#but it seems too intentional to be nothing at this point

[riqomi]

MECHANISM ────ㅤ심재윤

심재윤˖ 𝑓em!r .. g. fluff. university au! ──── BOOKSHELF ( 1334 ) tw: kissing. lmk if there's more.

you sit in the far corner of the campus library, same as always—near the window, back to the wall, headphones in but nothing playing. just enough to signal don’t talk to me. your notes are color-coded, margins lined with symbols only you understand, and there’s a half-empty coffee cup sweating rings onto the wood next to your laptop.

then there’s him.

jake sim. sunshine in human form. or at least, that’s what everyone seems to think.

you’re halfway through rewriting a lecture slide into something actually useful when he shows up again—hood up, backpack slung over one shoulder, that guilty puppy look in full effect. he doesn’t say anything at first, just stands there until you finally look up.

“you need the seat again.”

he nods. “please. just for a bit.”

you sigh but nudge your bag off the chair. he drops into it with a quiet groan, like even existing is exhausting. his knees knock against yours when he gets too comfortable, but you let it slide.

this is the third time this week.

he doesn’t talk much once he settles in. just opens his laptop, cracks open a biochem textbook, and starts highlighting like his life depends on it. you’ll give him that—he works hard. actually studies. doesn’t even look up when someone walks by giggling too loudly or “accidentally” drops a pen near his feet.

until they stop pretending.

“jake,” a voice says, high and sweet and not-so-innocent. “you’ve been in here for hours. want to grab coffee?”

you see the wince before he even turns. “i’m good, thanks.”

another voice joins in. “we could help you study. it might be more fun that way.”

you don’t mean to glance up, but you do. two girls, both clearly more interested in jake than mitochondria. you wait for him to shut it down.

he doesn’t. not hard enough, anyway.

you sigh and go back to your notes, but you feel the heat of his stare after a second. then—

his knee presses into yours. intentional this time.

he leans over, voice low, just for you. “help me out?”

you don’t say anything. just raise a brow.

he swallows, then does something bold.

his arm drapes across the back of your chair. not touching, but close enough to feel the static between you. when you still don’t react, he tilts closer, lets his chin hover just over your shoulder, and in a voice that sounds far too natural, says—

“babe, do you want to go over the quiz together now or after lunch?”

you go still. not because you’re shocked—but because he sounds like he means it.

the girls blink. shift on their feet. one of them forces a laugh.

“oh. sorry—didn’t realize…”

jake doesn’t even look at them anymore. just starts pointing at something in your notebook like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen. “this part—did you highlight it ‘cause of the mechanism thing or just vibes?”

you deadpan, “mechanism.”

“right. thought so.”

the girls linger for another second. then leave.

you wait until they’re gone before twisting to look at him properly.

he grins. not sheepish. proud.

“that was shameless,” you say.

“but effective.” he shrugs, that boyish charm kicking in. “besides, you looked like you were about to snap a pen in half. i figured i’d save everyone.”

you roll your eyes and push his arm off your chair. “don’t make a habit of it.”

his smile doesn’t dim. “just until midterms.”

you go back to your notes. he scoots half an inch closer. too close. you don’t stop him.

later, when someone else tries to approach, jake doesn’t wait. he slips his hand over yours under the table like it’s nothing. like it’s normal. you freeze for half a second—but you don’t pull away.

he keeps reading, calm as ever.

and when you finally look at him, there’s no smugness. just a quiet question in his eyes, unspoken but loud: is this okay?

you don’t answer out loud. you just shift your fingers to interlace with his.

his shoulders drop like he’s been holding something up too long. his thumb brushes yours once, twice. he doesn't say anything after that. just keeps studying, your hand in his, as if this was the plan all along.

it’s late by the time you both pack up—lamplight golden and soft against the library walls, your eyes sore from too many hours staring at the screen. you slide your laptop into your bag, jake doing the same beside you, quiet for once. not tense. just… thoughtful. the kind of quiet that follows something unspoken.

you sling your strap over your shoulder. he catches your eye, soft and warm. “let me walk you back.”

you hesitate, but only for a second. “alright.”

it’s cool outside, a whisper of wind tugging at your sleeves. the sidewalk is mostly empty, save for a few stragglers murmuring their way toward the dorms. you walk side by side, his shoulder brushing yours every now and then, and for once, he doesn’t fill the silence with jokes or random facts. just walks, hands in his pockets, lips parted like he wants to say something but isn’t sure how.

you glance over, catch the way his eyes linger on you when he thinks you won’t notice.

“what?” you ask, voice low.

he shrugs, but he’s not convincing. “nothing.”

you stop walking. so does he. the moment stretches—quiet, heavy, full of all the things you’ve refused to name.

“jake.”

he steps closer. his voice is low, rough at the edges. “i meant it, you know. earlier. when i called you babe.”

your breath catches. his eyes drop to your mouth, then back up like he’s waiting for you to flinch. you don’t.

“wasn’t just to get them to back off,” he adds. “i mean, yeah—it worked. but i wouldn’t have done it if i didn’t—”

you don’t let him finish.

you reach for him, fist curling into the front of his hoodie and pulling him in until your mouths meet—hard, certain, no hesitating now. he responds instantly, hands coming up to cradle your face like he’s afraid to break the moment. like he’s been waiting for this since the second he first sat across from you with a textbook and an excuse.

it’s not gentle. it’s built from days of stolen glances and brushed knees and shared coffee cups, from the heat of his thigh against yours and the way he says your name like it’s something worth holding. his mouth is hot against yours, open and wanting, and when your hand slips under his hoodie, skimming the curve of his waist, he makes a sound low in his throat that you feel everywhere.

he backs you into the nearest wall, barely breaking the kiss, his fingers threading into your hair, mouth trailing along your jaw like he’s memorizing you one touch at a time. you let him. let him feel the way your breath stutters, the way your body leans into his like gravity’s no longer optional.

when you finally pull apart, barely, your foreheads touch. his hands are still on your waist, yours fisted in the fabric at his chest.

“i’m not good at keeping things casual,” he murmurs, breath warm against your lips.

you nod. “good.”

his eyes search yours. “so this—”

“is real,” you finish for him. “yeah.”

he exhales, like that one word just took the weight off his shoulders. and then he kisses you again, slower this time. sweeter. the kind of kiss that says this isn’t a game anymore.

when he finally walks you the rest of the way, his fingers stay laced with yours the whole time. and when you reach your door and turn to look at him, he’s already watching you with a look that says i’m all in.

neither of you says goodnight.

you just tug him down for one last kiss, and he smiles against your mouth like he already knows he’s not sleeping alone tonight.

likes, feedback and reblogs much appreciated. remember requests are open !!

[myinaru]

Childhood Best Friend Complex - Part 2

You and Heeseung have been best friends forever. Emphasis on forever. Like, learned-how-to-walk-together type of forever. But college throws a wrench into your usual routine: one night blurs a line that was never supposed to move, and suddenly, everything feels different.

Now there’s weird tension, awkward silences, and unspoken things you’re both too stubborn to say out loud. You don’t know what’s worse, pretending nothing’s changed or admitting everything has.

Because staying friends? That was always the plan. Wanting more? That was never supposed to happen.

Pairing: Lee Heeseung x Fem!Reader

Genre: College AU, Childhood Best Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Smut, Angst, Fluff

Word Count: 39.6k Total (11.8k - Part 2)

Warnings: Dry humping (hell yeah), Corny maybe idc, Lots of misunderstanding, Mentions of multiple kpop idols, Cursing, Cunnilingus, Unprotected sex (pls don't), Praising, Heeseung is a yearner, Lmk if I missed anything lol

Author's Note: First time uploading here lol. This fic was heavily inspired by the manhwa/webtoon Childhood Friend Complex. I'll be splitting it into three parts since Tumblr won't let me post it in one go. Hope y'all enjoy T-T

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

It wasn’t that anything necessarily big changed.

There was no confession. No dramatic blowout. No sudden declaration that things between you and Heeseung had shifted.

And maybe that was the worst part.

Because everything technically stayed the same. You still shared lunch sometimes. Still exchanged half-sarcastic texts about your departments. Still found him standing beside you when the vending machine wouldn’t work, muttering something dumb like, “You scare it.”

But underneath all that? The norms had started to feel... different. Like it was hanging on by habit. Like you were both still playing the roles you’d always played, but now, someone else was quietly writing herself into the scene.

You didn’t like admitting it.

You didn’t even want to think it.

Because it made you feel petty. Stupid. Insecure.

But the truth was there, in the way your eyes always seemed to drift toward them. Heeseung and Yeri. Your name and his used to be the ones always mentioned in the same breath. Now it was hers.

“Did you hear their duet’s going well?”

“They’ve got really good chemistry.”

“She totally matches his energy.”

You tried to ignore it. Tried not to care. But each time, your brain grabbed onto those words and refused to let go.

Now, the university’s interdisciplinary festival was in full prep mode. Meaning more meetings.

More chaos. More hours spent in shared spaces with students from every department, Performance Arts, Medicine, Dentistry, Science, Athletics, all of it combined together under one event.

And today was another all-department coordination session. Nothing fancy. Just a general sitdown in the multipurpose hall to go over final scheduling, check logistics, finalize performance slots, make sure no one had a complete breakdown before the actual festival.

You showed up on time. Not early. Not late. Just enough to be on time without looking like you were trying to bump into anyone.

But as soon as you walked in, your eyes flicked across the room, and there it was again.

Heeseung. Already seated in one of the middle rows. Laughing quietly with someone beside him.

You didn’t need to guess who.

Yeri was leaning slightly toward him, her elbow resting casually on the chair arm they shared. She wasn’t loud, not obnoxious. But she had that kind of confidence that made everything she did seem intentional.

She looked at him when she spoke. Touched his arm to emphasize a point. And even from a distance, you could see the way her lips curled upward when he actually responded.

He wasn’t laughing like she was. Not nearly as much. His smile looked tired, his posture a little off. But he wasn’t stopping it either. He wasn’t moving away. He wasn’t brushing her hand off or even shifting slightly to the side.

He was letting it happen.

And you hated how much that sat with you.

You didn’t even realize you’d paused at the doorway until Vicky came up beside you and tugged your sleeve.

“Come on,” she said, nudging you gently toward the far side of the room. “I saved you a seat.” You sat down beside her without a word.

And for the next thirty minutes, you tried to focus. You really did. The facilitator’s voice echoed off the walls as they ran through updates; venue maps, booth assignments, emergency protocols. Someone asked a question about audio equipment. Someone else groaned about the last-minute changes to the talent showcase lineup.

You took notes. You nodded when needed. You acted like you were present.

But you weren’t.

You kept catching yourself glancing sideways. Watching the two rows in front of you. Watching her.

Yeri laughed again, not loudly, but clearly. She leaned over to whisper something to Heeseung, her hand briefly brushing his shoulder as she leaned in.

This time, you saw it clearly.

Heeseung didn’t laugh. But he let her lean in. Let her touch linger. He didn’t look at her like she was the only person in the room, but he didn’t look uncomfortable either.

And for some reason, that was what stuck.

Not the closeness. Not the flirting.

But the fact that he didn’t flinch.

You kept your expression neutral. Quiet. Collected. You didn’t frown. Didn’t glare. You just... watched.

Then you stopped watching.

And you stared down at the paper in your lap instead.

Vicky glanced sideways, but didn’t say anything. Not right away.

It wasn’t until the meeting let out and the students started packing up that she finally bumped your knee with hers.

“You okay?”

Her voice was quiet. Soft.

You hesitated for a beat too long before nodding.

“Yeah,” you said. “Just tired.”

She didn’t believe you. You could tell. But she also didn’t press.

“Okay,” she said simply. “Tell me if you wanna skip next shift. I’ll cover.”

You smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “Thanks.”

As you both stood up to leave, someone from the volunteer team, a girl from the med department, you think, walked past with two others. They were chatting too casually, not thinking about who was near them.

“Honestly, I thought Yeri and Heeseung would’ve made a great couple anyway,” she said, laughing under her breath. “Like, come on. That chemistry? It just makes sense.” You didn’t look up.

Didn’t say anything.

But something inside you dropped. Like a part of you had just been officially replaced, and no one had bothered to tell you.

Later that night, you found yourself sitting on your bed, lights off, laptop open but forgotten beside you.

You weren’t even sure what you were looking for when you opened Instagram. Just scrolling. Mindless.

Then you saw it.

Someone from the performance team had posted a candid photo from today’s meeting. The lighting was bad. The image slightly blurry. But there, in the background, caught midconversation, Heeseung and Yeri.

He was turned slightly toward her. She was smiling. Their heads tilted together just enough to look close. Familiar. Like two people who belonged in the same frame.

You stared at it for a long time.

It wasn’t even a particularly romantic photo. Nothing dramatic. Nothing obvious.

But it still made your chest feel tight.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything.

You didn’t believe it.

Things had been off for a while, but you didn’t want to admit it.

At first, you chalked it up to the mess of the semester with the schedules tightening, responsibilities piling up, everyone scrambling toward festival season. Heeseung was busy. You were busy. That was normal. That was expected.

But over time, it stopped feeling like a phase. It felt... like something slipping.

The texts started slowing down. First it was a few hours without a reply. Then full days. You’d send something light, “Did you sleep through lunch again?” or “You alive?” and get a thumbs up emoji hours later. Sometimes not at all.

And it wasn’t just that. You used to see him every day without even trying. Now you couldn’t remember the last time you bumped into him outside of some committee gathering or prep session. It was weird. And quiet. And nothing like you were used to.

Still, you kept giving it time. You told yourself he’d come back around. That he was just busy. That things would settle.

But things didn’t settle.

You kept showing up to lunch at the same table out of habit, only to sit alone with your food going cold. Heeseung would arrive twenty minutes late, sometimes more, always out of breath, his hoodie half-zipped, hair damp like he’d just left dance practice. And when he finally sat down, he’d dive straight into updates about the festival. About Yeri. About choreography tweaks and rehearsal conflicts.

You listened. You nodded. You even asked questions, just to fill the air. But it was getting harder to ignore how your name didn’t seem to belong in the sentences anymore.

That Wednesday, you waited ten minutes longer than usual before pulling out your phone.

No text. Not even a missed call.

By the time Heeseung showed up, you had already finished half your drink.

“Sorry, sorry,” he said, sliding into the seat across from you with a huff. “Choreographer added a last-minute segment to block in.”

You looked up from your sandwich. “It’s fine.”

He gave you a crooked smile. “You sure? I feel like I’ve been flaking on you.”

“You’ve been flaking on everyone,” you replied lightly, pretending it didn’t bother you. “It’s equal opportunity neglect.”

He laughed a little at that, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess that makes it better?”

You shrugged. “Depends who you ask.”

There was a beat of quiet as he opened his own lunch box, but his eyes stayed on his phone. You caught the edge of a notification lighting up the screen. A name that was all too familiar now.

[12:37pm] Yeri (Performance Arts)

“got the water bottles u like!! want one?” You didn’t mean to look. But you did.

You took a sip of your drink and forced your voice to sound casual. “You and your partner getting close?”

He glanced up, chewing. “Huh?”

“Yeri,” you clarified, trying to sound like it was just a passing comment. “You’re practically glued together these days.”

Heeseung blinked like he hadn’t even thought about it. “We’re just working a lot. She’s on top of logistics too, so there’s been a lot of overlap.”

“Right,” you said. “Must be nice, having someone so... dedicated.”

He didn’t notice the shift in your tone. Or maybe he did and chose not to mention it.

You looked down at your half-empty plate. The air felt heavier now.

Then you tried again, stretching a smile across your face even if it didn’t feel real. “Maybe I should start calling you ‘partner’ too.”

Heeseung blinked, clearly confused. “What?”

“Nothing.” You waved it off too quickly, stood up before the silence got worse. “Anyway. I should get back. Vicky’s waiting.”

He didn’t stop you. Just looked up, lips parting like he wanted to say something, but never quite did.

You left without looking back.

Later that day, you found yourself holed up in a study room with Vicky, trying to finish a lab write-up, but your mind kept drifting.

She noticed.

“You’ve read that sentence like five times,” she said, nudging your arm.

You blinked down at your notes. “Sorry.”

Vicky leaned back, arms crossed. She wasn’t prying, she started not to, but she also didn’t beat around the bush. “Heeseung?” You stayed quiet.

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

You let out a soft, bitter laugh. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Y/n,” she said, gently now. “You’ve been pretending this doesn’t hurt for weeks.”

“I’m fine,” you said, voice too sharp. And then softer, with a break you didn’t mean to show, “I’m just tired.”

Vicky didn’t say anything for a moment. Then she reached over and closed your notebook.

“You don’t have to be okay all the time, you know.” You didn’t answer. Just stared at the table.

The next day, on your way to the library, you passed the studio again.

You didn’t mean to stop. But the door was open. And your eyes flicked toward it without thinking.

Inside, Yeri was handing Heeseung a bottle of sports drink. He smiled as he took it, looking surprised but grateful.

Then he looked down.

And you noticed the small, scrawled letters across the label.

Heeseung ♡

It was dumb. A joke, maybe. Or not.

He muttered a ‘thank you,’ voice too soft to hear.

You didn’t stay to watch the rest.

You kept walking, not fast, but just enough to leave it behind.

That night, you went up to the rooftop. You didn’t know why. Habit, maybe.

You used to go there together. Late-night study breaks, ramen cups in hand, laughter echoing into the dark sky.

Now it was just you. The air was colder than you remembered. The city lights stretched out far beyond the campus, but it didn’t feel comforting tonight. Just... distant.

You sat there, arms wrapped around your knees, staring at nothing.

And for the first time, you wondered if maybe he wasn’t just busy.

Maybe he really was slipping away.

Maybe you really were replaceable.

The hallway was quiet by the time the last of the volunteer boxes were packed away. You rubbed your temples, body aching from the back-to-back shifts; morning coordination meeting, afternoon cleanup rotation, and then the impromptu rehearsal run you weren’t even scheduled for but ended up dragged into anyway.

Heeseung was still here. That was rare lately.

You found him near the vending machines, crouched down, digging through his bag for something. The hoodie he wore was damp at the collar, his hair messy like he hadn’t had a break in hours. He looked up when you walked past, surprised.

“Oh. You’re still here?”

You shrugged. “Didn’t have a choice.”

He straightened, offering a tired half-smile. “Yeah. Today was brutal.”

There was a long pause after that. Not the easy kind you used to fall into. This one sat heavy, awkward between you.

You leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the flickering light above. “At least you’ve got someone bringing you snacks and drinks now. Makes it easier, I guess.”

Heeseung blinked. “What?”

You didn’t look at him. “Nothing. Just... must be nice.”

He stood straighter, tone shifting just enough to be noticeable. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You finally turned to face him, voice too even. “Exactly what it sounds like.”

“Y/n.”

The way he said your name, it wasn’t soft. It wasn’t teasing. It was cautious. Like he was trying not to set something off.

“You’ve got Yeri,” you said, hands tightening at your sides. “She seems really invested in helping you out.”

