’s in his office right now. I just saw him.”

“I have to go… feed my bunny?”

“You don’t have an bunny.” Blaise pointed out.

You groaned. “FORGET IT, I’M LEAVING.”

You tried to run, but Theodore casually stuck out a foot and tripped you. You stumbled forward, cursing under your breath.

“Okay, okay!” you snapped, regaining your balance. “I just don’t want to talk about it, alright?”

Theodore and Blaise exchanged glances before Theodore shrugged. “Fair enough. But you do know Mattheo’s going to get an earful from us, right?”

You just groaned and stormed away from the duo.

Mattheo was gonna get a piece of your mind.

──── ୨୧ ──────── ୨୧ ────

By lunch, it felt like the entire school was staring at you.

Whispers followed you down the corridors, louder than usual, and students weren’t even trying to be subtle about it anymore.

“There’s no way—”

“A Riddle? In Hufflepuff? HOW?”

“Are they, like, adopted?”

“Maybe they were switched at birth.”

“WAIT. Maybe they’re, like, some undercover assassin for the Dark Lord.”

You groaned, pressing your fingers against your temples. It was getting worse.

After what felt like an eternity of being gawked at like some zoo animal, you finally found Mattheo leaning against a pillar in the courtyard, looking far too smug for someone who had just single-handedly ruined your peaceful existence.

“You absolute buffoon.” You stomped toward him, jabbing a finger into his chest. “Do you know what you’ve done?”

Mattheo blinked innocently. “Me? Whatever do you mean?”

You gaped at him. “WHATEVER DO YOU MEAN?! THE WHOLE SCHOOL KNOWS, YOU MENACE. I CAN’T WALK TEN STEPS WITHOUT SOMEONE POINTING AT ME LIKE I’M A DAMN RARE CREATURE.”

He smirked. “Well, technically, you are rare. A Hufflepuff Riddle? That’s practically an anomaly.”

You threw your hands in the air dramatically. “I LIKED NOT BEING ASSOCIATED WITH YOU.”

Mattheo clutched his chest in mock heartbreak. “That wounds me, dearest sibling. Truly.”

You ignored his theatrics. “No, seriously, do you understand what you’ve done? I’ve spent years—YEARS—building a life here where I wasn’t known as Mattheo Riddle’s poor, unfortunate sibling, and you ruined it in under five seconds.”

Mattheo hummed, tilting his head. “Five seconds is quite impressive, really.”

You groaned, pacing in front of him. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes. I do.”

“Nooo,” he drawled, grinning. “You love me. I’m your amazing, handsome, overprotective, wonderful older brother, and you’re honored to be related to me.”

You inhaled sharply, pressing your fingers against your temples. “I’m going to commit a crime.”

Mattheo patted your head patronizingly. “Aw, you’re so cute when you’re mad.”

Before you could bite back a snarky response, a group of Ravenclaw students walked by, eyes narrowing in suspicion as they caught sight of you and Mattheo interacting.

“Wait a second,” one of them muttered, nudging their friend. “Are they actually—like, actually—siblings?”

The other student squinted. “There’s no way.”

A Gryffindor passing by heard this and immediately gasped. “Holy shit. They do look kind of alike. What if it’s true?”

“Shhh,” another hissed. “They’ll hear you.”

You plastered on the most forced, awkward smile in history and turned toward the suspicious group.

“Ha! Siblings? Us? What a—what a funny thought,” you said, voice unnaturally high. “Haha. Me and Mattheo Riddle? Pfft. Noooo. That’s crazy. What a—what a wild conspiracy theory. You guys should—uh—write a book about it. Haha.”

The Ravenclaws did not look convinced.

Mattheo, for his part, simply rolled his eyes at you, looking absolutely done with your existence.

“Real subtle,” he muttered under his breath.

You shot him a glare before turning back to the growing audience. “Uh—anyway! Gotta go! I left a—a cauldron burning in the potions classroom! Haha. Silly me!”

Then, grabbing Mattheo by the sleeve, you yanked him out of the courtyard before you could humiliate yourself further.

Once you were safely out of earshot, you whirled on him.

“DO YOU EVEN UNDERSTAND WHAT THIS MEANS?! NOW I HAVE TO DEAL WITH YOUR STUPID FRIENDS, AND THE GOSSIP, AND PEOPLE QUESTIONING MY ENTIRE EXISTENCE. IT’S GOING TO TAKE YEARS TO REPAIR THE DAMAGE YOU’VE DONE.”

Mattheo shrugged. “Or you could just embrace it.”

“Embrace it?” You let out a near-hysterical laugh. “EMBRACE IT?! DO I LOOK LIKE I WANT TO BE A PART OF WHATEVER THIS IS?” You waved vaguely in his direction.

“Come on, it’s not so bad,” he said, still entirely too relaxed.