Heeseung frowned, genuinely confused. “She’s just helping with rehearsals.”

“And labeling your drinks?” you asked, raising a brow. “Cute touch.”

His face tightened. “Seriously? That’s what this is about?”

You scoffed, stepping away from the wall. “I didn’t realize we were doing the whole ‘defend her immediately’ routine now.”

“I’m not defending anyone,” he said, voice low but sharper now. “I just don’t get why you’re acting like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’ve committed some crime for accepting a drink.”

You shook your head. “Forget it.”

“No,” he pressed, following a step closer. “Say what you mean for once, Y/n. What’s going on with you?”

You swallowed hard, not ready to spill it, not like this, not when it already felt like he was miles away. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It clearly does,” he said. “You’ve been cold for weeks.” That stung. More than you expected.

You looked at him then, eyes meeting his. “I’ve been cold?” He hesitated.

“You’ve been distant too, Y/n. Don’t act like this is one-sided.”

You stared at him. “Of course I’ve been distant.”

The next words almost came out, almost spilled out of your mouth too fast.  

I’ve been hurting. I’ve been watching you drift and I didn’t know how to reach for you without embarrassing myself.  

But instead, you bit them back.

“Whatever,” you muttered, grabbing your tote off the floor. “You’ve got your partner now, right?” His expression changed. Like you’d slapped him without touching him.

“Don’t do that,” he said quietly.

You didn’t answer. Just slung the bag over your shoulder and turned toward the stairwell.

Behind you, he didn’t say your name again. Didn’t stop you.

And this time, the silence was unbearable.

You left first.

You pull your blanket tighter around you, burying your face into the pillow like maybe the pressure can hold everything in. You’re not crying.

No way.

But your eyes sting and you can’t tell if it’s from exhaustion or from the way your chest has been aching for hours, like someone’s wedged a stone behind your ribs and keeps pressing down.

Earlier, you hadn't meant to see anything. That part matters. You weren't snooping. You were just tired.

Just needed your charger from the volunteer room before heading home. Just needed five seconds to grab your stuff and disappear.

But when you turned the hallway corner, the faint sound of laughter stopped you in your tracks.

Not just any laughter. His.

You froze, blinking at the thin crack of light spilling from the studio across the way. The door was slightly ajar, just like that day, like someone had forgotten to pull it closed all the way, and for some reason, you found yourself standing there.

Just for a moment.

Just long enough.

Yeri was there, leaning against the mirror wall, hair tied back, cheeks flushed from rehearsal. Her eyes sparkled under the soft lighting, exhausted but still bright, still full of something lighthearted. And Heeseung stood just a step away from her, loose hoodie slung over his practice shirt, posture relaxed in a way you hadn’t seen in days. Weeks, maybe.

He looked comfortable. At ease.

And then she held something out to him. A drink, one of those canned vitamin waters he liked. The kind only a few people knew he actually preferred after practice, even if he always claimed he didn’t care.

“Found the last peach one,” Yeri said with a small grin. “Thought you’d want it before Jungwon hoards the fridge again.”

He laughed. Not loud, not showy. Just that warm, tired laugh that sounded like something slipping past his defenses.

“Thanks,” he said, taking it without hesitation. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“You looked like you were gonna collapse,” she teased, nudging his shoulder lightly. “I thought I’d have to carry you out of here.”

Heeseung let his head tilt to the side, mock dramatic. “Honestly? Might not be a bad way to go.”

She rolled her eyes, but her smile softened. “Please. You’d be the most stubborn patient.”

“Oh, definitely.” He nudged her back, and the contact lingered just a little too long before he stepped away.

They laughed again. It was soft. Familiar.

It shouldn’t have felt like a gut punch.

But it did.

Because he looked at her the way you remember him looking at you, when it was just the two of you waiting for the bus, sharing fries outside the cafeteria, stealing moments between classes where the whole world felt like it slowed down around you.

That drink? You used to buy those for him. Knew exactly which one to grab even when the shelves were chaos. You’re the reason he even liked peach to begin with. He hated it at first, said it was too artificial, until you forced him to try it during one of your late-night study sessions. You laughed when he made a face, and he kept drinking it anyway.

But now someone else was handing it to him.

And he took it like it was normal. Like it wasn’t anything.

Your hand tightened on your phone. You stepped back, heart hammering too loudly in your ears. The ache started small, sharp and shallow, but it grew fast, spreading under your skin like bruises you didn’t see coming.

You didn’t stay to hear the rest.

Didn’t want to see what else would unfold in that room where your place used to be.

You moved quietly, careful not to let the door click too loudly when you slipped into the volunteer room. Grabbed your charger. Left without saying goodbye to anyone.

Now, hours later, you lie there in the dark, teeth clenched against the thoughts clawing at your insides.

You’d kept telling yourself: He doesn’t owe you anything.

He doesn’t.

He never said he was yours.

But that didn’t stop it from hurting.

Because somewhere in your mind, maybe somewhere stupid, buried deep under all the teasing and the soft moments and the near-confessions, you thought maybe you were his.

Even just a little.

Still, the image stayed with you. The ease. The comfort. Like maybe she’d earned that closeness now.

Like maybe she’d replaced you.

You roll onto your back and exhale slowly, staring up at the ceiling.

“He doesn’t owe me anything,” you mumble, like saying it out loud will make it true.

It doesn’t.

Because underneath all the justifications and reassurances you’ve been feeding yourself, about timing, and misunderstandings, and maybe-it’s-all-in-my-heads, you know the truth. You’ve always known.

That night you told each other to forget what almost happened? It was a lie. A stupid, flimsy lie that neither of you ever really believed.

And now, all those memories you kept locked up are surfacing like waves you can’t stop.

You remember the way Heeseung crouched in front of you on the sidewalk after that terrible group date, his gently laying on your knees for balance, eyes steady as he said, “I’m not leaving you alone like this.”

You’d been tipsy, humiliated, ready to walk home barefoot if you had to. But he knelt down anyway, even when people stared, and let you rant or throw something or just breathe. And he stayed. The whole time.

You remember that night you crashed at his place after that incident. The restaurant the next morning, ordering greasy breakfast food and paying for his omelet with exact change because “he let you use his toothpaste and everything.” The grin he gave you when you teased him for adding too much syrup to your waffles still lingers in the back of your mind.

You remember the pact you recalled in the park, laughing about being single forever and getting married at thirty just for the tax benefits. But then he looked at you, really looked, and said, “Wouldn’t be the worst thing.” Like maybe it wasn’t a joke to him either.

You remember the little things, too. The way he used to wait outside the dental building with a coffee in hand, already knowing how you liked it. The walks to the bus stop, the way his shoulder would brush yours, solid and warm and always there.

And then, there was that night.

You were both too drunk, too loud, too everything. You’d ended up tangled on his carpet floor, laughing about something stupid. And then there was silence. The kind that hums between two people right before they make a mistake, or maybe, something they’ve always wanted to do. His hand on your face. His breath against your skin. His voice, barely above a whisper, saying your name like it meant something.

It hadn’t just been alcohol. Not for you. And if he’d pulled away right then, maybe it would’ve hurt less. But he didn’t.

You cover your face with both hands now, breathing slow and shaky.

You want to believe it was all just a phase. A passing crush. But it wasn’t. It never was. You whisper it to yourself like it’s a confession. “It wasn’t just a crush.” You don’t say the rest.

I love him.

The words come to the edge of your lips and then stop, like if you say them out loud, they’ll shatter whatever’s left between you.

You turn over, curling into your blanket again, arms wrapping around your pillow like it could make up for the weight in your chest.

You thought admitting it would bring some kind of clarity. Closure, maybe. But it doesn’t. It just makes everything hurt more.

You press your face into the pillow, willing yourself to sleep, even as the memories keep playing in your head like some kind of cruel reminder.

And when the silence grows too loud, you finally whisper, just to yourself, “This is way too fucking much.”

This time, you don’t try to fix it. You don’t try to make it okay.

You just let it sit there with you.

Because what else can you exactly do?

Heeseung stared at the open document on his laptop, but nothing was sinking in.

The rehearsal schedule was sitting in front of him, highlighted dates, times, deadlines, but his mind kept wandering to the empty chair across from him during last week’s prep meeting. The one you usually sat in. The one that had stayed cold and unoccupied.

You hadn’t shown up on time like you always used to.

You hadn’t texted since the last time you’d walked away from him, shoulders stiff, expression unreadable.

And maybe it shouldn’t have bothered him as much as it did. Maybe he shouldn’t have looked up every time the door opened, hoping it would be you. But he did. Every single time.

You were still around, of course. He still saw you during volunteer work, during festival stuff. But it was different now. You showed up right on time or late. You didn’t look for him. You didn’t nudge him during boring announcements or send him dumb memes when the coordinator rambled too long. You kept to yourself, sitting beside Vicky or someone else. Always someone else.

And you never texted first anymore.

Heeseung scrolled through your chat thread last night. The last message was from him. A week ago. A casual "you get home okay?" that went unanswered.

He tried not to take it personally. But that ache had been growing.

Rehearsals were colder, too. Yeri noticed.

"You good?" she asked one evening, tossing him a water bottle during break.

He caught it, barely. "Yeah. Just tired."

She gave him a look that said she didn’t believe him, but she didn’t press.

The truth was, he was tired. So fucking tired. But not in the way they thought. He was tired of pretending nothing changed when everything had. Tired of trying to act like he didn’t notice the subtle way you avoided his gaze, the way your responses had turned careful, clipped.

He missed you.

God, he missed you.

He thought about the night after the group dinner, when you stayed over and kissed him like you were scared of what it meant but still did it anyway. The warmth of your hands on his jaw, your voice soft and unsure when you said his name like it was fragile.

He never forgot it. Not for a second.

But now?

Now, it was like it never happened at all.

You didn’t look up when Heeseung walked into the room.

You’d seen him coming, caught the shadow through the frosted glass, but you kept your eyes on your notebook, pen scribbling something meaningless. Just something to do with your hands. Just something to look at that wasn’t him.

You knew he noticed. He always noticed.

But he didn’t say anything either.

Not that you expected him to. It was easier this way, right? Keeping the peace. Keeping the distance. He had Yeri now, anyway. She brought him snacks. She knew when his rehearsals ended. She stayed behind to help him go over cues even when everyone else had gone home.

She called him “partner” like it was a nickname, and he never corrected her.

So no, you didn’t have a place anymore.

And still, that didn’t stop you from glancing at him when you thought he wasn’t looking. It didn’t stop the sting when you overheard Yeri teasing him in rehearsal the other day, laughing too hard at some joke only the two of them understood.

“Bet your partner can’t survive a rehearsal without you,” she’d said, voice warm.

And he had smiled. Not a full laugh. Not the way he used to with you. But still, he smiled.

You didn’t tell anyone what that did to you. But you did leave early that day, saying something about a group project that didn’t exist.

You kept rerunning your last real conversation with him. The not-quite-fight. The half-sarcastic, half-sincere jab about Yeri and the snacks and the attention. The way he blinked at you like you were the one being unreasonable.

“Don’t act like this is one-sided,” he’d said.

It wasn’t one-sided. That was the problem. You just never told him.

“You’ve got your partner now, right?” That’s what you said instead.

And you regretted it the moment it left your mouth.

Later That Week,

“Y/n,” Vicky said one afternoon, her voice gentle, “You don’t have to pretend it doesn’t hurt.”

You didn’t respond right away. You were mid-task, helping tape decorations for one of the festival booths, trying to keep your focus on folding stupid streamers just right.

When you did speak, your voice cracked halfway through. “I’m fine.” Vicky didn’t push. She didn’t have to. The silence was enough.

Heeseung didn’t say goodbye when he left that day. He’d looked at you, he always did, but you weren’t looking at him. You were talking to someone else, your voice quieter than usual.

He lingered a second longer than he should’ve. Then turned and walked out.

That day, you took the long way home. It wasn’t planned, really. Your feet just sort of led you there, the corner outside the convenience store, near the apartment where Heeseung lived. The one you’d crashed in after a group night out, both of you tipsy, tired, laughing at things that didn’t even make sense.

You paused in front of the same sidewalk you’d stood on that night. The one where you’d clutched his coat and tried not to shiver. The one where he’d leaned in close, breath warm as he said something that made you laugh and forget how cold the night was.

You stared for a while. Didn’t move. Didn’t say anything.

Then you walked home, arms folded tighter around your chest.

And this time, you didn’t look back.

The club office was quiet, save for the soft hum of the air conditioning and the occasional creak of the old wooden floorboards. Heeseung sat alone, the glow of his laptop casting a pale light on his face. The rehearsal schedule blinked back at him, but his eyes were unfocused, staring through the screen rather than at it.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard, then dropped to his lap. He leaned back in his chair, exhaling a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the past few weeks.

The door creaked open, and Jay peeked in, a teasing smile on his face. "Still here? Burning the midnight oil?"

Heeseung offered a half-smile. "Just tying up some loose ends."

Jay stepped inside, glancing around the empty room. "Or still thinking about her?"

Heeseung paused for a moment, sighing. “I think Y/n’s avoiding me.”

Jay blinks now, leaning against the doorway. “Like avoiding you-you? Or just people in general?”

Heeseung leans against his chair. “Haven’t seen her since Tuesday. She keeps skipping prep meetings. And if she’s there, she leaves the second we’re done.”

Jay shovels a mouthful of chips. “Damn. That’s serious.” Heeseung waits for more wisdom, but none comes.

“I don’t get it,” he mutters. “We were… fine, weren’t we? I mean, I thought we were fine.”

Jay sets the bowl down. “You guys fight or something?”

“Not really. Not directly. But she’s… different.” Heeseung exhales through his nose. “Did I do something?”

Jay shrugs. “I mean…” He stretches his arms out like he’s just warming up for the bomb he’s about to drop. “Well, Yeri’s been attached to you lately.”

Heeseung frowns. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Jay stares. “Dude.”

“What?”

“If Y/n likes you, and I’m not saying she does, but like, if she does, then that would piss me off too.”

The words hit like a body blow.

Heeseung goes quiet.

Jay raises his brows. “What?”

“She doesn’t like me,” Heeseung mutters.

Jay snorts. “You sure? You guys had, like, a thing. I don’t know what kind of slow-burn drama you’ve been cooking, but even I could tell something was there.”

“Yeah, was,” Heeseung snaps. “That was before.”

Jay just shrugs again, totally unbothered. “I’m just saying. If it were me, I’d be mad too.

Watching someone I like hanging out with someone else. All the time. Smiling. Sharing snacks.” “We’re not dating,” Heeseung mumbles.

“But were you ever just friends?” Jay counters, surprisingly sharp. “I mean, did it ever feel… just friendly to you?”

Heeseung looks away.

That silence is answer enough.

Jay raised an eyebrow but didn't press further. "Alright, man. Don't stay too late."

As Jay left, Heeseung's gaze drifted to the corner of the desk, where a small, half-written note lay beside a closed drawer. He reached out, fingers brushing the paper, then pulled back. With a swift motion, he slid the note into the drawer and closed it.

He opened his messaging app, a blank draft addressed to you staring back at him. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, then he sighed and deleted the draft.

His eyes landed on his old film camera perched on the shelf. He reached out, picking it up and turning it over in his hands. A soft smile played on his lips as he whispered, "She always liked this kind of stuff..."

The camera clicked softly as he pressed the shutter, the sound echoing in the empty office.

All of a sudden, something odd happens.

It starts on a Monday.

The morning had it out for you from the start.

First, your alarm glitched and woke you up twenty minutes late. Then you opened your cabinet to the horrifying sight of an empty instant coffee box. And your oral path notes? Still buried somewhere in your room under two textbooks, one laptop charger, and a heaping pile of unresolved stress.

By the time you made it to school, you were already sweating through your uniform and running on two hours of sleep, half a granola bar, and pure academic anxiety.

You shuffled into the hallway, barely noticing the hum of fluorescent lights or the sharp sting of antiseptic in the air. The dentistry building always smelled like stress and sterilization, and this morning was no different.

You reached your locker on autopilot, expecting the usual cluster of dusty handouts and last week’s anatomy quiz shoved inside. But something made you stop.

There was something taped to the door.

Your fingers slowed before they reached the handle. A small, crinkled packet of candy, taped slightly off-center like someone had stuck it on in a hurry. Your favorite kind, too. Not the kind you could find at the nearby convenience store, but the one you used to keep in your bag during high school, the brand you hadn’t talked about in ages.

Your first instinct was suspicion. Not fear, just confusion.

You looked around. No one was near you, except a junior from the ortho track yawning into his phone a few lockers down.

There was no note. No “from,” no explanation. Just the candy.

You stared at it for a second longer than you meant to.

Part of you wanted to laugh. It felt weirdly out of place, like a random act of kindness from someone who knew exactly what to get, but not how to say why.

You peeled it off, tape clinging to the edge of your thumb. It wasn’t heavy or dramatic or anything worth overthinking. Probably someone from your class. Or a friend. Or someone pulling a subtle prank. Right?

Still, you slipped it into the pocket of your bag instead of throwing it away.

You told yourself it was no big deal. But you found your fingers brushing against the wrapper again when you were halfway to lecture.

It stayed in your pocket all day.

The next day, you were early. Not by much, but enough to catch the tail end of the building’s weird, pre-lecture silence. The kind where the hallways sound more like libraries and less like war zones. Your breath fogged up a little in the over-airconditioned room. It was always too cold in your department. Even your bones complained.

Your lab coat hung over your arm. Your bag dug into your shoulder, heavier than usual from two atlases and the water bottle you forgot to empty yesterday.

The classroom lights were already on when you stepped in.

A few of your classmates were scattered around, some seated, some still dragging stools across the tiled floor. The usual chatter filled the space: someone whining about the lab manual, someone else reciting mnemonics for nerves. The projector flickered to life in the front, bathing the whiteboard in that cold blue light.

And then you saw it.

Your desk.

Second row from the front. Right side. Your safe spot.

And sitting right there, dead center on your desk, like it belonged, was a banana milk. The kind you hadn’t bought since… forever ago. Not the generic brand, but the nostalgic one, cartoony packaging, yellow cap, slight condensation fogging up the sides.

There was a note.

Pink. Square. Curling a bit at the corners from the humidity. You recognized the handwriting immediately, though your brain scrambled to deny it.

Hope today goes easy on you. Drink this.

You froze.

Just for a second. Then your eyes scanned the room, casually, act normal, your head not even moving an inch, as if expecting someone to be staring right back at you.

No one was.

Everyone looked half-asleep. A few people waved when you looked their way, distracted. You caught the eye of your seatmate, who raised an eyebrow like long night? You shook your head.

You touched the note once, then peeled it off the bottle like you were handling evidence.

Whoever left it… either knew you very well, or had been watching too closely.

But it didn’t feel like a prank. It didn’t feel threatening. Not like the wrong kind of attention you’d learned to dodge in your first two years here.

It felt… specific.

The note stayed in your hand longer than it should’ve. You didn’t drink the banana milk right away. Just slid it to the side and opened your laptop, acting normal, though the back of your neck felt hot the whole time.

That one didn’t feel random.

That one… sat with you.

A little too well.

By Wednesday, it stops feeling like coincidence.

There was a cycle to college days, especially by the middle of the week, where exhaustion blended with routine and your brain ran mostly on autopilot. You knew when to wake up, when to walk, when to nod politely at upperclassmen you didn’t know.

So when you saw the photo, it felt like your internal programming glitched.

It was just there.

Waiting on your seat as you returned from your locker, right before prosthodontics. Most of the class had already taken their places, notebooks out, laptops humming. Your professor’s voice buzzed quietly over the mic system, giving last-minute quiz reminders. Someone at the front groaned dramatically. You were half-listening.

Until your foot bumped your chair, and you noticed it.

A square. Slightly curled edges. Off-white.

You picked it up, cautiously at first. A polaroid. The faded kind that developed with too much contrast and too little clarity.

It was a photo of a café.

That café.

The one from that rainy afternoon sophomore year, the place tucked behind the old printing press building. You hadn’t been back in what felt like forever. The sign in the photo was tilted, the glass slightly fogged. A pair of hands, yours, rested on a chipped ceramic cup. The memory was so specific it made your stomach lurch.

No note.

No initials.

Just the picture.

At first, you tried to reason it away.

Maybe someone found your old post on Close Friends. Maybe it was a weird throwback prank. Maybe- No.

It wasn’t random. Not this time.

The drinks, the candy, maybe you could dismiss. But this? A photo of something that happened years ago, between just the two of you?

No one else knew this memory.

Except Heeseung.

And maybe… Yeri?

Your heart twisted.

Yeri had been around more lately. Laughing louder when he was near. Finding excuses to rehearse longer. She wasn’t cruel, exactly, but she knew how to toe that line. Knew how to smile at you a second too long. How to tilt her head when Heeseung looked your way.

Was this her?

Is she trying to taunt me?

Your throat went dry. That weird prickling feeling crawled up the back of your neck again, the same one from lab yesterday. You looked around the room, slowly this time. No one looked suspicious. No one even seemed to notice the photo.

You slipped it into your folder. Carefully. As if hiding it would make the knot in your chest unravel.

But it stayed.

You couldn’t shake the feeling.

Not that someone was being kind, but that someone was watching.  

The noise in the hallway was enough to make your skin feel paper-thin.

Groups of students moved in packs, some fresh from their lectures, some just arriving from lunch, some laughing too loud on a casual Thursday morning. The Dentistry hallway was warm, humid from too many bodies and not enough airflow. The linoleum tiles squeaked under cheap sneakers and worn boots.

Your bag thudded on the bench as you dug for your notebook.

You’d been rushing all morning. Late for oral path. Your clinical partner had forgotten her gloves again, and you’d run out of time to print your readings. So now, all you wanted was to get through this lab with minimal human interaction and maybe five minutes of silence after.

You pulled your notebook out.

And something slid out of it.

Your breath hitched as the folded paper fluttered to the floor. It landed face-up. Neat creases. Familiar pen pressure. You picked it up slowly, heart already pounding before your eyes even scanned the words.

Maybe you’ll notice me again one day.

Your fingers clenched.

You blinked once. Twice.

Something about the handwriting tugged at your nerves, not because it was completely unfamiliar, but because it was almost familiar. Soft loops. Deliberate slant. A little too tidy to be yours. A little too warm to be your blockmate’s.

Your stomach turned.

You’d seen it before.

On the edge of a clipboard during rehearsal. On the corner of a script printout. Scribbled across a whiteboard when Yeri took over warm-ups.

That same Y.

That same Maybe.

Your breath caught again, this time sharper.

Your head snapped up, scanning the hallway instinctively. No one was looking your way. No one looked suspicious. Just your classmates, shuffling and talking and complaining about case requirements.

You looked back down at the note.

The first thought was: This is weird.

The second was: Wait… was this Heeseung?

The third hit harder: No. This looks like Yeri’s handwriting.

You stood there, frozen, the paper still between your fingers. The more you stared at it, the more your gut twisted. It felt like something Heeseung would say. Something quiet and aching and leftover from the version of him who used to wait for you outside class just to walk five extra steps beside you.

But the writing... It looked like hers.

Your throat closed up. This wasn’t just a message anymore. This felt like a performance. Someone writing lines in someone else’s voice. Playing pretend with something fragile. Something sacred.

You dropped the note.

Your hand flinched back like it burned.

A few feet away, someone called your name. A labmate, probably. You didn’t respond. You bent down, picked the note back up mechanically, folded it, shoved it back into your notebook without even thinking.

Your heart was pounding.

What if it was Yeri?

What if she was trying to taunt you?

She’d been everywhere lately. Always lingering near Heeseung. Always looking when she didn’t need to. Always acting like she knew something you didn’t. Like she owned something that used to be yours.

Maybe she was trying to twist the knife.

You tightened your grip on the notebook.

It had started as a simple doubt. But now... now it was a full sentence circling in your skull:

They're together.

She knows it.

She wants me to know it, too.

And the worst part?

You couldn’t tell if that note had come from someone who missed you, Or someone who wanted you to suffer.

You don’t tell anyone. Not even your best friend in the department, and she’s the one who catches you zoning out mid-convo and missing half the answers during study review. You just laugh it off. Say you’re tired. Say it’s the festival stress.

Because what would you even say?

“I think someone’s leaving me weirdly affectionate notes... and the handwriting looks like someone I don’t trust?”

It sounds paranoid. But it feels worse.

On Friday, you showed up to rehearsal with your guard up.

Even as you entered the campus theatre building, its echoey halls and scratched laminate floors, you felt it. That knot in your chest. That hum beneath your skin. Like your body was prepping for something it hadn’t been told yet.

And there she was.

Yeri.

Perfect posture. Her hair clipped neatly to one side. A Starbucks drink in her hand, matcha, probably, and a laugh caught on her lips as a freshman from your batch said something stupid and charming.

She didn’t see you at first. Or maybe she did and didn’t care to show it.

You didn’t say anything either. You moved toward your corner of the practice room, unrolled your mat, checked your laces. Did all the normal things people do when they’re pretending not to watch someone else.

But she kept hovering.

During warmups, she drifted near your stretch line. During the blocking run, she ended up beside Heeseung again, like it was just a coincidence. Like she hadn’t spent the whole week orbiting him.

And then came the break.

You were tying your shoelaces when you felt it.

A glance.

You looked up.

Yeri.

Just a flicker. A second. Her gaze slid off you like water, back toward her phone.

But then it happened again.

And again.

Not obvious. Not lingering. Just enough to make your chest tighten like it was warning you of thunder.

You stood. Back against the wall. Bottle in your hand. And then she walked past you. Water bottle in one hand. That same unreadable smile.

She slowed. "You look tired lately," she said lightly. “Are you okay?”

You blinked. The question wasn’t harsh. Wasn’t mocking. But it felt… wrong. Off-key. Like a compliment with the teeth filed down.

Your mouth moved before your brain caught up. “I’m fine.” Too fast. Too defensive. It slipped out like a shield.

But she didn’t react. Just nodded like she expected that answer. Like she already knew what you’d say. And then she walked into the studio, quiet and graceful like nothing had happened.

You stood there too long, holding your water bottle like it might help you stay grounded.

Was that concern?

Or was it mockery in disguise?

You thought about the handwriting again. The photo. The note. The timing.

Heeseung.

Yeri.

Together, maybe. And laughing behind your back. Pretending it wasn’t weird. Pretending you weren’t still flinching from a memory they’d made sacred and left behind.

Was it a coincidence she was suddenly always there?

Was it your imagination?

Or was she really trying to tell you, without saying it out loud, that she had him now?

That she’d taken something you didn’t even realize was still yours?

By Weekend, it stopped being cute.

It wasn’t a game anymore. Wasn’t flattery. Wasn’t mystery. It was something else now. Scarier. Personal.

You found the note on Saturday, wedged beneath your water bottle during the afternoon rehearsal block. You hadn’t even stepped out that long, just enough time to stretch your legs and grab a snack from the vending machine. The hallway had been nearly empty.

But when you came back, there it was.

The paper was thick. Folded precisely. Just one line, handwritten in blue ink.

“If I hated you, I wouldn’t know your favorite ice cream or where you hide when you’re overwhelmed.”

You stared at it for a full minute before picking it up.

Your hands started to shake before your brain even finished registering the words.

That quote, that quote, was from the show you and Heeseung used to watch in middle school. Not a popular show. Not the kind you’d quote online or reference to new friends. Something small. Silly. Yours.

You hadn’t mentioned it in years.

No one knew about it.

Except Heeseung.

Except… maybe someone else heard.

Maybe someone overheard. Or maybe he told someone.

And the only person who had been consistently, strategically close lately… was Yeri.

You thought back to the last few days. Her glances. Her perfect timing. Her voice that never sounded quite as soft as it pretended to be.

“You look tired lately. Are you okay?”

That nod, like she expected you to say you were fine.

And now this?

Was this still a note?

Or was it a warning?

You folded the paper so tightly it creased like a blade. Tucked it into the bottom of your bag like it might burn if anyone saw it.

You started locking your backpack zippers.

You kept your locker closed, even between classes.

You stopped hanging around after rehearsal. You left first. Arrived late. Walked the long way around the Music building even if it made you sweat through your shirt.

Your earbuds stayed in, even when your playlist had long since stopped.

Because it wasn’t just about the note anymore. It was about the way you felt seen.

Not admired. Not even observed.

Seen like you were something to be watched. And that feeling… that was new.

You avoided Heeseung. Entirely.

You didn’t know what to think. Whether he was part of it, or just too close to the one who was. Whether he gave her that memory. Whether he was laughing with her about you, the way old friends sometimes do when they feel sorry for someone they used to care about.

He waved at you once on Sunday during the last cleanup before the festival officially starts. You didn’t wave back.

Didn’t even look at him. Just reached for your bag, turned, and walked away. The music was still playing, the room full of chatter, but your ears were ringing.

It hurt. God, it hurt.

Because maybe the worst part wasn’t the fear.

It was that the person who used to know you best had no idea what you were going through. Or worse…

What if he did?

You don’t wake up rested.

Even though you got a full seven hours, your body feels like it never stopped moving. Your limbs ache, not from physical work, but from tension. Like your muscles have been clenched for days and you forgot how to let them go.

You stare at the ceiling for a while before you get up. Today’s the first day of the Interdisciplinary Festival. Booths. Selling. Mingling. Crowds. Too much noise and not enough distance.

You already feel too drained, and the day hasn’t even started.

As you get ready, your mind keeps circling back to the gifts, the notes. The way they just kept appearing like pieces you were never meant to read. You haven’t found a new one since the weekend, but the silence doesn’t help. It only makes the air heavier.

What if it was her?

What if it wasn’t?

What if he knows?

You shove the thoughts aside with your toothbrush, with your hoodie, with the bag of booth materials slung over your shoulder. You’re here to work. You’re here to help. You're here to get through the damn day.

The festival grounds are already packed by the time you arrive. Colorful tarps, handmade signs, extension cords running like veins under the booths. Laughter, chaos, music thumping from cheap speakers. The scent of grilled street food already clings to the air.

You check in at your department’s booth, dentistry is doing a cute, mildly educational thing with mini tooth kits and enamel pins. There’s a raffle, too. You’re in charge of tracking sales and organizing the freebies.

Which is perfect. It gives your hands something to do.

It helps you focus.

Mostly.

"Hey, can you pass the price tags?" someone calls out.

You nod, grabbing the pack and sliding it across the table without looking. Your eyes drift again, without your permission, really, across the field of tents and student bodies. Searching.

You spot him halfway across the lot.

Heeseung.

He’s wearing a simple long-sleeved shirt rolled to the elbows and a lanyard with his department tag. He’s crouched by the performance art booth, helping adjust a foldable whiteboard that keeps sliding down.

Even from here, he looks… different. Focused. Calm on the outside, but you can tell he’s tired. There’s something about the way he moves, like his mind’s somewhere else. You know that version of him. You’ve seen it more times than you care to count.

Then he straightens, and as if sensing it, his head turns in your direction.

His eyes meet yours.

You don’t mean to freeze, but you do.

He smiles.

Hesitant. Small. Like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to.

You look away before you can decide what it meant. Before he can read your face. Before you can start wanting again.

You bend over to reorganize the freebies.

He doesn’t approach.

You don’t either.

Yeri shows up around mid-morning.

Of course she does. She's part of the performance committee, and her name is basically embedded into every schedule and announcement slide. She’s not wearing anything flashy, just a cropped cardigan over a simple top, jeans, but she still stands out. She always does.

She greets a few people near your booth, dropping smiles and soft waves like it costs nothing. People gravitate toward her naturally. She laughs easily, her voice lilting in a way that makes conversations sound lighter than they probably are.

And then she moves toward their booth.

You try not to look.

You really try.

But there’s a lull in booth activity, and your hands are still, and there’s nothing left to organize.

So you glance up. Just once.

Yeri’s standing next to Heeseung, her hand brushing his arm as she says something. He laughs softly, barely. He doesn’t pull away. Again.

Stil, he doesn’t lean in either.

You’re too far to hear the words, but you see the way she tilts her head. The way her eyes linger. The way he shifts his weight slightly like he wants to be somewhere else, but doesn’t know how to excuse himself.

Your stomach twists. Like it always does.

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. You’re not together. You haven’t even spoken properly in days. You’ve been the one avoiding him. This, whatever this ache is, shouldn't even exist.

And yet, your throat tightens.

Your hands curl around the edge of the table.

Around noon, one of your booth mates offers to run and grab snacks. You nod along and stay behind, glad for the excuse to avoid walking through the crowd. The last thing you want is to cross paths with either of them.

Your phone buzzes on the table.

It’s a message from your best friend in the department.

[10:34am] Vickypedia

“he’s been glancing over here all morning, btw.” You don’t reply.

You don’t know how to.

Because you’ve felt it too, in flickers. But you don’t know what to do with it. You don’t know if it’s guilt or affection or just residual habits.

You tell yourself again that it’s fine.

You’re okay.

That this unease in your chest is just the festival stress. That the weird notes were probably someone trying to be sweet in a way that landed… wrong. That maybe it really isn’t Yeri. Or maybe it is. Or maybe…?

You’re spiraling again.

By the afternoon, the sun gets warmer, and the energy of the crowd swells. You’re elbow-deep in raffle tickets, half-listening to the excited chatter around you, but your heart hasn’t caught up to the moment.

You feel disjointed.

Every time someone passes behind you, your shoulders tighten. Every time someone leans close to speak, you flinch a little too easily. The world feels a bit too close, like you're moving through static.

And every now and then, from the corner of your eye, you catch sight of her.

Yeri.

Sometimes alone. Sometimes not.

Always smiling.

Always composed.

Always a little too aware of where you are.

You catch her looking once, in the late afternoon. Not long. Not obviously. Just long enough.

And this time, she doesn't smile.

She just nods once, like an acknowledgment.

And then turns back to whoever she’s talking to.

You barely register the end of the day when it comes. Someone claps near your ear to get your attention, laughing when you jump.

"Sorry," they say. "You just looked really zoned out."

You smile thinly. “Yeah. Long day.”

You help pack up your booth’s supplies into a box. Your hands are sore. Your chest is heavier than it was this morning. The festival energy doesn’t cling to you, it bounces off. You feel untethered, like you never quite touched down the whole day.

You don’t know what you’re hoping for.

A confrontation?

A confession?

Clarity?

But there’s nothing.

Just a field full of tired students, taped-up posters, and lingering music.

Just the sound of your own heartbeat trying to convince you this isn’t what it feels like.

You wake up again, already bracing for the day.

It’s the kind of morning that feels too bright, like the sun’s mocking you for not sleeping properly. You barely touched breakfast. Your stomach’s too knotted up to hold anything.

Today’s the performance.

And that means Heeseung.

And Yeri.

You stall in front of your closet longer than necessary, pretending you’re just indecisive. But really, you’re just thinking about what to wear that’ll make you look fine. Not affected. Not like you spent half the week thinking about handwritten notes and brushing off your closest friends and avoiding the one person who used to know you better than anyone else.

In the end, you settle for something simple and casual, but not lazy. The kind of outfit that says, I’m not here to impress, but I also didn’t roll out of bed crying.

You arrive at the venue just before the crowd thickens. The makeshift stage is already set up.

Complete with lights, speakers, and a colorful backdrop painted by the Fine Arts department. Foldable chairs form a semi-circle around the stage, though most students are content to stand or sit on the grass.

It’s loud. Warm. Packed with energy.

The Performing Arts kids own the space like they were born for it. There’s already buzz going around about the final number. Someone mentions it’s going to be dramatic. Emotional. “The one with Heeseung and Yeri,” they say.

Of course it is.

You find a spot near the back, away from the crowd, where the lighting’s dimmer and no one’s paying too much attention. You can see the stage, but you don’t feel like you’re being seen.

You scan the performers setting up.

And then, there he is.

Heeseung, standing offstage in his performance outfit. Black long sleeves, flowy fabric, minimal accessories. He’s talking with one of the stagehands, nodding, focused. You know that look. It’s the same one he used to get before big recitals or exams.

Then Yeri walks over to him.

She’s in costume too. Her outfit matches his, fluid lines, soft fabrics. They look… good. Like they belong in the same setting.

They exchange a few words. She smiles. He smiles back, tight-lipped but polite. Then she reaches up to fix something on his collar.

Your nails dig into your sleeve before you can stop yourself.

The performance begins in full force.

First, it’s ensemble acts. Some lighthearted, some poetic. Spoken word, a musical duet, a monologue that earns a teary sniffle from someone behind you.

And then, the lights dim.

A hush falls. The final number.

The opening notes boom low and smooth through the speakers, a stripped-back instrumental. Two spotlights fade in.

Heeseung walks onto the stage from one side. Yeri from the other.

The crowd leans forward.

And you stop breathing.

It starts slow.

Just movement at first. Their silhouettes circling each other. Graceful. Every step like a wave. Not a word is said, but you understand it. It’s a story told through choreography. A story about distance. Yearning. Resentment. Reconnection.

And God, they sell it.

You try to remind yourself that it’s acting. That it’s what they do. Heeseung’s always been good at disappearing into his roles and so has Yeri. You’ve seen them rehearse, you’ve seen them prep. You know this.

But when their hands touch?

When Yeri’s palm finds his chest and she pushes, gently, like she’s letting go of something?

When he doesn’t react?

It doesn’t feel like acting anymore.

Your eyes sting.

You blink fast. Shake your head.

Don’t be ridiculous. You know what this is. You know how this looks. And still. Still, your chest burns like you’ve swallowed something wrong.

And then it happens.

Near the end of the piece, there’s a still moment, part of the choreography, you’re sure of it.

Yeri steps close.

Cups his face.

Just for a moment.

But it’s a long moment.

Too long.