You gasped dramatically. “NOT SO BAD?! WAIT TILL MUM AND DAD HEARS ABOUT THIS.”

For the first time, Mattheo’s smirk faltered.

“You wouldn’t.”

You grinned, hands on your hips. “Oh, I would. And I will. And do you know what’s going to happen? Mum’s going to lecture you for hours about how you should respect my privacy, and then Dad’s going to give you that look—you know the one—and you’re going to feel so guilty that you’ll regret ever opening your stupid mouth at breakfast today.”

Mattheo narrowed his eyes. “You fight dirty.”

You smirked. “I learned from the best.”

For a second, he studied you, weighing his options. Then, with an exaggerated sigh, he held up his hands in surrender.

“Fine, fine,” he muttered. “I’ll try to make this whole thing less of a big deal.”

You eyed him suspiciously. “Define ‘less of a big deal."

“I’ll stop actively encouraging the chaos.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “That’s not nearly enough.”

“It’s the best you’re going to get.”

You groaned. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes. I do.”

“Nooo,” he said, ruffling your hair. “You loooove me.”

You batted his hand away, grumbling as he laughed.

The damage was already done, and you had no doubt that Hogwarts would still be reeling for weeks, but if nothing else, you had successfully put the fear of mum and dad into Mattheo.

And that, at least, was a small victory.

──── ୨୧ ──────── ୨୧ ────

You should have known walking into the Great Hall with Mattheo was a mistake.

The second the two of you stepped through the doors—side by side, clearly together—the entire room went silent. Forks clattered, conversations died, and then—

“YOU’RE RELATED TO MATTHEO RIDDLE?!”

The voice echoed through the hall like someone had just announced Voldemort’s return.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” you muttered under your breath.

Suddenly, people were standing up, pointing at you like you were some newly discovered magical creature.

“No way!” a Gryffindor shouted.

“A Hufflepuff? A HUFFLEPUFF?” another voice shrieked from the Ravenclaw table.

“Wait, wait—how do we know this isn’t some elaborate prank?” Ernie Macmillan questioned, looking genuinely disturbed.

Across the room, the Gryffindor table was in utter chaos.

“Wait—hold on—WHAT?!” Ron Weasley nearly choked on his pumpkin juice, eyes bulging as he looked between you and Mattheo.

Harry Potter looked equally stunned, glasses slipping down his nose. “No—no way. You’re joking, right?”

Hermione Granger, for the first time in probably ever, was speechless. “This… this can’t be right,” she said, shaking her head as if that would make reality change. “There’s no way—”

“OH MY GOD, IT’S TRUE.” Ron grabbed Harry’s arm, gasping dramatically. “This is the biggest plot twist since we found out Scabbers was a middle-aged man.”

Pansy was the first to react from the Slytherin table, standing up so fast her goblet nearly toppled over. “MATTY, WHAT THE FUCK?” she screeched, rounding on Mattheo, who—shockingly—looked completely at ease, casually biting into an apple like this wasn’t the most shocking revelation since Dumbledore’s questionable sock obsession.

Mattheo merely raised a brow at her outburst. “What?”

Pansy gawked at him. “You—you—you’re telling me that for years, you’ve had a sibling at this school and you just forgot to mention it?”

Mattheo shrugged. “Didn’t forget. Just didn’t care to share.”

Pansy’s shriek of rage was so high-pitched that even the ghosts looked unsettled. “DIDN’T CARE TO SHARE?!”

Blaise was watching the chaos unfold with a smirk, lazily sipping his pumpkin juice. “This is hilarious.”

Draco, on the other hand, was rubbing his temples like he was getting a migraine. “Mattheo, why?”

“Why what?” Mattheo replied, unbothered. “It wasn’t a big deal.”

“Not a big deal?”

Lorenzo Berkshire repeated, eyes flickering between you and Mattheo. “You’ve been throwing punches at anyone who so much as looked at them funny, and you thought that wouldn’t raise questions?”

“I thought it was obvious,” Mattheo said.

You threw your hands up. “OBVIOUS?! OBVIOUS?! MATTY, I HAVE SPENT YEARS MAKING SURE NO ONE KNEW, AND YOU BLEW IT IN TEN SECONDS OVER BREAKFAST!”

Mattheo snorted, completely unapologetic. “I mean, it was bound to happen eventually.”

“Oh my God, I want to strangle you.”

“Sibling love,” he said smugly, tossing an arm around your shoulders.

The Great Hall exploded again.

“You two actually act like siblings—”

“How did we not see this?!”

“I feel like I’m living in an alternate universe,” muttered a Ravenclaw.

Across the room, Neville Longbottom was sitting completely frozen, still holding his fork mid-air. “I think I need to sit down.”

“You’re already sitting,” Seamus pointed out.

“Then I need to lie down.”

Dean looked at you, utterly baffled. “You mean to tell me that Hogwarts’ most violent menace has been related to the softest, most polite Hufflepuff this entire time?”