The audience gasps. Cheers. Someone shouts, “Just kiss already!” which earned a few giggles in the crowd.

You turn your head, eyes darting down and away. But not before you catch it.

Heeseung sees you.

He sees your face.

And your hurt isn't hidden fast enough.

You turn away before you can register his reaction. You pretend to be interested in your phone, in the grass, in anything that doesn’t look like jealousy.

You don’t look back at the stage.

When the piece finally wraps, the crowd explodes.

Applause. Whistles. Phones up, cameras flashing. The host rushes out to thank the performers, but it’s clear who stole the show. People start pushing forward to get closer, half for pictures, half just to gush.

“Heeseung and Yeri, seriously…” a girl says beside you, practically squealing. “Like, are they dating? They should be. They’d be such a power couple if they got together for real.” You step back.

And then again, as more students surge forward to get a better view of the stage. Someone bumps your shoulder, and your balance falters. You steady yourself, the applause ringing too loud in your ears.

That’s enough.

The walk back to your dorm is quiet. The sun’s still out, but it doesn’t feel warm anymore. You take the long route, hoping the extra time will help you process what you just felt. What you saw, but your mind keeps looping back to the same thing.

That look on his face before you turned away.

He saw you.

He saw you.

When you get back to your door, there’s something waiting. Another note. Folded neatly, like it’s been sitting there all day.

You hesitate.

Then pick it up.

Your stomach drops as you read it.

You’ll regret ignoring this.

No smiley face. No name. Just that.

You stare at it for a while, your fingers tightening around the paper. A chill slips down your back. This one doesn’t feel romantic. It doesn’t feel soft. It feels like a threatening whisper at the back of your neck.

The third day is supposed to be the chill one.

That’s the whole point.

The sun’s out but gentler, the air buzzing with leftover festival energy. There’s an acoustic stage on the grass where students are passing around a guitar. A few first-years are on picnic mats playing card games. Others are threading beads for last-minute friendship bracelets. It’s mellow, warm, a little bittersweet. The high is wearing off, and everyone’s in that weird inbetween space where nothing’s urgent, but everything still feels important.

You spot the photo wall they put up, a collage of Polaroids from the past two days. You spot one of yourself behind the booth, half-laughing with your group, sweat clinging to your temples. The version of you in the photo looks... lighter. Like she wasn’t holding in a hundred burden.

And there he is.

Heeseung, smiling in one of the shots, arms around his team. Yeri’s just behind him. You glance at it for half a second too long before turning away.

It’s fine. You’ve been holding yourself together this long. One more day won’t kill you.

Your department’s booth is halfway disassembled. Tents down, tables cleared, only boxes of supplies left.

Your shirt sticks to your back. You’re sweaty. Your legs are sore. Your throat’s dry from giving out instructions and calling over people who clearly weren’t listening.  

“Man, please tell me that’s the last one,” one of your blockmates groans, dramatically stretching their back.

You chuckle tiredly. “That’s the last one.”

“Thank God,” another adds. “I’m never organizing an event again. I swear I aged ten years.”

Someone collapses beside you on the grass. “Remind me why we volunteered again?” “Free food?” one of your blockmates offers.

“Trauma bonding?” another guesses.

Laughter ripples through your group, loose and tired.

Sunoo, a close friend you’ve met after volunteering, pats your back. “You killed it this week, by the way. Thanks for making sure we didn’t die.”

You give a small, crooked smile. “Of course.”

Then you glance at the stacked boxes beside you. “I’ll take these to storage.”

“Seriously?” Sunoo asks. “That’s like five floors up.”

“I need the break,” you say, hoisting two boxes up into your arms. “Aircon elevator ride? Yes, please.”

They wave you off with half-hearted cheers. “Stay alive!”

“Text us if you get stuck in the horror movie elevator!” someone jokes.

You roll your eyes, already trudging toward the building.

The halls are quieter than usual. Most students are still outside, too busy soaking up the last bits of festival atmosphere.

You elbow the elevator button, shifting the weight of the boxes. The elevator doors slide open. Empty.  

Thank God.

You step inside, back hitting the cool wall. You exhale deeply, adjusting the boxes in your arms.

The doors finally start to close.

And then- SLAM.

A hand shoves between the doors at the last second. You flinch instinctively, your grip tightening on the boxes. The doors bounce open again with a ding. And there he is.

Heeseung.

Sweaty. Breathless. A single box in his arms. His eyes widen the moment he sees you.

The air leaves your lungs.

He steps in silently. The doors close.

You’re both frozen.

You can hear his breathing, shallow and fast. You’re not sure if it’s from running or from this.

From you. From this.

Seconds tick by.

“Didn’t know we were still doing the silent treatment.” His voice is quiet. Tired. A little raw.

You don’t look up. You stare at the elevator buttons instead. “Didn’t know we were still friends.” The silence that follows is loud. Crushing.

All of a sudden-

The elevator jerks. The lights go out.

You both flinch as everything goes dark, save for the faint red of the emergency lighting.

Your heart drops.

“God,” you mutter under your breath. “I shouldn’t have ignored why nobody takes the damn elevator.”

He drops his box with a thud. “Of course it does.”

You press the emergency button half-heartedly. Nothing but the same dull buzz.

The silence creeps back in.

Then, his voice again, quieter.

“Why weren’t you accepting them?”

You blink, confused. “Accepting what?”

He exhales. Shaky. Like it’s costing him something to speak.

“The gifts. The notes. I thought you’d… I thought you’d understand. I didn’t sign them, but I thought- I hoped, you’d just know.” You finally look at him.

His jaw is clenched. His eyes glimmer in the dim light.

“You…?” you whisper.

“You didn’t even keep them,” he says, hurt flickering in his voice, barely concealed.

You frown. “Not all of them…”

He shakes his head. ���But enough.”

You’re quiet for a moment. Then, softly, “I thought they were from someone else.”

Heeseung laughs, bitterly. “Yeah. You looked scared. Like you were being stalked. Like I made you afraid of me.”

“I didn’t know it was you, Heeseung,” you whisper. “You never said-”

“I didn’t know how!” he bursts out. “You stopped talking to me. I didn’t even know if I had the right to show up in front of you anymore. I just… I just wanted you to feel me there. Even if you couldn’t look at me.”  His voice cracks.

“I missed you so much, it hurt,” he chokes out. “And I saw it, you know? You flinched when you read them. You started walking faster. Stopped looking me in the eyes. I thought I ruined everything.”

You swallow hard. “But I didn’t hate you.”

“I didn’t know that.”

His hands twitch at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them anymore. “All I wanted was to fix things. And I kept waiting for the right time. For something to change. And then the rehearsals keep happening and Yeri and I just-” His voice breaks. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” There’s a pause.

Neither of you move.

The elevator hums quietly under the emergency lights.

You don’t know who steps first.

Maybe it’s him. Maybe it’s you.

But suddenly, his arms are around you.

Not smooth. Not choreographed. Not clean like their dance.

It’s messy. Clumsy. A little panicked. Your box hits the floor beside his with a hollow thunk, but neither of you care.

He wraps his arms tight around your shoulders, burying his face into the crook of your neck.

“Please don’t hate me,” he whispers, face buried in your shoulder. “I didn’t want to lose you. I just didn’t know how to fix this.” He trembles.

You’re frozen for a second. Then your hands slowly reach up, clutching the fabric of his shirt. Holding him back.

Your voice barely comes out.

“Are you… crying…?”

He lets out a soft, trembling laugh. Pulls back just a little. His eyes are red, but he’s smiling. Barely.

He looks at your face.

Then your lips.

And then, He kisses you.

Softly. Slowly.  

Like he’s scared he’ll break you.

You don’t pull away. You kiss him back. Your fingers grip tighter into his shirt, grounding yourself.

The elevator hums. Then jolts.

The lights flicker back on. The machinery whirs.

But neither of you move away.

Not until the ding of the elevator bell cuts through the silence like a gunshot.

The doors slide open.

Heeseung hesitates to pull back.

It’s his floor.

He hesitates. Steps forward just as the doors begin to open.

And you, your voice finally finds the courage.

“Heeseung.”

He pauses just in front of the door.

You say, “Meet me at my apartment later.”

The doors slowly close between you, and he holds your gaze until the very last inch.

And nods.

Then he’s gone.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

[redvelvetcoffeeandkisses]

Unpopular opinion…

I actually really enjoyed tonight’s episode. I think everyone needs to take a step back and recognise that even if you aren’t happy with the writing, it was an objectively good episode.

The pacing was great, and I thought it wasn’t the biggest thing on my mind while I was watching, the actual technical aspects were just as on point as they always are.

The cast did a wonderful job, but they always do so it’s not really much of a surprise.

I understand why people are upset, and would have loved even a hint that Bobby was still with us just hidden in a lab somewhere. But I really didn’t go into the episode expecting it, and maybe managing my expectations has helped with my opinion.

Nothing that happened was that unexpected to be honest though. Eddie was never going to stay in Texas permanently (and Buck never intended to stay in the house permanently), once Hen made it clear that she didn’t want to be Captain the next choice was always going to be Chim, Madney naming the new baby after Bobby was the predictable outcome (even if I don’t personally like it). Hell, even Athena selling the house isn’t at all surprising - Bobby and Athena made it clear they were downsizing in 8x14, and without Bobby there to fill the space with her there really isn’t much sense in having a house that big, not to mention the emotional implications of living in the house they built together without him.

Despite all the press this week (and I’ll discuss that in a bit), Buck and Eddie really aren’t yet in a place where Buddie makes sense. They’re both still dealing with their grief over Bobby being gone, and at this point in time Eddie is still straight. I still believe that it will happen eventually, but it’s going to take time. It wouldn’t be anywhere near as satisfying if it happened now without getting to see Eddie come to terms with his sexuality and what that means, without Buck recognising that actually he does love Eddie, he just didn’t think he was allowed. Give us a chance to see them build a solid relationship together and make the conscious, intentional choice to move in together, rather than Buck just not moving out because it’s convenient (and they were roommates works in fanfic, less so in a network TV show).

Ok, now my thoughts about the press this week… I’m not claiming to be an expert on the in’s and out’s of marketing a network TV show, nor do I claim to have any idea what the motivation behind all the press was.

Yes, it was a lot. But I think it’s important to remember that while this is the show’s 8th season overall, it is only the 2nd season at ABC/Disney, and if the intention is to drive new viewers to the show, this is seems like a great way to do it. The network has already renewed for season 9, and I remember reading somewhere that the network has no plans to cancel anytime soon. Surely ensuring they are not only retaining the current audience, but also picking up new viewers, is top priority.

I also think it’s too early to call queerbaiting on the Buddie front for all of the reasons I mentioned above - it’s just too early to tell. If there has still been no progress by the end of next season, we can reevaluate.

If you’ve stuck out my probably incoherent rambling this far, thanks 🥰. I would love to hear people’s thoughts, but please keep it respectful.

[casual-praxis]

Some random Red observations (because he’s my favorite)

In no particular order, but starting with:

1. Red is the only one to directly break the fourth wall by verbally acknowledging the readers, but I’ve noticed there’s also a handful of times he seems to look directly at the reader as well.

You could argue he’s just looking behind himself to check, but the framing feels a bit intentional. Like he’s aware that’s not quite true.

This instance could also be nothing, but considering everyone else is looking forward, it's possible he’s addressing the reader. But it's just as likely a dig at Blue, too, all things considered.

-

2. Vio only answered Red’s question directly.

Granted, “don’t be so shocked” is also a response to Blue (and Green), but not one that answers his question.

This doesn’t really mean anything, I just think it’s neat. Assuring it’s the real him just makes sense, there’s no deeper meaning there, but I like to think it’s also partially because Red was so torn up earlier about not knowing where the real Vio was (in the Temple of Darkness). That's at the very least why Red was the one to ask this anyway.

-

3. Knowing Red holds grudges, as seen with Blue in the cave, this was probably intentional.

“Oops.” <- he's not sorry lmao.

Considering Red and Vio are frequently shown standing next to each other early on in the manga, but not as often once they all reunite, it's definitely something to think about. (Side note: most of the instances post-reunion where they're near each other are because of Vio running over to Red. You can't convince me Red's not his favorite.)

-

4. Since we can’t see Red’s arms here, he’s probably hugging Blue.

This is the closest we get to an actual hug between the two. (And if his arms are just pinned in front of him, then we still have no hug between these two, which is odd, considering they most certainly spent the most time together out of all of them.)

-

5. Red’s just idling here.

We do see a more expected reaction from him on the next page, but it's interesting that he wasn't given a mouth to emote with like the others. What's he feeling here?

-

6. Of the colors, Red was probably the only one whose sword could have been stolen.

The other three are quick to draw their weapons when faced with potential danger, but Red never even thought of taking his sword out, thus allowing for it to be taken in the first place.

He literally has a buncha hostile adults pointing pitchforks and shovels in his face and he's still trying to defuse the situation with talking (though, to be fair, drawing a weapon could have led to a fight, he probably knew that.) I also think the other's would have noticed someone trying to take off their sword (with the exception of maybe Green?), so that tracks for Red to be more focused on the emotional crowd than where his literal source of being is.

He's not very good at talk-no-jutsu, but at least he tried.

-

7. The manga would be a lot shorter had Red been pointing the fire rod at himself.

Either that, or his comic relief powers would have let him tank it. Though it would have severely undermined the threat of being potentially burned alive way later in the volcano.

Side note, the mob of people chasing him are either incredibly stupid, or way too confident in their ability to withstand point blank fire to the face. If Red weren't so unwilling to hurt innocent people, or was someone actually villainous, they very easily could have gone out the same way their village did.

Mob mentality is one helluva a drug.

-

8. Not pictured, but with how often Red falls over, it makes me wonder if Link is clumsy? Like, did Link's quirks also get divided between the four of them? We know Blue likes to fold his hat and keep things organized (if we take the bonus comics to be somewhat true), but what else can we piece together from the og Link?

At the very least, Vio being so accurate with a bow leads me to believe all the knights are trained in archery to some degree, though it seems Link would much rather stick to a sword, if Green and Blue are any indication.

Red being able to pick up and drop so many weapons (slingshot, magic rods) probably means Link was able to adapt easily to new combat styles, along with Blue and Vio favoring their secondary weapons at times also being a point to that.

For all the faults Link definitely has, he's a powerhouse on the field. Perhaps that's what led to him being so cocky.

(But seriously, why is Red hoarding so many weapons)

[ladymrf]

He is on duty in the tower, sitting at the long conference table reading some documents. Superman has just returned from another planet and is writing the report. At another point on the table, Batman is silently reading a report from the Titans.

The tablet that Tornado is using is receiving a video call. It is his personal device, and the call is from the civilian number of one of his terrors. Cassie.

"Is this a good time, Tornado?" Her voice makes everyone in the room look up from their tasks. Tornado makes no attempt to explain himself. He just moves the tablet away from him so that Cassie can see him properly. She is in civilian clothes and her face is sweaty and dirty with dirt. "I can call Snapper if it's not."

Tornado feels the fatigue in his mechanical bodywork. Cassie called him, which means it's a problem for him to solve.

"What did you do?"

"Nothing," Cassie says too quickly, someone snorts near her, it sounds a lot like Cissie's high-pitched tone, Bart runs after her with a torch in his hand and my God, is that a bird on his shoulder? "Okay, so something happened."

"Cassie, what did you guys do?" Tornado asks again very, very tiredly "Send me your location, where are the rest of you? Do you need a doctor?"

"Uh… Look, it was unintentional, it really wasn't our intention, I swear, but you know we take our collective bimonthly day off, right? So we went on an adventure, that is, following Tim's parents' old theories about lost places and well, we kind of found an entire city under a part of the Amazon jungle?" Cassie says with a forced smile on her face, Tornado doesn't have the strength to be surprised "So some strange magic turned Greta into a bird and now we're stuck solving a puzzle to bring her back, don't worry, Tim is almost there, we'll explore for a few more days for fun and then come back to tell the world about our discoveries."

"My mom would be so excited!" Tim appeared on the screen with a huge smile on his face, dirty with dirt, sweaty and for the first time in months, vibrating with life "It's incredible Tornado, there's so much to see and dig."

"Okay, Indiana Jones from Gotham, go back to finding out how to get Greta back with two legs and not two wings." Cissie pulled Tim off the screen, in the background Anita appeared holding a torch, on her shoulders sat a small monkey "We called you to tell the Supers not to be surprised by the difference in Conner's heartbeat…"

"What happened?!" Clark arrived at his side in less than a second, picked up the tablet and looked at the children worriedly "Is he okay? Where is he?!

Anita raised the monkey in front of the tablet and the animal waved, Clark went white and had to lean on the table.

"Don't worry, we'll get them back, the answer is here!" Tim shouted off-screen and added quietly "Somewhere."

Cassie took over the screen with a frozen smile "We just thought it best to let you know about the change and that it will take longer than expected to return."

"Okay." Tornado took the device back from Superman's hands "The break lasts three days, how long should I wait before I come after you?"

"Two weeks." Cassie said.

"That's a long time to be away." Batman's voice appears, the dark presence appears next to Tornado and addresses the screen "You have an ongoing case with Spoiler and Batgirl."

Cassie is static on the screen, the call drops Suddenly. Tornado sighs, the oldest tactic in the book, but for the kids' credibility he says "The signal must be bad in the middle of nowhere."

Batman doesn't seem convinced, it's not Tornado's problem, he needs to send messages warning the kids' guardians about the change of plans.

[songsofreason]

Here he is. The man that’s dared to cross him enough times to make Nelo Angelo have to really go all-out. Dante saunters into the room, his expression expectant, already sizing up Nelo Angelo for their third fight. ”A man of guts and honor.” He pauses, Force Edge pressed to his shoulder. “I like that. But it’s a shame you serve Mundus.”

Shame? There is no shame in duty. Nelo Angelo merely raises his claymore to point Dante’s way, intent of will to fight. The other man’s arrogance drives him mad, the laid-back composure irritating, acting as if he’s already won because he managed to drive Nelo off to recalculate and lick his wounds in their prior two fights. But he will stop the Sparda boy here no matter the cost. Dante grins. Nelo Angelo follows him with the point of his blade. At once he realizes he’s furious.

The sight of Dante’s face is so irritable to the devil, it stirs something within Nelo’s soul–a man who has been made to desire nothing but victory cannot say he feels anything else, but this is different from his usual impassive victories he’s claimed in the past decade he has spent serving Mundus. This is a need to win. This is stirring a part of his heart somewhere deep inside–a part of him that tells him if he does not win, he might as well go slit his throat. Nelo Angelo has never had a ‘need’ before. Nelo Angelo hates Dante.

With a scream so loud it would rip up his throat were he not blessed by Mundus, Nelo Angelo throws his head back, arms splayed wide to access everything he can, consumed by the need to kill Dante and to FINALLY, FINALLY, show him up. Parts of his armor splinter and shackle off, thrown by some blue energy that pulls at his flesh like a rippling magnet–he feels heavy and bogged down, like he can’t move like how he wants to. His armor suddenly becomes a prison; he’s always hated being slow. The helmet, too, in its ridiculous lumps and unflattering horns, makes it harder for him to avoid moving his head to dodge attacks going for his skull or throat. It will have to go too, in the name of defeating Dante. he blue shocks of energy shudders up his shoulders and destroy the helmet into pieces, revealing Nelo Angelo’s face to the world.

His hair, he realizes, is long and in his face. The feeling of his hair curling down around his neck and at his shoulders is distracting too. Nelo remembers hating having his hair in his face. It makes it hard for him to see and more importantly–something else. It’s gone. It doesn’t matter. I have to kill Dante. Then I’ll…that doesn’t matter either. Cracks of black blood vessels litter his skull, eyes shining an appropriately demonic red beneath the curtain of his bangs.

Speaking of Dante, the man only seems satisfied to have a face to put to his enemy, twirling one of his guns around on the hand not gripping the Force Edge’s handle. “You done with the light show? I want to get a move on, I’ve got a Demon King to kill.”

Nelo thrusts his claymore to point Dante’s way, turns it perpendicular with the ground, and with a thrashing type of yell, barrels for him, blue swords making hissing noises as they careen for the devil hunter’s torso. It’s annoying that he can hear Dante literally click his tongue in disappointment as he jumps, double jumps, twists and turns through the air, twin guns rattling off their song in response, Nelo’s summoned swords sounding like darts as they land one after the other in empty space. He screams in frustration as he drives his forward foot into the ground and turns, claymore swinging up through the air to catch Dante’s shoulder.

Dante lands, turns, damaged arm dropped as it heals, other hand still aimed with the white gun firing away, then he whips out the other. “Not bad, guy.” Nelo Angelo doesn’t get a chance to blink before Dante’s suddenly upon him, Force Edge cutting bits of his armor away, whittling open more and more weak spots, forcing the Angelo to take tiny steps backwards and catch what he can of Dante’s swordsmanship with his arms so he can’t land any hits on his torso. After his efforts to access more power earlier, Nelo Angelo’s armor is weaker–-Nelo can feel that trade-off beginning to weigh heavier on the scales.

He catches Force Edge in a hand with just enough force it stops Dante in his tracks, and then he throws him furiously backwards into a wall. Dante goes sailing. A summoned sword manifests and hurtles after him, pinning Dante’s coat tail to the wall. The Sparda remains unfazed and merely lunges back for Nelo Angelo, leather tearing behind him. Claymore meets the Force Edge, both figures’ hands coming up to try and add more pressure into their swings. Dante is gritting his teeth and groaning. Nelo Angelo is…Nelo Angelo and therefore looks like nothing. At once his mind leaves the battle for just a moment, aware only of how annoyed he is that his hair is so long.

In his momentary lapse of consciousness, Ebony blasts a hole through a chip in the side of his armor, making his breastplate crack and chunks of it fall off, exposing more of the black suit Nelo Angelo wears underneath his armor and making him easier to actually hurt. Forced to retreat, the demon practically dances backwards, claymore swinging up at Dante’s jaw and catching some stray hairs as it slices. “Hey!” Dante shouts, head jerking back, blood spilling from the nick in his neck that Nelo managed to land as well, “I like my haircut, thank you very much!” He reaches up to touch at the already healed-wound, then rubs his red-stained fingers and thumb together.

Shut up shut up shut UP!! Nelo Angelo can’t speak. So he shouts. He rushes for Dante immediately with another set of swings to convey his anger, anger he’s never felt before, anger he can’t identify with anger, raging cuts of steel slicing from his hands, ignoring the blasts of gunfire that tear the armor on his arms away or the bullets that lodge themselves into his skin, more focused on ending the fight as soon as he can. For Mundus. Such is his duty. Dante meets each swing, grinning but not without strain, then air hikes away to make the knight stumble forward into the wall, palm coming up to catch himself, a few more blasted chips of gunfire riddling themselves into exposed flesh that knits itself a moment too late, exhaustion beginning to give way to healing.

If he’s this tired, Dante must be too. Nelo Angelo turns around and extends his arm, hand opening and closing in a wordless taunt: COME ON.

“Oh yeah?” Dante sneers, but takes the bait anyway, he’s always been that easy to incite. Again and again they collide, steel striking sparks and blue swords dancing through the air and bullets ricocheting, the sound loud and cacophonous and ringing and again and again and again they swing, dancing, Dante’s quips losing all meaning and only becoming shapeless movements of his mouth amidst their swordsmanship. Eventually Dante tires enough to have to back out, feet sweeping half-circles and guns raised as he moves to recalibrate, his face now shiny with sweat.

In the newly regained space between them Nelo Angelo readies another barrage of summoned swords, this time from above Dante, intending for them to fall upon him like rain. Dante cartwheels–literally cartwheels–out of the area of effect, shocks of gunfire peppering his move, landing on his feet once again. Only he missteps, a foot landing on a small piece of rock that they’d destroyed earlier in the fight, and stumbles, ankle twisting, arms moving up and exposing his torso as he moves to right his balance. “Shit–,” Dante mutters, trying to keep his voice low as not to give himself away, and Nelo Angelo knows: now is his chance.

The knight drops into a crouch, eyeing that weak spot of Dante’s, hand readying over Yamato’s hilt as he prepares a Judgement Cut to cut into that perfectly exposed bit of torso and–Yamato isn’t there. It had been taken from him. His hand closes on the claymore’s hilt. It won’t move or cut like a katana, and the arc of the broadsword’s swing is much larger and awkward as it sails through air too high it can only be called nothing, Dante flying effortlessly past the last-ditch effort with his Force Edge extended like a sharp point of infinity.

The sword runs clear through Nelo Angelo’s sternum and makes him stagger backwards. His own claymore clatters noisily on the ground. He can practically feel the blade puncturing his aorta. Nelo Angelo is a man of honor, so he doesn’t scream–he merely raises both his hands to grab at the blade and try to push back, blood spewing from his lips and pouring from his damaged palms; he can’t remember when exactly Dante destroyed his gauntlets, the blade edge cutting all the tendons in his fingers.

Nelo Angelo speaks for the first time in a decade. “Dan…te…” The sword wiggles just a bit inside of his chest cavity, tearing all things it can loose with its sharp blade. A cough.

“Sorry,” Dante says, “show’s over, no encore this time,” and he forcibly moves his arm backwards so the sword pulls cleanly back out through Nelo Angelo’s torso and scatters crimson across the room.

“Ah…” Nelo raises both his hands to touch at the gaping wound, blood pouring from it like a waterfall. Coldness overtakes him like a shadow; he doesn’t realize he’s fallen over until his cheek smatters with pain and forces him to draw his awareness to the cold stone under it, something else falling heavily by his face. His amulet. He knows because he knows that shade of red anywhere. It’s brought him such comfort. Two boots stand before him behind the blurring red jewel; Nelo’s eye rolls in its socket up to the far corner to look up at Dante, his killer.

Horror. Whatever the man is seeing, it’s making Dante look more impression-like than man, of something twisted wrong, his eyes as wide as they can go, mouth a small ‘o’, washed out and colorless and too scared to even tremble–it makes Nelo smile openly, his tongue pressing against the slabs of iron-tasting granite, blood smeared all across his mouth, eager to spit in his killer’s face, but he has no energy so he just laughs noiselessly into the cobblestone. He’s always been defiant; even Mundus had to fight tooth and nail to get him to listen at first, he remembers his King saying as much about the early days of his making.

“How did you–,” Dante drops to a knee. Nelo is aware of a hand tugging at–something. The chain around his neck. “get this…–I–,”

“NO!” Panic, a denial, although of what the knight doesn’t know. Nelo tries to twist himself away from the pressure trying to claim his precious amulet for itself, only succeeding in wrenching his shoulder into the ground and cutting up his cheek on the rough surface of the ground, awareness dimming quickly, he cannot feel his fingers or his hands or his arms or anything, Dante is a blurry red mass in his periphery, he is someone trying to take from him yet again, he’s always been so selfish, “No! No one else can–…have this…” Nelo swallows to fit his teeth back together and seizes and spews up more blood and some organic mass goes with it. The ground quickly grows slippery beneath him then nothing at all. He was terrified a moment ago but at once he’s too weak to fight back or do anything, words pouring unbidden as his consciousness dissipates like grains of sand falling through his fingers, “it belongs to…a son of…Sparda–...” and then he is gone, red eyes dimming back into their washed-out blue sans spark of life within them. He didn’t even have the strength to turn his gaze back to his one remaining piece of self: the amulet half lying on the ground between them. Instead his eyes focused on some unknown point ahead.

He doesn’t feel Dante’s trembling fingers as the newly-made Cain slowly reaches for the large stone and he doesn’t feel how he forcibly yanks the pendant free from his neck, chain snapping. He doesn’t feel the shudder which jostles his corpse slightly when both of Dante’s knees meet ground, or he doesn’t feel the two hands reaching for his soulless body. He doesn’t know that Dante doesn’t yell or scream, just like he didn’t last time, that he keeps his grief quiet, shoulders shaking.

[the-devil-less-known]

Lucifer perks up like dog hearing a mention of ‘treats’ or a ‘walk’; occasionally was more than none at all and Alastor wasn’t the only one capable of taking a mile when only offered an inch. It’s true enough that the other man was kept nearly always preoccupied in some manner. Whether it was Hotel duties, Overlord upkeep, or even finding spare moments to prepare and pursue other passions such as broadcasts or visiting Rosie — it must all be scheduled in advance to some extent. The king is neither unaware nor ungrateful about the efforts Alastor makes in his rearangements to humor the impromptu interruptions.

Like tonight.

“I would be!” He squeaks out, eagerly, only to fluster at the sound, covering his mouth and turning to clear his throat. Mortifying. “A-Ahem, hem. Mmm. Right, I mean. I would. Be pleased to. Nothing like good music and good company, so long as we have the time.” A peek over the shoulder and a smile. There. Much more mature sounding, right? Less like a schoolboy excited to make afterschool friends, more like a cool and sauve adult making… sauve and cool acquaintances at the water cooler… or wherever people do that nowadays. Point is, he’s winning at this, right?

Rolling to his knees, Lucifer carefully stands up and dusts himself off, buying time as he finds his footing. Oof, he was feeling the alcohol then; reminding him to take much more care lest he made a fool of himself and gave away his intolerance with liquor.

“Not in here, in the kitchen. You know, where food is, like, generally stored,” said with a giggle, biting his lip to keep the laughter in. There doesn’t seem to be any meanspirited intent, just a cheeky smile with a pair of dimples peeking out. “I have some, um… There’s some savory treats I can get, you know, nothing too heavy. Perfect for soaking up alcohol… and snacking on! Bite-sized.”

One step, two steps… whew, there. It seemed he’s regained his balance, each step just needs to be purposeful. Turning, he offers a hand to help pull Alastor back up to his feet. “If you want, in the meantime, I mean, feel free to poke around. If you see any records you might like, go ahead and set them aside or play them! My personal favorites are, um, stored in the player’s lower compartment, if you’re curious. Or you can wander, it’s just us tonight… just! Not the greenhouse, it’s, uh, it’s off limits. Got some dangerous plants in there that love to eat things they shouldn’t.”

The last thing he wanted was having Alastor getting eaten by the Tree, thank you very much! No matter how much it complained about wanting ‘just a taste’!

Alastor will not fault Lucifer for needing an excuse for this sort of thing. He cannot think of a reason that he might be invited for ridiculous, and childish shenanigans otherwise, much as he might enjoy them.

"I don't tend to take days off," he replies, shifting so that he can sit upright more fully, crossing legs as he does and reaching back to rub at the back of his head where it had brushed up against the floor as they'd toppled. Thankfully, he hadn't whacked it against the ground. "Maybe occasional evenings off. As a start. If you are so adamant about it. But someone has to keep the hotel running and that responsibility tends to fall on me." Alastor's wrist spins, a vague gesture. "Aside from the actual... redemption part of it. That is your dear daughter's job."

But a hotel cannot exist without its facility manager.

"I think, however, that should not be the largest obstacle to overcome if more dancing is of interest. And I am sure there are many more things I can teach you, if you permit." An invitation for more. At some point. He won't permit this to be a one-off, no matter how hesitant he may be at establishing some kind of personal repertoire with the devil. The radio demon, like many other Sinners, is a chaser of the pleasures of now. Sometimes, consequences go unheeded until they become unwieldly.

Maybe one of those consequences is the compliment that Lucifer levels at him, making him blink once or twice. It's not as though he has never been appreciated for his voice. That is a bit of the whole point; his power granted by Lilith to sway with the spoken word dancing along the air waves. And yet here, Lucifer seems to be taking a much more... sincere approach. Particularly as he corrects himself - it is not quite the smile, but the emotion behind it, he clarifies. And Alastor finds himself a bit at a loss for words, mouth ever-so-slightly open (and he knows he is flushed, he can feel it) before the devil seems to save him from making a fool of himself by offering food instead.

"Always," Alastor quickly picks up. "Do you have a litany of snacks stowed away in here?"

[hyacinthsdiamonds]

In all honesty... when was the last time Charles arrived for quali day in his own merch and not ferrari's? 👀👀

[longagoitwastuesday]

I keep thinking that this Gojo is just like Sukuna. I truly don't see much of a difference between them beyond the human/curse point of view

[lorbanery]

This is what I find so fascinating and baffling about Smallville.

I watched the first couple of seasons when they originally aired, came back to it many years later, never quite managed to get past season 5 or 6 out of frustration.

I and, it would seem, the vast majority of the fandom, came out of however far we got in the series thinking, "Wow Lex was trying to be so good and he was treated so badly, Jonathan Kent is an asshole actually and turned his son into a jerk and I can't believe this show wants me to think Clark and Jonathan are such good people and Lex is inherently evil."

It wasn't until just this past year that I found out that, actually, the intention was that the way Jonathan treated Lex and the way he influenced Clark were, in part, why Lex turned out the way he did. That a little compassion from the Kent men could have saved him.

I find this interesting because they so clearly failed at delivering that message.

I'm sure someone could analyze the actually storytelling to explain why it failed so spectacularly, but I believe the main problem was the medium.

"Lex Luthor could have been turned from the path to supervillainy if he'd just experienced the love and respect of a father figure" and "Maybe Jonathan Kent wasn't the saint that Clark paints him to be" is the kind of What If story that would have been PERFECT for a comic book storyline. A handful of issues of a limited Jonathan Kent title that focuses on Jonathan, explores this idea of a man so scared of losing his child that he occasionally veers off into paranoia and reactionary thinking that makes him treat other people as enemies or less important than his family. Bringing a young Lex to Smallville briefly and juxtaposing the way he interacts with Clark with the way he interacts with Lex and directly foreshadowing the way those treatments will shape the men Clark and Lex will grow up to be. Maybe even making a really fine point about the fact that, even though they occasionally clash, Clark still has a loving, supportive, protective parent in his father, while Lex is so desperate for one because he has no one. Directly comparing the blind distrust Jonathan has for Lex's motivations to the lack of trust Lionel has for Lex's capabilities even by just mirroring dialogue — maybe even having Clark mirror it too near the end.

But the reason that would work so well in comic form is because this is the kind of storyline you do when you're playing around with canon. Which you can only do when you have a canon to play around with.

I mean think about it. If they had done an entire series that was just Lana and Clark's adventures tooling around Metropolis while under the influence of the red kryptonite, but without establishing anything about the kryptonite at all, people would have also gotten the wrong idea. They'd just be like "wow Lana and Clark are assholes, they just party all the time and start fights with people for no reason, it's like these people don't even understand these characters."

That's basically what happened here. Smallville was a completely new canon, the only things most people knew about it going in were that Clark would eventually become Superman, the goodest superhero in the world, who loves his perfect sainted parents, and Lex eventually becomes his arch-nemesis.

With just that framework, it's no wonder that we all watched Jonathan shout over and over again about how Lex is a Luthor, you can't trust him! when Lex had done literally nothing and thought, "I can't believe this show wants me to think this asshole is the goodguy."

And going even further, the result is an implication that the actual reasons Lex became evil were:

Extreme child abuse

Psychosis

Being susceptible to bullying and manipulation

Using what money, power, and influence he has to fuck over objectively terrible people to protect the good people in his life, even when those good people treat him like shit half the time

Having unhealthy coping mechanisms for being treated like shit

Not liking being lied to

Was it the show's intention to imply that any of these were contributing factors? I couldn't say. But when I watch Smallville? That's the message I get. And that's, from what I've seen, why so much of the fandom comes out of it as full-fledged members of the Lex Didn't Deserve That and Jonathan Kent Hate Clubs.

I write this with the full acknowledgement that I'm only about a third of the way through the series, but the thing that is so frustrating about the direction Smallville has taken Lex is that there was so much potential (and likely even the intention) to take Smallville Lex's story in one of two pretty interesting directions: either he and Clark broadly have the same goal (help humanity) but fundamentally disagree on how to accomplish it to the point that it leads to a complete breakdown in their relationship (the Magneto storyline); or he has good intentions but compromises a little here and a little there, until he takes so many steps down a path he didn't intend to tread that he's eventually so many miles from the moral ground he started on that he's completely crossed to the other side (the Anakin storyline). Both of these are interesting, complex character journeys that would allow the audience to sympathize with Lex up to a point, while also empathizing with Clark's emotional turmoil at having to let go of his former friend who has slowly morphed into someone unrecognizable.

But bewilderingly, they threw both of those out and went in a third direction: Lex is a fundamentally good, decent, compassionate person who has been pushing back against and even outright rejecting his father's cruel and corrupt methods since childhood, and is driven by a genuine desire to help those around him and make the world a fairer place, and it doesn't affect how people view or treat him at all. Everyone is determined to ascribe nefarious ulterior motives to everything he does simply because he's a Luther. He was always going to be Clark's enemy because from day one the Kents decided he could only be Clark's enemy*. Of course he's going to end up adopting the ways of his father because that's what everyone thinks he is anyway. In other words, he got the Elphaba storyline.

And I find that baffling because that storyline is extremely sympathetic. Again, I have two-thirds of this series to go, so it very well could surprise me, but I honestly don't know what it could do at this point to make me lose sympathy for Lex or feel like whatever he does is something Clark didn't bring on himself. Clark constantly openly doubts Lex's motives, and continually harangues him for his mistakes (real or imagined) even after Lex owns them, apologizes for them, and attempts to make amends for them. But Clark is the one I'm supposed to be rooting for? He's supposed to be the good guy?

I guess I just don't understand why you would set up two perfectly good villain origin storylines, and then abandon them for one that makes your so-called hero look like a total asshole.

*There's a whole other essay I won't get into here about Jonathan Kent's paranoia in particular, and the way it destroys Clark's ability to trust by assigning nefarious intentions to innocuous actions, and the way it damages Clark's fundamental goodness by teaching him that using his powers to help and protect people is a secondary goal to his primary purpose, which is to protect himself and his secret at all costs. That man is not the moral or ethical north star Smallville seems to think he is.