Mattheo scoffed. “Oi, don’t act like they’re innocent.” He turned to you. “Tell them about the time you hexed that fifth-year for insulting your friend.”

The entire Hufflepuff table gasped in betrayal.

“You WHAT?” Susan Bones shrieked, looking at you like you’d just confessed to murder.

You groaned. “Mattheo, shut up.”

Pansy still wasn’t over the betrayal. “I CANNOT BELIEVE YOU KEPT THIS FROM ME.”

“Why do you care so much?” Mattheo asked, unimpressed.

“BECAUSE I TELL YOU EVERYTHING, YOU ARSE.”

The professors were desperately trying to regain order, but it was not working. Even McGonagall looked exasperated, pinching the bridge of her nose like she was debating retirement.

Dumbledore, meanwhile, was chuckling into his goblet like this was the most entertaining thing he’d seen in years.

Mattheo turned to you with an amused grin. “Well, now they know.”

You stared at him, seething. “You are the worst.”

He smirked. “Love you too, little sibling.”

──── ୨୧ ──────── ୨୧ ────

By the time lunch was over, you were exhausted. The whispers, the stares, the relentless questioning—it was too much. You barely managed to escape the Great Hall before someone else could interrogate you.

Unfortunately, your luck didn’t last long.

Before you could get far, a firm arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you into a familiar warmth.

“For a Hufflepuff,” Cedric Diggory murmured next to your ear, his voice dripping with amusement, “you really had a dramatic reveal.”

You groaned. “Oh, not you too.”

Cedric grinned, resting his chin on your shoulder. “Come on, how could I not comment? The Great Hall was in shambles. I think I saw a first-year question their entire existence.”

You sighed, leaning into him slightly for comfort. “It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.”

“Oh?” Cedric raised a brow. “So you were planning to tell me at some point?”

“...No.”

He laughed, the sound vibrating against you. “Figured.” Then, in a much more mischievous tone, he added, “At least now we know why Mattheo always looked ready to hex me whenever I flirted with you.”

You stiffened.

Wait.

What?

Cedric pulled back slightly, watching as your brain short-circuited. “Oh? You didn’t know?”

You stared at him in horror. “Cedric. What the hell are you talking about?"

Cedric just smirked. “Mattheo glares a lot, but I always wondered why his hexing hand twitched whenever I got too close to you.”

Your soul left your body.

“Diggory,” you said slowly, dread pooling in your stomach. “How many times have you flirted with me in front of Mattheo?”

He hummed, pretending to think. “Dunno. Ten? Twenty? Maybe more?”

You buried your face on Cedric's shoulder. “Oh my God.”

Cedric chuckled, giving your waist one last playful squeeze before finally stepping away. “You should probably talk to him before he decides to challenge me to a duel.”

“Cedric,” you groaned, already feeling a headache coming.

But Cedric just winked and strolled off like he hadn’t just shattered your entire existence.

Meanwhile, across the courtyard, Mattheo was watching.

And judging by the way his jaw clenched when Cedric touched you, you were about to have a very long conversation with your brother.

[padmerry]

Ford’s love for & view of Stan pre-memory erasing: a lengthy analysis

A big misunderstanding going on in this fandom is the idea that Stan was the one yearning for Ford while Ford was too busy hating Stan (at worst) or at least thinking he hated Stan (at best), too focused on his research and academic accomplishments to pay his repressed/heavily denied love for Stan any mind, up until Stan’s sacrifice in Weirdmaggedon. Ambitious, self-centered Ford, who would be shocked at the preposterous idea that he still loved Stan deep down if, say, his post-Weirdmaggedon future self revealed it to him. “I thought I hated you, but I was wrong,” old Ford says to Stan, remorseful... and painfully out-of-character!

Another very popular idea is that Ford genuinely values the greater good over Stan, to the point he wouldn’t have rescued Stan if their positions were reversed. This idea is so rooted in people’s minds that when Ford’s most dedicated fans attempt to defend him, they argue that he was right to be angry about being rescued from the portal because Stan was acting irresponsibly (as if Ford wouldn’t have done the same thing). This is not about anyone in particular—it’s a tendency I’ve seen repeated again and again and again, in different ages of this fandom.

The gap between Stan needing Ford vs Ford needing Stan is so big in some people’s minds that they seem to think that poor, guilty Ford ending up with Stan all alone on a boat wasn’t the best ending for him. That was just Alex trying to make a point about “family above all” in a show about family, teaching Ford a lesson, and rewarding Stan’s unhealthy codependency...

It’s just incredible how Ford’s own love and yearning towards Stan is shoved under the rug by the fans!

I understand why, of course. Ford is arguably the most complex character in Gravity Falls. His love for Stan is shown more subtly than Stan’s love for him. You have to actually pay close attention, and often enough people aren’t invested enough in the Stan twins’ relationship to do so. Sometimes because they’re more invested in the relationship of Stan and/or Ford with other characters, and this is not throwing shade, either—on my part, I can admit I am so invested in them that I don’t care as much for other characters, and that’s natural.