[chastiefoul]

nanami kento is known to have a habit of crossing his legs when he sits. when he's reading, or just idly thinking. it's just something he does unconsciously, often time he doesn't even realize it himself.

yet this quickly changes after he got together with you.

now, everytime you come into the same room as him, the man quickly shifted his legs back to a regular position; you know, just in case you want to sit on lap.

fine, he wants you to sit atop of it.

this is all because he had the mistake─one he'll gladly do over and over, of experiencing it once.

the feeling of your body pressed so close against him while you ramble on about absolutely nothing, which he listens to intently with a smile on his face; his hand running along your hair ever so softly while he hums once or twice as response to your animated chatter.

and then you rested your head on his shoulder after getting a bit tired, your strands tickling his neck in the best way possible. his hands moved smoothly to your sides, rubbing up and down. all soothed and relaxed, nanami loves the sight of you being so comfortable near him.

you probably couldn't get closer to him more than this could you? he thought, as he held you tighter nonetheless. he felt content, whole.

so yeah, in short, nanami wants you to sit on his laps.

and with how fast he does it too there's no way you don't notice the subtle change of how he sits lately. yet you don't have the heart to point how obvious he was being, so most of the times you just indulged him, no questions asked. although it's not like it wasn't enjoyable for you, it was the opposite.

not to mention the smile he wears everytime you do it... it's enough to make your knees go weak. a smile you'd go to war for, a smile that's worth doing anything he's asking for.

it seems like nanami isn't the only one who has a new habit, then.

[ratherchili]

𖹭 cw: fluff, suggestive, mdni

You really threw a wrench in mean bf sukuna's plans when you totally forgot about Valentine's day. You told him from the start that you didn't care about stuff like that, but he thought you were just playing the Cool Girl™. Realistically, all girls care about that shit. It's ingrained in their fluffy, pink, little brains, right? You're going to be mad as hell when he tricks you into believing he's completely ignored your first Valentine's day together.

That works just fine for mean bf sukuna, who just so happens to think you're super hot when you're mad. So, he ignores you all day while he shops. He smirks to himself as he thinks about how you must be scowling at your phone screen, waiting for a text that never comes. He outright laughs when he imagines the shock on your face when you see what he has planned for you. Maybe you'll do that thing where you bang your fists on his chest while he pulls your body against his. Maybe your eyes will be shiny with tears when you look up at him and say, "I thought you forgot!"

Turns out he's the one scowling at the screen when the whole day passes without a peep from you until you text him "picking me up?" Just before your shift ends.

"Yeah, I guess," he grumbles as he types it out. What kind of passive aggressive, feminine sorcery is this anyway?

His scowl only deepens as he listens to you chatter on about your busy day the whole ride home. You don't seem angry at all. In fact, you plop down next to him on the couch, as usual, practically sitting on top of him as you giggle at the TV and dig into your dinner. You don't even notice that he hasn't touched his own food. He's actually getting pissed in a serious way. And he looks it, even more so than usual, you notice. You fucking finally notice. "What's your problem?" You ask around a mouthful of your favorite takeout.

"Tch, nothing," he says, crossing his arms and looking away. Is he... is he really pouting?

"If you say so," you shrug. You know better than to press him too much, unless you want him angrier and even less prone to discussion. "I'm gonna get changed," you say as you stand to head towards the bedroom.

"No!" He says, just a little too loud.

"Why not?" You ask narrowing your eyes at him over your shoulder.

He would have physically stopped you, but you're a little too small and a little too quick not to slip through his grasping fingers.

"What's all this?" You ask, standing in your bedroom doorway staring at the array of pink and red bags, flowers, your favorite candies and snacks.

mean bf sukuna winces at the sight of the veritable mountain of gifts he had spent the day heaping on the linens. He may have gotten a little carried away, but he kept thinking of things. That bag you pointed out at the mall. And the necklace. And the sunglasses. Then he remembered you said you wanted to go to that concert, so he got tucked the tickets into your card. Then he thought you'd want to wear those shoes you pointed out.

"Oh, my god," you say in a small voice. "It's Valentine's day. I totally forgot."

You turn to him, but the apology that was on your lips dies in a fit of laughter when you see his face is as red as the gift wrap.

"You'll pay for that, brat," he growls as he tosses you right on top of the pile, fully intent on getting his money's worth out of you.

[rodanseys]

People are allowed to be critical of a musicians choice even if there is an artistic explanation behind it

Someone can do something on purpose and it'll still be a flawed decision, or just something that people don't vibe with

(And tbh the 31 song album is because no one says no to her. Established artists doing way-too-long albums that desperately need editing is a tale as old as time. See the Beatles' White Album)

hey anon, i'm guessing you're responding to this post i made yesterday

i probably should have put it in the body of the post, but my tag really has the thesis of what i'm feeling: "regardless of why she did it that doesn't mean ppl shouldn't understand the context of their criticism"

context can be, like you said, just personal preference on what sounds good. in this case, i'm referring to the ability to recall information after getting information overloaded. it's the same reason someone might take notes during a long lecture in college: with the amount of information shared, it's hard to know exactly what was covered at the start. the context i'm asking people to understand is related to information overload; when you get information overload, you just can't remember everything perfectly. it's impossible. because of this, saying "everything sounds the same" is a pretty unremarkable critique because that's kind of an inevitable result of listening to a 31 song album all in one go. that take shows me people just aren't being critical about how their consumption of the album is impacting their opinion of it.

i'm postulating that there are huge artistic reasons behind this, because there's proof that taylor can pare back her writing. but never once here did i say you have to stand behind all of someone's artistic choices, especially if they don't vibe with what you like to listen to. i just said when you don't, try and understand why you don't. also understand that you have the agency to maybe like it/understand it/ know it better by listening more.

however (and this isn't something i say outright, but definitely something i believe) it is completely up to you how much time you want to invest to something that has a variable amount of joy to give back. i am finally singing along and i'm at 5 listens. that's 10 hours of my life!!! which is ridiculous and i get why people might turn away faster than that. and it's okay! but whether or not you agree with the artistic reasons behind the length enough to justify them is a fully different argument altogether, and it's not the one i'm making in the original post.

[simpjaes]

CUNNILINGUIST ― s.jy (ft. p.sh)

Unfortunately for you, no man has ever given you some good head. Fortunately for you, your best friend is more annoyed by it than you are. It’s just a favor, right? or the one where your best friend jake eats you out as a way to admit his own feelings for you, also, apparently sunghoon existing is an issue.

minors dni! | kindly leave feedback and reblog to give bestie jake conflicting feelings

WORDCOUNT― 16.1 k

PAIRING― jake x afab reader (ft. sunghoon)

CONTENT― a lot of waiting, like to the point it even annoyed me, very fluffy stuff , typical best friends to fuck buddies to “actually, I had feelings this whole time”, jealousy, jake is whiny and needy when he’s horny, reader thinks it’s cute. angst if you’re a baby about it

OTHER CHARACTERS― sunghoon as the mutual friend who bangs reader

NOTE― this was originally written by me on my other blog [@/ncteez], if you’ve read it before, that’s why!

smut tags under cut:: 

smut tags― BIG DICKED BESTIE, pussy eating (he gets IN THERE), masturbation in the form of dry humping a mattress and then into his hand, finger fucking, cum eating, sunghoon hook up, morning sex, lazy fingering, lazy fuck, dirty talk , unprotected sex, awkward build up,raw grinding, no blowjob in sight sorry lmao, deep penetration, cream pie, kind of cum stuffing but like not entirely intentional, cheesy love stuff 

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

“What? Again?” Jake says, leaning back against the couch with a groan and a smack to his own forehead.

“Yeah, so basically he went down on me for less than a minute but expected me to, like, go long enough to ‘swallow’ or whatever.” You continue the story in a frustrated huff, shaking your head in self-pity.

Jake groans louder, leaning himself forward again and swiping his drink from your coffee table to take a long and thoughtful sip. 

“How many times is that, then?” He says between sips, glancing around the room as if he’s in deep thought. “I can’t help but think you pick these kinds of guys on purpose at this point.”

You look at him in mock pain, grabbing his drink and taking your own thoughtful sip of it.

“I dunno, they always talk big game during phone sex and stuff. I figure eventually one of them will live up to it.” You drone on, internally marking your recent date’s name off of your call-back list. 

“Be honest with me, have you ever actually gotten good head? Like how would you know if they’re bad if you have nothing good to compare them to?” Jake asks, letting you mindlessly drink his beverage.

It’s not weird to be having these types of conversations with him, if at all, something would seem off if you didn’t. He’s the only person in your life that you’ve ever felt this close to. At this point, you think he’d have to chase you down with a bloody hatchet for things to be awkward. Which is…kind of interesting, you guess.

“Well, I mean,” You think for a moment too long for his liking, but he gives you the space to finish your answer. “It feels good and all but it’s not like I’ve ever gotten off by it.”

“Correction –” Jake starts, blinking right at you. “You’ve never been given the chance to get off on it.” His bright  smile shows through his words, and you’re sure he’s mocking you at this point.

“Yeah, yeah. Yada, yada. I have terrible taste in sexual partners but to be fair, it’s not like the pool is that big to choose from.”

He nods in agreement, humming as if to end the conversation and still watching you sip at his drink.

“Would you be opposed to–” He pauses, making eye contact with you. “Y’know, I could do it for you.”

You pause, nearly dropping his drink out of your hand but thankfully your grip actually tightens on it instead. You swallow as you look at him, searching his face to see if this is some kind of joke.

“Jae-fucking-yun,” You deadpan, sitting his cup back down on your coffee table and leaning toward him, staring him down. “You’d really do that, for me?”

You bat your eyelashes at him, mostly playing it off as a half-joke just to see if he’s fucking with you or not. 

“How else are you gonna experience it?” 

You stare him down harder.

“You say that like you’re some sort of pussy-eating-god,” You narrow your eyes. “Are you?”

He shrugs casually with his little smile, leaning back on your couch and stretching his arms out. One of his hands lands behind your shoulder and you lean into it. 

“I’d let you be the judge of that if you’re up for it.”

Finally, you decide that he’s definitely not joking and you’re definitely gonna do it because like, that’s your best friend. Experiencing your firsts with him comes almost as naturally as walking. You had your first kiss with him, albeit it was a dare. You experienced your first concert with him, your first break up, your first failed exam, and even your first legal drink in a club. What’s so bad about letting him eat you out?

“Right now?” You ask, quirking your brow and tilting your head.

“Now, tomorrow, next week. Whenever.” He runs his hands through his hair as he says it and only now are you starting to really tune into his features that you’ve already found handsome.

Day after day you’ve seen him on this couch and in other states of dress without really thinking twice about how his lips would feel on you (despite that short first kiss). You’ve seen him kissing all up on other people, you’ve seen him in the club with wet lips from alcohol, you’ve seen him all messy and eating spaghetti at his parent’s house– but for some reason, his lips seem different now. His sleepy eyes seem different, his messy hair seems like something that should be tugged on, his fucking jawline– 

“Why’re you staring at me like that?” He looks at you up and down as if he’s judging. “You wanna go right now?”

You nod slowly, letting the traces of any lusty thoughts you’ve had about him in your life come to the front in waves. Then you quickly shake your head.

“Wait, no,” You roll your eyes more at yourself than him. “I haven’t showered since my date, maybe I should, uh…”

“Uh – yeah. Please do.” He grimaces, that same dopey smile coming back after a moment. 

“Fair.” You roll your eyes. “Gonna go shower then.” 

Part of you wonders if like, he’s being totally legit. For all you know, you’ll get out of the shower and he’ll be too busy doing something else, or like, he’ll go home or something. No hurt in seeing though.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

In the bathroom, you can’t help the feeling in your chest at even the thought that this may be about to happen.

Excitement. That’s what you feel. Not because it’s Jake. Well, maybe a little bit because you wanna see what his tongue is all about but more so because you’re about to get some presumably good head.

You shower thoughtfully, cleaning every part of your body and feeling little goosebumps rise and fall with each sensation of your air conditioning snaking its way past your shower doors. When you get out, you lotion your body so you’re all nice and soft and brush your teeth just in case things go a little further. You’re not expecting it to, but y’know, nothing wrong with having fun if it comes to it. 

After all, he’s doing you a favor by going down on you, the least you can do is smell good, be soft, and totally prepared for if he were to suggest more, right? Right. Anyway, you’re all showered up and opt to just let your hair do its own thing as you throw on your shirt and shorts. You ignore the panties at this point, because why not?

When you get back to the living room, Jake isn’t there. Naturally, you check your bedroom and there he is, still his normal self and lounging against your headboard while flipping through videos on his phone. 

“And she’s back,” he comments, reaching a hand out as if to invite you to your own bed. “Change your mind yet?”

“Not even for a second,” you smile as you take a spot in front of him, your entire body facing him as you pull your knees up and lay your chin against your arms. “Have you?”

He seems to fall into a more serious tone now, locking his phone before tossing it to the side and flicking his eyes up to look at you, scanning your legs in the shorts. 

“No,” he chokes back, shocked to see straight between the gap of your shorts and actually lay eyes on the point of this whole situation for the first time. “And you’re not wearing anything under those shorts.”

You watch his face and the way it turns from your best friend into something you’ve seen time and time again from men you’ve gone home with. It’s sexy on him though, for some reason.

“Figured I’d save you the trouble?”

He smiles, now moving himself toward you and reaching a hand behind to cradle your head. 

“Lay back,” he says softly, in a voice you’ve only heard a few times from him, “you could have left the shorts off too though.” He adds with an even softer laugh.

For some reason, it makes you feel shy. His hand guiding you to lay back all while grabbing the pillow from behind him and placing it under your head so that you’re nice and comfortable.  You watch him look at you and honestly, it’s in a way you can’t remember him ever looking at you before. If this is how he looks at other women, you may be a little jealous. 

It feels more intense right now than you thought it would.

“You’re being weird.” You say offhandedly, looking away from him and trying to keep the heat from flushing to your cheeks. 

“You’re letting me eat you out, how am I being weird?” He leans up from you, putting two hands on your knees but still waiting for your eyes to meet his again. “You want me to act like the other dudes? Dip my tongue in then wrap it up?”

You groan, rolling your eyes back to him and analyzing the way his big hands drape over your knees. 

“Okay, fair.” You admit defeat, feeling his warm palms move down the back of your thighs and to your ass. 

“Lift up,” He says, quickly pulling the shorts off of you when you do as he asks. 

“Oh–” He gasps quietly. “Damn.”

He stares directly between your legs, bracing his hands back at your knees and spreading your legs a bit. He angles his head in different ways to really look at you, seemingly enamored with your pussy as a whole. 

“Look who’s staring now.” You chuckle, instinctively hiding your face from him despite knowing he isn’t looking up at you.

“Yeah– I am,” he admits, now adjusting himself on the bed to lay down, his head easily slotting between your legs as he rests his chin on your lower belly and looks up at you. “You can pull my hair or do whatever, I’m just gonna…like, start I guess. Tell me if it’s something you don’t like.”

As normal as this isn’t, he’s speaking similar to how the two of you had taken on projects before. He typically takes the lead but offers you control more often than not. All you can do is nod at him, trying to comprehend that it’s your best friend’s head between your legs right now.

When he pulls his head back up with one last nod of confirmation, the first thing you feel is his fingers slipping up your folds, the other braced on your thigh and holding your legs open. You release a short sigh of relief at the feeling and he instantly smirks at it. 

“I haven’t even started yet,” He whispers, glancing up at you before fixing his eyes back on the expanse of your pussy. He uses his ring and pointer finger to spread your lips open, and the middle finger to rub against your hole only for a brief moment before he licks his lips and releases his own sigh of relief. “God, Sunghoon would be so jealous right now.”

You look down at him, wanting to ask him what the fuck he’s talking about and why he’d bring up Sunghoon right now, but you find yourself staring at him instead. Breath caught in your throat with the way his eyes meet yours before letting his tongue hang from his mouth as if presenting it to you in a cheeky way.

He’s so fast with it too, with the way he replaces his middle finger with his tensed tongue, forcing you to swallow your words and hold your breath even more. You can feel him lick and nibble against each of your lips before moving inward, flattening his tongue to lick one long, languid, and wet stripe up until meeting your clit. 

He wraps his lips around it, sucking once, hard, before releasing it and pulling back to look at you.

“This okay?”

Goddamn him for making you have to talk right now. You’re still trying to comprehend the fact that he said Sunghoon, fucking Sunghoon of all people would be jealous that he’s doing this right now. That’s definitely a question for later, because yeah, it’s fucking okay. 

More than okay. 

You nod to him, throwing your arm over your eyes and instinctively bucking your hips up towards his hovering mouth. 

“Oh, that was hot,” He groans out his compliment, watching the way you hide your face before he pulls his eyes back down and uses his fingers to spread your pussy open wider, enough to see your hole pulsate when he dips down to blow against it, “I can see how wet you’re getting, Is it because of me or is it just because someone is playing with your pussy?”

You half groan half moan at that, mostly because hearing these words from him is something that feels entirely too sexual. As if he hasn’t already tasted you, as if you’re not spread out by his fingers right now. You ignore his words, yet, your brain holds onto them with white knuckles and your hips buck toward him again.

“Not a talker, got it.” He notes, watching your hips chase his breath. 

He watches for much longer than you’d like for him to, and you’re about to lift up and accuse him of being just like the other guys but he shuts your thoughts off so fucking fast when you feel his lips on you again. 

His tongue explores every part of you, licking and sucking against areas you didn’t even know would feel good until his mouth lands against your clit again. This time, you can’t help it, you grind up and he hums at it as he braces your legs open just enough to skew his head and move his tongue back down. 

He’s slurping. Lost in the moment as he does it. Tasting you in full and getting a warm, pleasant feeling each time your legs try to close and your hips buck up for more. He…can’t believe this is finally happening. Fucking finally.

Unsure if you’d let him, he tries anyway. He stiffens his tongue, circling your hole before pressing just a bit, giving you just enough pressure that you feel frustrated. So frustrated that you’re the one who ends up finishing his attempt at something new. You reach down and lace your fingers in his hair, and let out a soft, needy little moan for him. 

That sound forces one from his chest too, he can’t help it, really. With the way you’re grabbing his hair and holding his head in place, pressing yourself against his mouth so much harder than before. Ah, he really, really loves doing this for you. 

To think any man would already be done? To think anyone could like, not wanna eat you out? Insanity. Stupid, stupid fucking men.

He can taste how wet you are now, truly taste it as he stretches your hole as much as he can with his tongue and another groan of his own. It’s probably embarrassing, truly, but he doesn’t care. 

Both of you are moaning at this point as you hold his head in place and grind your hips harder than you think you are. He loves it, you love it. So much that you really are barely comprehending that your best friend could do this the whole time?! And never told you until now?!

Jake is just as drunk on the moment as you are though. Totally lost in the scent and taste of you as he continues to lap away, constantly trying to prove that you can and will get off from his mouth alone. And honestly? It’s at the point that he figures he can use his fingers now too considering you let him spread you open with his tongue. What’s a little more gonna hurt, anyway?

The taste of you alone has him in heaven, cursing any man who didn’t take advantage of your pussy against their mouth. He can easily slip a finger into a hole this wet and needy, gasping in awe before glancing up at you. 

God, the way you immediately ride his finger, no huff or sound of irritation that he’s pulled his tongue back now. Your face. Fuck. 

He watches as you shamelessly chase the small amount of pleasure he can offer in terms of just head and fingering. He can imagine how hot you’d be without that shirt on, with your legs around his hips, with your mouth wrapped around him. You look blissed out, soaking his finger and keeping your hand in his hair, mindlessly grabbing and scratching at him. 

Making quick work, he goes back for your clit, circling his tongue around the bundle of nerves and noticing how you ride his finger harder. He can’t help but smirk against you when you do it either. 

The movement of your hips constantly humping against him is enough, and he can’t help but groan at the sound of your slick squelching out of you and warming his chin, he can’t fucking help but grind his own hips forward when you act like this. His cock is so painfully hard for you right now, at the taste of you, that all he can do is chase the mattress beneath him. Tensing his muscles and moaning against your clit shamelessly at the jolts of pleasure he gets from it. 

He slips another finger in with ease, feeling how much wetter you’ve gotten in the way the slide is filthy and audible. You groan out at that too, feeling his tongue flick relentlessly against your clit and only now moving your free hand from your face and trailing to your stomach. 

You can’t even talk, so you don’t. You lift your shirt up until you can at least rub against your nipples, just to heighten the pleasure your best friend is so graciously giving you.

His eyes roll back when you do that, only to fall back on you and get a frustrated grunt from him. He’s a bit annoyed that the shirt is still covering you despite your hand under it, fondling yourself. He’s thinking with his cock, so fucking aroused that he doesn’t think twice when he aggressively lifts your shirt up to your chin and watches the way your fingers poke and prod at yourself.

He inhales a sharp breath at the image, and his hips fuck harder against the mattress at that. His fingers speed up and now he’s focused. You feel him all over you from the waist down, his tongue flicking and lips sucking against your swollen clit, his fingers relentlessly fucking into you, your fingers heightening those sensations by playing with your own tits– then, oh, then you notice. 

Jake, you’re best fucking friend, is so goddamn horny that he’s dry humping against your bed and whining out moans against your clit. Probably to avoid asking for more, to avoid making you feel obligated to get him off too, to avoid anything you may not want or consent to. And that’s why he’s your best friend.

It doesn’t take long after that, your hips come to a stop as you watch him get himself off all while getting you off, and you find your orgasm bubbling up much faster than if you’d have imagined solely because of the image in front of you.

“Jake, you’re fucking whining.” You groan almost as needy as he does, rolling your hips up in a stutter. 

He was almost gonna stop, because yeah, he is whining. Gasping for air but only tasting you, only swallowing up the moans you give to him, only inhaling the dull scent of the fruity soap you used when you showered. But, you moan louder after you say that. You like it. You like seeing him act so desperate. So he continues, shamefully reaching one of his hands between himself and the bed and quickly shoving it down his pants, circling around his cock and continuing to fuck into it. 

If he thinks hard enough, you’re what he’s fucking right now, and technically, he is. With his fingers and mouth at least. When your hips stutter more, he fucks harder against his hand and holds his fingers inside of you as deep as he can get them. There, he sucks against your clit until you’re the one whining louder. 

You’re shocked at how quickly you’re getting off. Releasing a splash against him in a breathy, choked up sob. Nearly squeezing his head between your thighs to the point he almost misses the way you breathe out strings of praises toward him. But he hears them. 

He definitely heard you say that he looks sexy with your hand in his hair, and god, did he ride off of the fact that you encouraged him to get off with you. Regardless of if you knew if he could or not, regardless of if you knew his hand was providing just enough pleasure for him to do just that. 

There, as your orgasm subsides with his tongue still flicking your sensitive clit, you watch him writhe his hips against your mattress, his eyes slammed shut, and his breath coming out in pornographic moans. So this is what Jake looks like when he cums. It’s desperate, but somehow, it feels passionate too.

You’re all dazed after the fact, pussy pulsing and tingling from the loss of his lips and fingers once he pulls back and lays against your bed with a lazy smile. His pants are uncomfortable, but he doesn’t mind as he wipes his hand across his shirt and watches the way you catch your breath. 

“So,” He tries to say, clearing his throat. “I– um– hope that’s what you needed?”

You’re shy. You’re never fucking shy, especially towards Jake, but god. 

“Um, yeah,” you sigh out, lifting from the bed and looking back at him. Part of you wondering if that’s what it’s supposed to be like when someone gives you good head, or if that’s just…what it’s like when Jake gives head.

For some reason, you genuinely don’t think another man would ever eat you out to that level again. There’s no way, based on experience. 

“It was definitely what I needed.” 

He nods in a shy way, reminding himself that his pants are fucking nasty right now. So, he goes to stand up and extends a hand out to you. 

“Let’s go clean up.” 

You shake your head, not at all wanting to move from this bed. He nods again, pulling your shirt back down for you and leaning to look at you. 

“I’m gonna bring you something to clean up with, and I’m gonna shower.”

You smile at him, a bit dazed as you make yourself comfortable on your messy sheets as you think hard about the fact that this dopey motherfucker really never told you how good he was at this? Rude.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Jake looks all proud of himself when he comes back to your room and cuddles into bed with you much like he always has. 

“I didn’t expect to sleep over, I have work in the morning.” He whispers in a rasp against your back, curling around you like the perfect big spoon. 

You’re quick to turn on his work alarm on your phone, like you always do when he crashes during weeknights. Because, what best friend doesn’t have alarms set for each other anyway?

After a few more long moments of silence, you try to talk. Mostly because your brain is swimming with the fact that, like, you’re not sure but it’s just– wow. 

“Hey, um–”

“Hmm?” He hums out in a sleep-heavy voice.

“Did you actually enjoy doing that?”

“Are you fucking kidding me? I literally came in my pants.” His sudden louder voice causes you to jump, but you relax back into his gasp. 

“Oh,” You think hard. “Is this gonna change stuff between us?”

“Probably, but not in like, a bad way. More like in the can-i-eat-you-out-all-the-time-way.” He responds with mock-confidence, shifting a bit and hugging you closer to him, as if to hide the way he’s trying to make this sound like a joke. For his own comfort, really.

You smile.

“And don’t tell other dudes my secrets.” He adds.

“I won't.”

Jake has his own smile from behind you, wondering if he really is just that good at eating pussy. The truth is, he’s done it a handful of times but he was just really really interested in doing it for you. For…reasons.

・・・・・・THIS WAS ORIGINALLY TWO PARTS, NOW IT’S ONE. YOU’RE WELCOME・・・・・・

“Hey, um,”

“Hmm?” Jake hummed out in a sleep-heavy voice.

“Did you actually enjoy doing that for me?”

“Are you fucking kidding me? I literally came in my pants.” He responded in a sudden, louder voice. 

“Oh,” You think hard. “Is this gonna change stuff between us?”

“Probably, but not in like, a bad way. More like in the can-i-eat-you-out-all-the-time-way.” 

You remember the conversation that happened after he went down on you like it was yesterday, and he’s a goddamn liar. Nothing changed in your friendship with him, and he certainly doesn’t ask to eat you out all the time either. If anything, you’ve felt disappointed time and time again with the aftermath of that night.

It’s weighing on you in a strange way. At first, the weeks following the first and apparently, only time Jake went down on you, you almost expected him to ask for a repeat. You wanted to return the favor. You wanted him to ask but he never did. Even when he came over to hang out, even when you tried to lay down hints.

Nothing changed.

In fact, he doesn’t even talk about it. He doesn’t look at you as if he’s tasted you, and he doesn’t act like he came in his palm against your bed, right in front of you. He’s just…Jake. Sweet, caring, aloof, Jake. And you’re just you. Except you want to be someone else at this point. Someone that he does feel differently around after that.

Maybe you weren’t a memorable event for him when it comes to intimacy. Maybe he prefers to pretend it never happened? Maybe he was really just doing you a favor and intending for it to never go past the initial act. Even with his sweet words after the fact. Maybe, that was just to reassure you so it wouldn’t be awkward. 

You’re a version of you who wants to know what the fuck he’s thinking about. Did it taste bad? Did he get cold feet about it all? Arguably, if things did get weird after what happened, you’d feel more comfortable than you do with the situation as it stands. 

It is weird now, but only because it’s not weird for him. 

Even now, as you lay across the same bed where he had his head nestled between your legs, you can almost feel the tingle of what it felt like. The way his hair tickled your thighs, and the way his fingers laid against the flesh of your legs. The sun is beaming in through your windows and it still doesn’t feel as warm as it did when he cuddled against you that night. It’s been weeks and your heart is sick for him by this point. Sick with confusion, angst, lust, maybe even love if you think hard enough. 

You miss him a lot more than before as you throw your hand up to your face in a gentle slap as if to knock yourself out of it. This is insane. Every day you wake up feeling this way, thinking of him, and where you stand with him. It wasn’t like this at first, you truly expected him to come back for more and now you’re just sitting here with a loop of reasons as to why he never did. 

Insane. You’ve gotten head from so many people and didn’t think twice about them the next day, Jake is different though. You knew he would be too.

Why is Jake any different? Why do you miss him so badly right now? Why couldn’t he pick up on it either? Even worse, why do you feel like doing that with him was a mistake?

He’s with his parents for the weekend, and you’re here still thinking about shit that should have been released with your orgasm. 

You haven’t gone on any dates since that day, you haven’t met up with any one other than him to hang out, and at this point you’re starting to feel a little pathetic for falling in so deep. It’s entirely one sided, he makes that very clear.

So, naturally, you hop up with the confidence of a damn lion and decide that today, it ends. You will stop making it weird between the two of you, if he has even noticed anyway. You’re gonna get dressed, look hot as fuck, and sit on your couch swiping left and right until you find a hot piece of man that’s willing to take you out tonight.

That’s when something dawns on you. You remember Jake briefly mentioning Sunghoon to you, which seemed more like an implication if anything at the time. 

Why would Sunghoon be jealous of what happened? You can admit to being attracted to him but it’s not like the two of you hang out often or anything, and it’s also kind of a rule for yourself that you don’t fuck within the friendgroup. Jake was an exception, solely because that’s your best friend. Or, well, was your best friend. 

Now though? Who cares about these little rules you create for yourself? You need a confidence boost. You need your mind to be taken off of this little spiral you keep falling into. Most of all, you need to be proven wrong that you can still get off without it being him. 

So, texting Sunghoon? Easy. 

Thankfully, Sunghoon texting you back at lightning speed seemed even easier for him. 

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Well, Sunghoon sure did a great job at getting your mind off of Jake for the past couple of hours. 

You lay here in his bed, feeling your body tingle from the sensation of just how well he lived up to the promise of a good time. For hours he touched you, licked against you, fucked you. And yeah, you did fucking enjoy it. 

But why now? Why did you only just decide to give Sunghoon a shot? Why are you lying in his bed, with his heavy arms thrown across you as he snores gently behind you, feeling the need to cry? Why do you wish it was Jake, your best friend who seemed so eager to please and then suddenly leaped ten feet back as if he never suggested it in the first place? 

Your brain is confused despite your body relaxing itself from the state of bliss you were able to experience. You really did enjoy this time with Sunghoon and think that maybe, if you continue to make late night visits to him, the need for your best friend will weaken in time. 

God, if only Jake would just talk about it.

And you fall asleep thinking about that. About how you’ve let your feelings weaken you to the point that it’s genuinely hard to enjoy being pleasured by someone who actually has the capability. 

And, well, you wake up much the same, except Sunghoon was quite quick with his fingers upon waking up himself. Showing you that even if the person you want doesn’t have a thing to do with you, he sure does. 

“Good morning,” He rasps in a sleepy voice, fingers already traveling down your stomach as he hugs up against you from behind. “Glad you finally came through for me.” 

You quirk a brow. Right, Jake is the whole reason you're here. If not for mentioning him, at least.

“I finally came through?” You chuckle, your body jolting at the ticklish sensation of his lips brushing the back of your neck. “You knew I was single, why didn’t you call me?” 

You feel a harsher kiss against your neck, and his fingers only travel further down now. 

“Bro code.” He whispers, dipping his fingers between your still naked thighs. “I’m not overstepping if you’re the one asking for it.” He slides his fingers gently back and forth between your legs, trying to work you up. “And you did.” 

You think hard about that. Bro code, overstepping limits, not coming onto someone unless they do first solely because someone must have asked him not to. And you’d think even harder about who that someone might be, but instead your brain is quickly thrown into the morning sex routine Sunghoon must offer to all of his lovers. 

You enjoy it too, the small moments of bliss where you’re not in your head about what you could have possibly done wrong with Jake for you to end up feeling this way. It’s a brief moment of numbness though, feeling his fingers pleasure you gently can only do so much to quiet your thoughts. 

“Are you saying one of your friends had dibs on me or something?” You laugh in a half-joke, arching your back to rub your ass up and against the bigger and warmer man behind you. 

“You could say that, I’m assuming he missed his chance though–” Sunghoon whispers snidely, now satisfied with how you already drip for him and sliding one of his fingers into you. His other hand, being used to hike one of your legs up and against his hip to open you up for him. “You wouldn’t be here doing this if he didn’t.” 

You clench around his finger unintentionally, pretending you don’t know who you’re both referring to. Mostly because there’s no way in hell it’s your best friend, seeing as how he’s acting like you don’t exist outside of platonic friendship with him. Then again, who else could it be? Jay? Heeseung? Fucking Jungwon? As fucking if. 

“I guess he did miss his chance–” You breathe, now allowing yourself to give into the lazy and slow pleasure being offered. “Deeper.” 

And he listens. Sunghoon goes deeper and deeper with one finger, then two, then three, up until you slip his fingers out of you and plead through your body to have more. Deeper still, holding you from behind, plunging in as if to intentionally fuck the confusion out of you. As if to, maybe, prove that Jake isn’t the only man who can please you now. 

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

When you eventually find yourself walking through your front door, you do feel better. Sunghoon did have some type of capability to make you feel as desired as Jake did. After all, it’s not often that you sleep over with a man, better yet get fucked again as soon as you wake up with him. 

Even so, you know Jake will be back tomorrow, wanting to hang out yet again as if nothing happened. Thankfully, with Sunghoon around, maybe you can pretend alongside him. Maybe even forget it ever happened. 

You can argue that for the first time, you’re even a bit annoyed when you see his name pop up in your notifications with a call as if you’re not right in the middle of texting Sunghoon. It’s not that you were trying to go back over to his house or anything, but man, he sure is trying to get you to come back for a third round already. 

Maybe you just like when people are eager to please you, or maybe you don’t like to feel as if you’re the one chasing another person. Still, you answer Jake, seemingly releasing all of this resentment you’ve built up for him in an instant. 

“What?” You huff into the phone, feeling it vibrate with another text from Sunghoon and wanting nothing more than to see what his fourth reason would be for you to come over not even two hours after you left. 

“What?” Jake responds in confusion  to you. “What do you mean ‘what’?” 

“I mean what do you want? I’m busy.” You huff again with a roll of your eyes, flopping back on your bed. 

“Oh god, something happened.” Jake groans, though he was simply calling you because he missed your voice. “What’s wrong?” 

“No, not really. Was just trying to figure out what I’m doing tonight when you rudely interrupted me.” 

Something is off, Jake can feel it. Your voice has a bite to it, one that feels like you’re mad at him. Not to mention, he knows what you mean when you say you’re trying to find something to do for the night. He tries to reserve his feelings though, despite wanting that something to be him. 

“Oh, I know there’s an event at one of the clubs downtown tonight I think. Jay mentioned it–” He pauses briefly to hear another annoyed breath from you. “You’re not gonna go with him?” 

“Nah,” You wave off dismissively. “I think I’m just gonna go hang out with Sunghoon.” 

You don’t notice at all the brief and panicked silence for a solid second and a half before Jake reacts.

“Wait, what?” He says quickly after managing to process those words, trying not to sound as panicked as he knows he feels. “Sunghoon? Why?!” 

God, he knew he shouldn’t have said anything about Sunghoon that day, but his confidence was overflowing and he couldn’t help but boast at the time. It’s come back to shoot him in the dick, knowing full well that Sunghoon has been trying to get you into bed since he fucking met you. Hearing you ask for him in this context is something that makes his blood run cold. 

“Relax, I was with him last night. It’s kind of like, maybe gonna be a normal thing now.” 

You refuse to pick up on Jake’s tone. He had all the time in the world to make you feel something other than confusion, and this is just fucking petty at this point. He clearly doesn’t want to have anything with you, so why in the hell should you just sit around hoping? Waiting? 

“Sunghoon? You want to fuck Sunghoon?” He asks in a lower tone, trying to convince himself that he has to be mishearing you. You can hear him shuffle around and close a door behind him, showing that he doesn’t want his parents to hear him. But the frustration showing blatantly in his voice is somehow…satisfying. 

“I already did. I figured he would show me a good time since no one else can, and he did.” You shrug with slight disobedience. Resentment bubbling up in your gut to the extent that you almost want to grill him for having any type of opinion about it. 

Jake hangs on those words for a second. “Since no one else can.” 

He really thought he was the one who could do it for you. 

“Yeah, but–”  Jake starts, feeling like a child almost in the way he protests despite not being in a position to have a say in who you sleep with. “You know what? Nevermind. Do what you want.” He adds blankly, hanging up before you can get another word in. 

Honestly, he doesn’t know what he’s doing wrong because you acted like he was fully capable of doing everything right. Hanging out with him consistently after the fact, not making it weird, flirting with him, asking him to sleep over. 

He wasn’t sure if he should ask you for more or if he should ask you to be his girlfriend first. The whole reason he’s with his parents right now is because he felt the need to run home to his Mom for girl advice. Embarrassing? Yes, but he really wanted to do things right. He cares about you. 

He needed just one single weekend away, and the second he’s gone you’re out fucking other dudes? Fucking Sunghoon? 

By now, that asshole is probably feeling like he’s on top of the world for getting to touch you. Not even he has done what Sunghoon managed to do with you by now and he can’t help but feel pissed about it. 

Whether you’re his or not, Sunghoon never should have been a fucking option. 

So, he calls you right back, pushing back the feeling of how pathetic it seems considering he’s the one who hung up on you. Then, when you don’t pick up, he immediately feels his stomach drop. 

You must be talking to Sunghoon, you must be setting up a time and place to meet with him. And Jake has heard that Sunghoon knows how to fuck. Other people have said he’s good in bed. Surely, if you’ve already been with him once and you’re still wanting to go back to him, those other people weren’t lying. 

To Jake, it feels like he’s losing you to his own friend with each passing second, and it’s weighing so heavy that spamming your phone with calls to interrupt whatever it is you’re doing right now feels like the right thing to do. In fact, it feels like it is the best thing in the world to do. 

He calls again. You don’t answer.