My most controversial takes here are: 1) Ford has always known he loved Stan. Yes, even at his most bitter. He just didn’t think Stan was worthy of that love. 2) Ford valued his family, including Stan, over any noble ideal of greater good. 3) Ford missed Stan and yearned for his company just as much as Stan missed Ford and yearned for his company. I have dedicated this particular meta to pointing out not all moments (that would make it longer than Tolstoy’s War and Peace, just by the amount of times Ford mentions Stan in his journal) but the most telling ones re: Ford’s repressed but obvious love for Stan and their implications. I’ll break it into a few different subjects that I believe drive my point across.

Ford’s sentimentality over Stan:

A good place to start as any. Stan is in literally everything Ford does, sometimes in ways so subtle that people miss it, and in ways that Ford himself would love to deny, even if it meant lying to himself. Ford is very, very sentimental, and that is reflected in his relationship with Stan through the decades, with all the different paths he takes to cling to his past and the idea of his brother.

Let’s explore some examples, shall we? We don’t need to go far.

First of all, the Mystery Shack cottage, commissioned by Ford and built by Dan Corduroy according to Journal 3, is clearly based off a childhood toy he shared with Stan.

It doesn’t stop there, of course. Ford loves his boat motif decorations. (At least the boat on top of the shelf is very likely Ford’s choice of décor, and not Stan’s, given that it’s placed beside Ford’s shrunken heads referenced in Journal 3; we know that the boat painting belongs to one of the Stan twins and not Dipper, since it was already there in Tourist Trapped as Dipper arrives. I think it’s fair to assume, given the boat on top of the shelf, that it was also Ford’s.)

And would you look at that, his favorite place in his beloved Gravity Falls, a town full of wondrous places full of fantastical anomalies and literally a weirdness magnet, is, for some reason, a lake. A very weird lake? A very cool lake? No, a lake that reminded him of his childhood, aka Stan (as seen by the drawing of a boat and the codified message). “There is no other place in Gravity Falls I would rather be than the lake.”

But that isn’t enough for Ford. He must keep, still, pictures and videos of Stan. I won’t even focus, here, on the picture of the Pines family that Ford stares at in the beginning of his college days, despite Stan and Ford being at the very center of it and it being a visual parallel to Stan’s own picture of him and his brother. That one included Filbrick and Caryn, and the speaker had just mentioned making one’s family proud. But what about the rest?

People usually focus on the overall adorableness of, say, Ford leaning his head on Stan’s shoulders or Ford’s apologies (again, in Journal 3) to notice the implications of what Dipper says: “Ford even found an old film reel of them as kids, which he amazingly saved all these years.” Even Dipper himself is amazed. I’ve seen people assuming that Ford had these and forgot about them, or that Caryn was the one to send him these and he simply agreed to avoid a fight (there is a tendency in this fandom to think of her as a very loving and/or affectionate mother, but we have no evidence to think so). Years later, TBoB was like, “nuh-uh, that was all Ford Pines!” In TBoB, Ford not only does remember some of these itens, but he makes a conscious effort to hide them from Fiddleford, worried that his friend was getting “too close” (to what? to the inner depths of his heart and mind, where Stanley was?) “I’ve quickly re-hidden here, away from prying eyes.”

And a picture of teenage Stan (as seen below), too! You would think he would just attach himself to the idealized version of baby Stan in his head to feed his nostalgia and completely ignore teenage Stan, the traitor, the one who destroyed his science project. But no, Ford wouldn’t be Ford if he acted consistently about Stan. The funniest thing to me about the ripped yearbook page is that it implies Ford made the conscious decision to include Stan as he ripped the page off, when he could have just focused on his own picture. And then we also have his drawing of Stan, a perfectly accurate portrayal of Stan’s face as he got kicked out, implying that not only he paid an enormous amount of attention to his brother and how he looked like back then (after he closed the curtains), but that particular image was living rent free in his brain. Very vividly. With details.

Now, folks, do we have any doubt whatsoever of the power Stan had in Ford’s psyche? Seeing that this is how the bedrock of Ford’s mind looked like? The boat, the swing set? I’ve seen it suggested before that these items represent Ford’s greatest regrets—I don’t know if I fully agree with that take, seeing as the swing set is fully intact, unlike in Stan’s mind, but one thing is true: they represent what Ford deep down thinks is most important, and two of three are directly related to Stan. Even the portal, from a certain angle, is connected to Stan.

Now, another thing that I believe to be related to that, is the claim that Ford didn’t spare Stan a single tought in the many decades they went separated. But here is Ford, casually confessing that he spent the last thirty years thinking of Stan:

But back to pictures. According to Alex in the commentary of Weirdmaggedon 3: Take Back the Falls, that picture of Stan has always been in Ford’s coat pocket, through all the decades, even before Bill’s betrayal. That’s why it’s so damaged. He was dimension hopping with it. I don’t think I even need to make any comment here, hahah.

I almost imagine if McGucket found that photo in his, you know, coat while they’re working on the portal or something... [imitating Fiddleford’s creaky voice] “What’s this? What’s this here?” And Ford says, [imitating Ford’s deep, very serious voice] “OH, yes. That’s a very important moment, that’s when I, um, first decided I wanted to be an adventurer.” [...] There would be NO reference to... the real reason he’s keeping it [...]. “Oh yes, this is about, uh, science, as a horizon, as a frontier to reach towards. You know, like a boat, like a ship, like science. It’s about SCIENCE!”

Ford’s protectiveness:

Stan Pines is very much ones of Ford’s weaknesses. Ford knows this and accepts this with shocking ease. How so? Well, first of all, the nightmare he had. As he tells us about it in Journal 3, even though he attempts to make light of the situation, his hand is clearly trembling as he writes, making drops of ink splatter on the page. The climax of his nightmare, the peak, the scariest moment was when Ford realized he was not the one at risk; rather, Stan was. “I realized my hand wasn’t chasing after me at all—it was chasing after my brother, and it was going to squeeze him to death!”And then, may it be noticed, there was no hesitation whatsoever on Ford’s part about whether to save Stan or not, nor does he try to hide his protective reaction. It was immediate and instinctive. “I tried to run to help him, but my feet were frozen.” It’s very telling that the Dream Hipster, the nightmare inducing ghost, thought that Stanley Pines would be the most effective thing to make Ford shake in his boots. Not even, say, failing and being ridiculed by other scientists, considering how ambitious he was.

And you know who else has noticed this weakness? Bill Cipher, of course. After psychologically, emotionally, and physically abusing Ford in horrific manners (including but not limited to: forcing him to eat spiders, driving a nail into his hand, and making him wake up on the snowy roof of the Mystery Shack as a symbolic threat of forced suicide), Bill involves Stan, as the grand finale. “But then he crossed a line.” Why was Ford’s brother that line, after everything Ford himself went through? “No. He wouldn’t.” Ford couldn’t even believe Bill’s audacity in involving Stan, even though he very much already knew Bill was as evil as evil could get. Because Bill knew, having free access to Ford’s mind, how terribly important Stan was: the person Ford loved the most in the world, more than himself.

You could still argue, then, that Ford wasn’t very protective of homeless Stan. After all, how could he have allowed his brother to be homeless in the first place?

Simple: he didn’t know. There’s a lot of things about mullet!Stan that Ford didn’t know! From canon, namely TBoB and Journal 3, we can deduce that Ford didn’t think of him as homeless, thought he was doing well for himself, living a well traveled charlatan/adventurer’s life, perhaps even a friend/member of the mob:

As Stan was kicked out, he told Ford (and the rest of the family), “Fine! I can make it on my own! I don’t need you! I don’t need anyone! I’ll make millions and you’ll rue the day you turned your back on me!” The way I see it, Ford took that at face value. Stan didn’t seek Ford out in those ten years, either, presumably out of a mix of pride, shame and self-hatred, so Ford could only assume Stan truly didn’t need him. Despite the many, many crossed out mentions of Stan in Journal 3, I think Ford at least tried to not let his mind linger on thoughts about Stan too much, because that hurt.

In his most recent interview, by HanaHyperfixates and ThatGFFan in 2023/2024, Alex talked about Ford’s issues:

He’s aloof, and distant, and he’s too perfect. And it’s like, “oh! I think he’s also aloof and distant from himself.”

I think he is, uh, deeply deeply hiding from his real feelings about things, because at some point early on, he decided that he could run from hurt by achievement and by creation, and has dug that hole so deep that he has no relationships.

If he sees achievement and creation as distractions from his real feelings, no wonder Stan didn’t get a call (or a postcard) from him earlier.

We also have Ford’s condescending, but protective, attitude towards Stan in TBoB as he considers asking for his help. Condescending protectiveness, if you will:

Notice how Ford briefly looks at Stan when Stan rants about his life:

A very ☹️ face. He’s probably surprised and concerned about what he’s hearing.

And then Stan, unfortunately but understandably, starts insulting/accusing him of selfishness:

You can notice the ☹️ face slowly becoming 😠 as Stan started attacking.

Again, when Ford accidentally hurts Stan by branding him:

That’s not even ☹️ anymore, it’s almost 😩! Things would probably have deescalated and perhaps even been fixed if Stan, unfortunately but understandably, hadn’t punched Ford in the face as retaliation.

“Oh, but what about old Ford kicking Stan out after everything, then?”

I think a lot of people who talk about this moment operate under the assumption that Stan was, well, completely and thoroughly screwed if Ford followed with his original man. An old man, no place to go, no money...

But Stan did have money. A lot.

No, really, he had, per his own words, in the extra commentary of Land Before Swine:

I do have a son, Benjamin Abe Hamilton Washington. This pile of money I’ve collected over the years! That’s my true family. Y’know, I can sorta glue it together into the shape of a child, maybe… Eh, I dunno. I do my best, right? And I do have—I do actually—not to brag, but I have an obscene amount of money. Uh, y’know, all the years of collecting and etcetera—and also grifting!

I’m not defending Ford’s actions here. Ford is my favorite character, but I’m not a Ford defender, hahah. You could still argue that what he did was an ungrateful, jerky move, and I would agree. I’m just against painting it as a “Ford doesn’t care at all about Stan’s safety” moment. Especially because, when Ford told Stan he wanted his house back, sufficient time had already passed. Enough for Ford to change his clothes, visibly, and enough for them to have had a talk, in which Stan could have revealed this little fact about himself.

Another thing I’d like to address is that Ford doesn’t hesitate at all to save Stan when he gets into trouble and acts natural about it, which is way more that we can say for Stan (as seen by how Stan reacts when Ford is kidnapped by Probabilitor the Annoying and when Ford is turned into a golden statue by Bill):

Again, not saying that Stan wasn’t justified in not wanting to help/save Ford after Ford’s blatant ungratefulness (I’m also sure he didn’t know Bill was actually torturing Ford). Not the point.

Now, back to Bill.

What I always loved about his little victory moment in Weirdmaggedon 3: Take Back the Falls is that upon surprising his enemies with his appearance, he proceeds to turn everyone into tapestry, including even Fiddleford (whom we know Ford cares a lot about!) but forces himself to spare Stan and the kids and place them inside the cages, even though they didn’t know the equation and would have zero usefulness to him. That could only be because he thought he could use them against Ford, so Stan was obviously included (instead of turned into tapestry or outright killed) for that very purpose. From a Doylist perspective, of course they couldn’t have excluded Stan, since he was one of the main characters; for the sake of character analysis, though, this is the best explanation in-universe.

That is why, when Stan-as-Ford tells Bill, “My only condition is that you let my brother and the kids go!” Bill easily believes him. Because he thought that it would be in-character for Ford. And Bill wouldn’t be wrong, not at all. He wouldn’t, because Ford himself was the one to tell Stan, just a moment earlier: “We need to take his deal. It’s the only way he’ll agree to save you and the kids.” It’s blaffling to me how many fans seem to forget Ford’s own words, and the fact Ford was very, very much willing to damn the whole universe (with seven billion people living on Earth at the time) to save three (3) people, including Stan. That Stan himself was the one to oppose and stop him. I think that happens because people buy Ford’s facade of Cold Responsible Greater Good Guy, which couldn’t be more deceiving. At this point I’m begging you guys to look deeper!

One common misconception about Ford’s character—not only Ford, but many, many fictional characters I have had the pleasure of considering blorbos—is that people take his facade at face value and judge him based off that. You’re falling for his bullshit. You’re looking at Ford and seeing exactly the man he wants you to see, instead of the man he is.

Ford demonstrated being hypocritical many, many times through the show, the comics, his journal, and even TBoB. I would go so far as to say it’s a Known Personality Trait of his. He chews Stan’s ass for being selfish, reckless, a criminal. Then proceeds to be: selfish and completely unaware of it, ten times more reckless, and a much more dangerous kind of criminal. He reproaches Stan for risking the world for only one person, but would have done the same thing.

Now, the last point of this particular subject: Ford and the erasing of Stan’s memories, which is sometimes interpreted as Ford prioritizing the greater good, or the kids’ safety, over Stan.

Dear reader, Ford erased Stan’s memories because he had literally no other choice. This is what Ford said to him: “He’ll be able to take over the galaxy and maybe even worse, but at least he might let the kids free.” Emphasis on the might, here. Might! Perhaps! Maybe! Perchance! Ford, in this line, was referring to Bill’s immediate threat to the kids’ lives—Bill had, after all, ran after Dipper and Mabel with a terrifying threat of disassembling their molecules as their grunkles were forced to watch inside their cage, powerless to stop him. After reflecting about their whole situation, he included Stan’s safety in the deal, too, now more certain than ever about his decision to sacrifice not only himself but, in his own words, “the galaxy” (and later, “the universe,” as he was pretending to be Stan) to, again, perhaps (!!!) save his family. Ford had literally no guarantee Bill would follow through with his words. Given Bill’s track record, it was way, way more likely that he wouldn’t. Bill is a liar and a manipulator through and through, one who takes great enjoyment in people’s suffering. Ford’s suffering, specifically, above all, since TBoB painted Bill as this toxic and possessive ex obsessed with his pet scientist. What were the chances?

Even if Bill, through some miracle, did end up keeping his word, we saw Bill’s plans for Earth in his daydream fantasies: taking a bite off the planet, drawing a smiley face on its surface as millions died... What a guy, that Bill! If the Earth was wrecked beyond repair, where would Stan and the kids live? How would they survive among all the chaos and destruction of the literal apocalypse? With nightmarish creatures lurking in every corner? With what food, what water, what shelter? Answer: they likely wouldn’t. The probability of human survival would be abysmally low.

Ford, tragically, had no other choice but to sacrifice Stan’s memories. It was that or risking the possibility of having to watch his family, including Stan, die horribly painful deaths at Bill’s sadistic hands or to condemn his family, including Stan, to a slower but still certain death after the entire human race perished.

Ford being aware of his love for Stan:

I have faith that most people already knew, to some extent, that Ford never stopped loving Stan, even at his angriest. A much lower percentage of these people, I believe, know that Ford himself was very much aware of that, and not in denial at all. He never even thought he hated Stan.

First, I choose to point out how young adult Ford, still in college, with his bitterness and resentment still very fresh, admits to missing Stan. He wrote, “MISS YOU” in their Bro Code, the code he memorized and never forgot. He not only thought about Stan, which would be understandable, since all of us have intrusive thoughts, but he took the time to write it down, and in code, which would be even more difficult than just writing it in English. That requires at least some level of acceptance. You may not be able to filter your thoughts, but you are able to filter your writing.

Ford does attempt to filter his writing, I know, by crossing out a lot of lines in Journal 3, most of them about Stan. But he does not cross out all of it. He freely admits to having a nightmare about Stan, to wanting to protect Stan from the giant six-fingered hand, to having the lake as his favorite place, to missing Stan. I think that Ford, if asked about his love for Stan back then, would also freely admit to it, as well. Stan is his twin brother, so of course he loves Stan.

One thing that always caught my attention is how Ford still refers to Stan as his “family” in the Journal, even after Stan’s attempt to disown him. Stan makes it pretty clear that, from now on, his “family” is just Mabel and Dipper:

Days after this, Ford didn’t seem to have taken this to heart, as seen by what he wrote in his Journal:

It’s way more likely than not that he IS including Stan, here. He says “the rest of the Pines,” instead of just “the children” or “the kids” or “the twins,” and even singles out Dipper as someone he trusts (contrasted with Stan and Mabel, whom he doesn’t).

I wonder if that’s just Ford being stubborn or if he really thinks his relationship with Stan is in a somewhat better place than it actually is.

I mean, for instance, this is their swingset (symbol of their relationship) in Stan’s mind:

And here it is Ford’s mind:

Still ominous, but very noticeably intact.

It’s ironic—I think that Ford was aware of his own love for Stan, but not aware of how damaged their relationship was from Stan’s POV.

Ford and stubborness:

I’ve also seen people saying that, if Stan hadn’t sacrificed himself, Ford would have continued, quote unquote, “hating” him. Or that his happy ending with Stan was a byproduct of his guilt over the same sacrifice, and not out of a genuine desire to reconnect with Stan. According to Alex’s commentary on this scene in Weirdmaggedon 3: Take Back the Falls, that isn’t true, either:

This whole sort of conclusion here is—what we needed to happen in this scene was—we needed pressure to be at the point where Stan and Ford recognize their lifelong rivalry and Ford does a sincere apology to Stan. And almost more importantly, he acknowledges Stan’s intelligence. Like, he says, “you wouldn’t have fallen for Bill’s nonsense,” like, he recognizes his brother has a kind of intelligence that he doesn’t. [...] And even though it’s Stan who agrees to—“I’ll be the one! Erase my mind! It’s fine. It’s worth it.”—like, it’s a sacrifice for both, like, Ford at this point is willing to get his brother back and has to lose him again. Like, both of them were... just doing what they have to do here.

This means that Ford was already wanting to reconnect with Stan before Stan offered to sacrifice his own memories. His comment about how Stan wouldn’t have fallen for Bill’s flattery wasn’t just self-reproach or some comfort to Stan, but a conscious attempt to soften things between them.

Which also means Stan’s offer to sacrifice himself wasn’t actually necessary for Ford to forgive him (or switch the blame entirely, more like, and start blaming himself instead) but just came at the worst possible moment. It was too late for them, now.

Reconciling Ford’s love for Stan with his treatment of Stan:

Now, we arrive at the last problem, which is something I’ve seen a lot of people struggling with. How to even reconcile Ford’s love for Stan, something we see hints of again and again, with his treatment of Stan?

First, this infamous line in Journal 3, which is arguably the most vicious (towards Stan) Ford ever was in canon:

That’s probably also related to Ford’s control freak tendencies. If Ford admits to himself he is not in control, that he needs help from other people, that he is really that desperate... Well, he can’t admit that, so he rationalizes his way out of that conclusion by convincing himself he would be the one doing Stan a favor (offering him the chance to prove himself to Ford), and not the other way around. He doesn’t need Stan, he doesn’t need anyone; Stan is the one who needs him and his forgiveness. (This is the moment I get the urge to reference a manga protagonist with a very similar control freak mindset, Light Yagami from Death Note. Why am I always attracted to characters with deep cogntive dissonance issues who desperately shape their own narrative to convince themselves of their full control over it? Like a moth to a flame.)

Don’t get me wrong, I do believe Ford looked down on Stan—on people in general. There’s plenty of evidence for that in both Journal 3 and Word of God, if you count Word of God as evidence. Ford himself admits to that after Weirdmaggedon. And let’s not forget what is probably the biggest elephant in the room, the 2016 TVInsider interview (if you’re nerdy enough to read such a long meta, you’re likely nerdy enough to have seen this quote already):

In terms of Stan and his brother’s conflict, we always wanted a moment where Ford saw that he was wrong. Ford’s spent an entire life imagining himself as this lone solitary hero and imagining his brother as this bumbling leech. From a narrative point of view, for Ford to see Stan be the hero finally lets Ford see the true side of his brother that he’s been too blinded by pride to see.

Ah, yes. Ford looking down on Stan enough to think of him as a “bumbling leech.” To most people, this sounds way harsher than “selfish jerk,” the term Ford himself used in Journal 3.

Fittingly enough, that was in the same interview Alex said Ford would have deserved to lose Stan:

If Stan had lost his memory for good, that would [have] provided some interesting narrative places for him and his brother to go, but ultimately the show is about the kids. Stan and his brother are meant to be a parable [that show] what can go wrong in a family relationship, [but also] show that, with hard work and sacrifice, the riff can be repaired. If Stan’s memory had been fully erased, it wouldn’t punish him so much because he’d be gone, but it would punish Ford, Dipper and Mabel most. Even though Ford might deserve that punishment, Dipper and Mabel do not.

The interesting thing here, though, is exactly that: losing Stan would be a punishment to Ford. Why? Because it would hurt. Why? Because Ford loved him. Enough, it seems, that he would suffer more with it than Stan himself would.

I think what confuses people so much is that they conflate love with like with admiration with trust with respect. They think of it as the same thing—a confusing, amorphous mass of positive feelings towards someone.

The way I see it, though, Dipper was someone Ford loved (considering love a deeply rooted, complex emotion), liked (felt general fondness/amiability towards), and trusted (to be capable of handling all the mystery stuff). Mabel was someone he loved (she was family), liked (she was weird and creative and pure-hearted!), but didn’t trust (due to his constant projecting; before anyone attempts do deny this, I’ll remind you that Ford himself admits in Journal 3 that Dipper was the only family member whom he had come to trust). Stan was someone he didn’t like nor trust, not anymore, certainly didn’t admire and—let’s be honest—barely respected (or didn’t respect at all, depending on your point of view), but still loved with the fierce intensity of one thousand suns.

I do believe Alex is at least mindful of the difference between love and respect, as seen by his commentary on Stan’s condescending love for Mabel in Land Before Swine:

But this idea that Waddles is sort of a metaphor for what Mabel loves. And Stan loves Mabel but he doesn’t—he doesn’t really think that anything she thinks is necessarily smart or right. You know, he loves like her, ah, she’s my sweet niece, but [Stan’s voice] “she doesn’t know anything.”

In the same interview by HanaHyperfixates referenced earlier in this post, Alex revealed his view of the Stan twins’ relationship:

Those characters at sea—it was so rich. They’re really really funny, because they both have major major blind spots. I can kinda write stories about them as a duo forever, because you can always excuse them both getting hyped on a bad idea for their own reasons, and then you can always come up with a reason for them to disagree about it, and it’s always sweet to see them come together again, because they’re so full of themselves, but they are also both so damaged they desperately need each other.

As you can see, the codependency is genuinely mutual, not something imposed on poor, guilty Ford after Weirdmaggedon. One thing I find really interesting about Ford is his black & white mindset, the fact that the only way he knows how to be with Stan is a codependent way. They’re either separated and estranged or sailing completely alone on a boat for the rest of their lives. Either rivals or best friends forever. There’s no middle ground for him.

Dipper tells us in Journal 3: “Still, it’s taken about a week of intensive scrapbook therapy to get Stan fully back to himself. [...] Ford’s been working at it the hardest.” Ford was the one putting the most effort in getting Stan back. Despite all, I believe Ford is the person who loves Stan the most. Not the one who loves Stan better—that one would be Mabel, I believe, or Soos, who are non-judgemental and understanding. But Ford is the one who loves him with the most intensity, which is fascinating because for most of the show he doesn’t even know how to love Stan, as exemplified by his treatment of him. Too fierce, too selfish, too much of everything.