Again.

“What?!” You answer, annoyed. 

“Why would you even want Sunghoon?! Is he really that much better than I am?” He doesn’t think before he says it, because if he did, he wouldn’t have been able to say it at all. 

It’s his turn to experience that awkward silence because in all fairness, you don’t know how to respond to that. You feel annoyed now, you feel confused and quite frankly, blind sided. Since when did he care? 

“What’s that supposed to mean? You came onto me once and then never followed up.” You dead-pan at yourself in the mirror across your bedroom, speaking into the phone with a voice that seems scolding. “I don’t see why you’re mad that I’m hanging out with Sunghoon. We aren’t dating, Jake.”

“Since when? Who said I didn’t want to do it again?” Jake argues back in a whispered voice, showing you that he still can’t be as loud as he’d like to be. He chooses to ignore that last sentence though, pretending as if it doesn’t strike him in the center of the heart. 

“Nobody! That’s the thing, you haven’t said anything about it. Not that you want to, not that you don’t. You’re just being you and it’s driving me up a fucking wall.”

Pause.

“You’re mad because I didn’t make it weird?” It’s like his brain clicks. 

“Pretending it didn’t happen somehow makes it worse.” You lower your voice, ignoring the string of texts Sunghoon is sending you and listening closely to what Jake might say next. Your heart is racing through this hushed argument, and it feels good to admit that you kept thinking about it, even if he hasn’t.

“I wasn’t pretending that it didn’t happen,” He pinches the bridge of his nose with a sigh. “I just wasn't sure what the next step was.”

You’re fucking appalled.

“Jake, I have been flirting with you since it happened because I couldn’t stop thinking about it. You’re the one who didn’t make any moves, so I figured you wanted it to end there.” You sigh loudly, but somehow feel a bit lighter. “Do you have any idea how that fucked with my confidence?”

Jake sighs along with you on the other end of the line. 

“That’s why I was annoyed earlier, and that’s why I’m going to Sunghoon’s tonight.”

“What?” Jake’s voice raises a bit higher. “Still?!” 

It’s the fact that he’s trying to explain himself. Had he known that you were confused by his lack of, um, touching you, he would have done it every day since it happened! Yet, you’re still considering Sunghoon an option? Knife to the heart, honestly. 

Or maybe he’s not being clear enough with you about this. 

You, on the other hand, nod your head as you hum a confirmation to him, smiling and wondering if this conversation will turn into an event that would, perhaps, have you cancel the hook-up with Sunghoon.

“Why? Are you jealous?” You pry.

“You really called him, and now I’m just sitting here in my old room trying to find a way to get to you before he does….again.” An inhale. “ Yes! I’m fucking jealous!” 

You remain silent, trying to pretend that your pettiness isn’t solely to confirm what he seems to be implying to you. Then, an unintentional chuckle leaves your lips. 

“Why are you laughing?!” His voice is raised again, and he doesn’t seem to stop spilling what he needs to say. “I wanted to do that for you for years and you somehow still didn’t know?” He pauses. “I always made it weird between us, what? You thought I treated all of my friends like that?”

You just listen, feeling your heart beat in time with each word he speaks. Strings of sentences like, “I’m going to kick his ass.” and “You thought I’d just eat you out as a friend?! You’re insane.” and “I would have come home last night if you wanted to feel good so badly, why did you have to go see him, of all people?” 

The confirmation of Jake being the friend who forbade Sunghoon from making a move on you is right there, clear as day. 

“Ah, so the Jake I know isn’t the Jake everyone else knows?” You respond, trying to force the tingling feeling in your gut to calm itself. Hearing him be so blatant to you has your heart doing flips, and it’s not an easy task to make it stop.

“Of-fucking-course not!” He rolls his eyes, you can definitely tell. “You had me wrapped around your pinky from day one.”

“And you really thought that, with the way you seemed so uninterested–” You pause, processing his words. “I would have asked you to come home from your parent’s house to get me off? For what? Funsies? You thought I'd be brave enough or selfish enough to ask such a thing?” 

Jake sighs deeply, seemingly fed up with the situation. 

“It wouldn’t be because you are selfish.” He breathes out, almost angrily. “And for the last time, I’m not uninterested. I was just trying to do things right. I don’t just want to fuck you, you know.” 

“And you didn’t think to tell me until weeks after you ate me out?” You smile harder, trying to contain the heat flushing over your cheeks. “Until after I thought I had a pH imbalance and maybe you were just grossed out by me?!” 

“I’m genuinely shocked you didn’t know already. Made me think you weren’t interested enough to like–” He pauses, not wanting to be too telling. “I guess waiting and being polite isn’t really your style. I should have known that though.”

You let him continue, because you can tell he’s simply taking breaths and small pauses to figure out how to express his thoughts to you. 

“You can’t tell me that over the years, you never once noticed how often I stared at you.” He lowers his voice again, softening it to an extent that you actually feel the butterflies fly from your belly to your chest. 

”The fact that I jumped in head first and offered to do that for you? I didn’t think I had to tell you at this point…”He breathes out a chuckle through the line this time. “And for the record, I couldn’t get enough of it. I was just trying to like– I don’t know.”

You listen to him breathe deeply, again. 

“I didn’t want you to think I was in it just for the sex, I guess.”

There. There it is. You’re nearly kicking your feet, feeling him confirm feelings and erase any hint of doubt within you. Despite never truly noticing that he treats you differently compared to his other friends, despite never thinking too hard about the way he looks at you. 

“You acted like it wasn’t a big deal, Jake. I’m not joking. If that’s how you act when you like someone, you shouldn’t blame me for not noticing.”

“I literally tongue fucked you.” He dead-pans. “Friends don’t just do that.”

“I thought we were friends who could do that.” You argue. “But I guess you’re not quite looking to just remain friends, are you?” 

“No,” Jake sighs. “Mom told me I needed to take you out on some extravagant date and express my undying love for you with a handful of red roses, but I guess this is just how it’s gonna be. After all, this is you.” 

“And this is you.” You confirm. 

“I was going to come home tomorrow and try to lie our way to the restaurant, which I still can, if you want. You kind of fucked up my plan though.” 

You pause at his words, suddenly feeling like shit for not realizing sooner. In your defense though, if he really did like you from day one, you didn’t exactly have a chance to see how he would have acted without feelings. The Jake you know is your best friend, and someone you trusted with everything, you thought he treated everyone as well as he treated you. That’s why, when he didn’t change, you couldn’t read him anymore. 

Then again, all of this could have been fucking avoided if he had just voiced it to you. 

“Romance is dead and it’s your fault.” Jake tries to joke, his soft tone somehow coming out even softer as he waits for some type of response from you. 

“So, are we done fighting?” You ask meekly, tapping your finger against your phone and looking up at the ceiling with a smile that by now, you can’t escape. “Since you’ve just expressed your undying love for me and I very much wouldn’t mind going on a date with you so we can work this out face to face?” 

“Are you still going to fuck Sunghoon?” 

You laugh. 

“Oh yeah, for sure–” To his silence, you immediately take it back. “Oh my god, relax. It’s a joke.” 

“Get better jokes, asshole.” 

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

“What the fuck?” Jake deadpans into the phone, his heart beating far too fast for his health, but vibing with it anyway because by tomorrow night, he’ll be next to you again. “You seriously had sex with her?!” 

“Hey, she’s the one who called me.” Sunghoon shrugs as he listens. “To be fair, Jake, I did tell her that someone else had dibs on her.”

Jake slaps his forehead and rolls his eyes. 

“You’re such a dick– I told you at least three hundred times that I like her! I don’t have dibs.” He gripes, trying to pretend that he’s not imagining Sunghoon with you, the person he wants the most. 

“Damn right you don’t, because she seemed to have a great t–” 

“Sunghoon, stop. I don’t want to know what happened, but like, stop texting her.” 

Sunghoon’s brow raises in curiosity. 

“Ah, did you finally make a move?”

If there’s anything Jake knows Sunghoon won’t do, it’s go for a woman that is actually unavailable. He has his fun, and he’s not one to turn anyone down if he has an interest in them, bro code be damned. And yeah, he’s still a little pissed at him for hooking up with you…but, it is true, Jake made you feel like he wasn’t even an option in his attempts to be a gentleman. 

Still, boundaries need to be set now. Real boundaries.

“I did, and I would really appreciate it if you back off. I’m trying to make something out of this, you know?”

Sunghoon lightens up, sighing at his loss of a would be fuck-buddy that seemed more promising than some he’s had in the past. 

“Jesus, you’re serious about her aren’t you?” He smirks as he speaks, feeling proud of Jake for finally stepping up for himself. “I mean, I can totally see why. Please excuse me as I mourn that sweet, sweet, pu-” 

“Sunghoon.” Jake warns. “Shut the fuck up.” 

“Relax, jesus.” Sunghoon plays it cool, though he actually is mourning it a little bit. “Good on you though. I’ll back off, don’t worry.” 

Jake rolls his eyes yet again, his love-hate relationship with Sunghoon becoming more fond than ever by this point. Only because the confidence he had in himself before all of this wasn’t entirely where it needed to be. It’s true that he wasn’t exactly a pussy eating god before, nor could he even say he’s amazing at sex but, when it comes to you, he can’t help but be excited. He wants to do it all, be it all for you. 

Never in his life has he eaten pussy like that, and never in your life have you felt a mouth so eager to please between your legs. 

Sunghoon could have been something, but he couldn’t have been Jake, ever. 

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

The day couldn’t go by any slower than it already has. 

Jake comes home tonight, and by home, you mean to your apartment where he doesn’t live. 

Your mind goes in loops on what could possibly happen. Scenarios of him getting cold feet and ignoring that any of this happened at all again. Scenes of him unlocking your door, closing in on you, and kissing you before you can even say “hello”. Images of his hands on you, his mouth on you, what it would feel like if he were to…well, oh.

You snap yourself out of it, every bad scenario in your head gets replaced with one where you’ve got Jake working himself on and inside of you. It’s making you feel hot, insane, and entirely too horny for the proposed date night full of talking that needs to be had first. 

Then you freeze, your hand on the handle of your mug as you wonder a bit too hard. 

What if he doesn’t show up at all? 

You did run off the second he left the city and fuck one of your mutual friends. Arguably, you were equally as bad at communicating with him as he was to you during the past few weeks. Sure, you flirted, but was that even enough when he literally put his tongue inside of you “as a friend”? 

God, he’d have every right to not show up. To move on, to never speak to you again. 

You’ve been so stupid. Both of you have, stumbling together but apart into something neither of you could even begin to navigate. For you? Sex is easy. Feelings though? That’s where it gets complicated. Yet, still, you find yourself more willing than ever to let these feelings roam free if he accepts them at face value. 

Solely because of how shitty it felt when you were trying to pretend that Jake was nothing but a one time thing for his sake. 

And when the time comes, after hours of brooding, getting worked up, and feeling insane, you’re looking like a mess when he knocks on your door. So much for looking good for him. You’re an absolute fucking wreck when you open that door and dead-pan stare at him and his bags. 

“Hi,” He smiles, not quite making eye contact because he really is kind of embarrassed by all of this. “I’m here.” 

You step back from the door, eyes remaining on him. 

“You’re here.” You say quietly, watching him step into your apartment and drop his bags. 

You feel his breath before you hear his voice. So much closer than just moments before, right up against your ear, and his arms wrapping tightly around you. 

“Felt like I was gone for too long–” He whines slightly against you, breathing in a breath and taking in your scent. “Didn’t know I could miss you like that.” 

You fucking melt. Out of all of those scenarios and fantasies in your head, this wasn’t one of them. Which goes to show that Jake is the one person in this world who can surprise you time and time again. You’ve hugged him like this hundreds of times, but this one, oh this one. He feels so close after feeling so fucking far away.

“You were gone for two days,” You smile, nuzzling against him and gripping his waist in your own hug. 

“Two days too long, though.” You feel him smile, that little upturn of his lips pushing his cheek up and against you as he chuckles and pulls back.  “We don’t have a lot of time, but we can still make it to the restaurant if you still want to go? I can shower when we get back.”

You pull back, offering him a small nod and feeling a bit let down. You wanted more, especially after that hug. The fact that he can contain himself right now feels isolating. Are you the only one who has a vibrating brain right now? He really wants to have the conversation at the restaurant? 

He really wants to do this the right way?

You look like shit, but arguably he might think he looks worse considering the long trip back to you. Still, the restaurant is the chosen option to have this conversation, and you’re ready to get it over with so that finally the two of you can take a step forward. 

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

The restaurant is nice. There’s a buzz of conversations surrounding the two of you but most of it feels muffled because the only sound you can truly hear is Jake’s hushed and awkward attempts to get the ball rolling. 

“So, I guess that’s why I went to my parent’s house. It’s embarrassing, I know–” He says before you cut him off. 

“Tell me how you felt the past few weeks when we were together.” You say boldly, wanting so badly to have the confirmation that he really does want this, and that he suffered much like you did.

You watch a fan of rosy tint cross his cheeks as he breaks eye contact with you, looking to the table and then back up at you. 

“Okay, um–” He stiffens a bit, glancing around to make sure no one is looking or listening in. “When we weren’t together, it was a lot easier for me to think, but when we were together, I could only really think about one thing.” He admits, nodding to himself. 

You look at him curiously before you see his eyes light up in panic.

“No! No, no. Not like, sex…” He looks down. “I mean, yeah maybe sex too but mostly I just couldn’t stop thinking about ways to make you want me more than anyone else.” 

Your heart swells at his panicked save, and then the words that follow. 

“I think I already did want you more than anyone else.” You admit back to him. “Even if I didn’t know I had feelings until you did that to me– I’m sorry it took me so long to realize.”

He smiles, reaching over the table as if to ask for your hand. 

“What about you? What did you think about when we were together after that night?” He asks for his own confirmation now. 

“Sex. Mostly, I guess. I felt like no one else would ever be able to make me feel that good again.” You look away, feeling ashamed and seen. “Goddamn, I sound so dramatic.”

Jake snorts, laughing at how he should have expected this but the confidence boost is a happy surprise to him. 

“To be fair though, Jake, I think I had my feelings and my lust for you mixed up.” You continue. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I still feel both of those things every time I see you, or even think of you.”

“Feelings and lust?” He nods with a smile and wiggling his eyebrows, his eyes glistening in the warm lighting of the restaurant. 

You nod in confirmation, side eyeing the waitress who walks over to take down your order. 

Both of you are somehow dissociated outside of each other, there’s no way you’re not because you don’t recall what you ordered, nor what he ordered, and he appears to be feeling much the same. The moment she walks away, he’s continuing. 

“I was really that good, huh?” A smirk from him, and a nod from you. 

“What about right now then? How do you feel when you look at me?” He follows up, looking down at the table. 

“Both of those things.” You dead-pan, squeezing your legs together as you look at him and feel the warmth radiating from even this far away. The confirmation of feelings is enough by itself to have your thoughts in the gutter about him, especially after weeks of wanting him. 

Especially after having to be in this stupid fucking restaurant in the first place.

He quirks a brow before lowering his voice, his eyes drooping a bit. 

“Do you have any fucking idea how badly I’ve wanted to get my mouth on you?” 

God, there he is. That same bold best friend who originally suggested eating you out in the first place. Not entirely unfounded that he said it, but fuck, your cheeks are searing. 

“Jake, we’re in public.” You warn, knowing damn well that you’ve not been able to think of anything else either, but for the sake of the foundation of this relationship, you want to tame yourself a little bit.

“Since we started hanging out, every fucking time.” He continues, ignoring your warning. “I would get so mad when you’d go to your little hook-ups. Sometimes I even wondered if you did it intentionally to piss me off.” 

Your cheeks are still hot, but now there’s a bit of guilt filling you. 

“You really had no idea how badly I wanted that to be me?” He continues with his streak of confidence, unintentionally dirty talking to you solely because he, genuinely, cannot deny his attraction or his feelings for you by this point. “Even right now, I want nothing more than to have you to myself.”

You pause, the guilt leaving you in an instant as it’s fully replaced with Jake’s eagerness to have you in full, finally. 

“Why–” You sigh, dropping your head into your hands to hide your face from him. “Why are we at this restaurant again?” 

You feel his hand reach back over to you, removing your hands from your face and dipping down to look at you. 

“It’s so fucking hard to contain myself right now. I can admit that.” He whispers, blinking at you. “If you feel satisfied with where we stand, I’d be more than happy to leave this table now and prove everything to you.”

An instant nod from you, and an instant confirmation from Jake. 

You’re both out of the restaurant before a single sip of water, before a single visual inspection of the forgotten food the two of you ordered, and before any doubt could creep in to ruin the electrifying atmosphere you were indulging in with him. 

For Jake, his self control wavers with each passing moment as you sit next to him in the car. You look so calm as he drives as quickly and safely as possible back to your apartment, shaming himself for ever considering the two of you go in the first place. Still, the outcome is somehow more satisfying. Both of you wanting to leave just so you can truly be alone together? He couldn’t ask for a better night. 

Still, your calmness contrasts the way his insides vibrate the closer he gets to your place, and he wonders how the fuck you manage to do it. If you were to simply glance at him at the right moment, you’d see his entire body melt in the fantasies of what the two of you may be willing to do tonight. 

Years worth of pining in his head and heart are bubbling up now. You’re inviting him in, you’re accepting him, you’re wanting him back. 

What he doesn’t know though, is that you are quite literally imagining yourself wrapped in chains to this seat. Why? Because if it weren’t for those astral chains, you’d be on top of him in an instant, reassuring him that if there’s anything in the world you’ve wanted within the past few weeks, it’s him. You’d be apologizing for never taking note of his feelings before, and kissing away all of the moments he wished he could have had with you before, replacing them with very real, firm, hot kisses. 

Thankfully though, you manage to tame the beast from within and somehow, so does he. Up until you get through your apartment door and the electrifying atmosphere sizzles away in an instant. 

You expected to have the confidence to, quite literally, jump on him as soon as your door closed. Instead, you find yourself standing in awe at the entryway. 

Jake, on the other hand, would love nothing more than to have you right this moment, speeding and parking crooked be damned, he will not allow it just yet. 

“Listen,” He reaches out to you, pulling you up and against his chest. “I need to shower before I let myself do anything.” 

You breathe a sigh of relief, noting that the awkwardness came from the fact that Jake’s energy is seeping out of him, lust and worry for possibly not being as clean as he’d like to be for this. 

It feels strange, actually. You can imagine you’ve had many hook-ups with men who wouldn’t even consider a shower before inviting you over. 

“Hurry up then, before I decide to call Sungh-” 

“Don’t you fucking dare make that joke right now,” Jake squeezes you tighter against you, hating himself for constantly bringing up reasons to wait. 

“If we are going to like,” He pauses, struggling to say it out of pure nervousness that you might change your mind. “You know, be exclusive, Sunghoon’s name is forbidden.”

You chuckle against him before shoving him back in a playful way. 

“Deal. Now, can you fucking hurry?” You roll your eyes playfully, internally a little thankful for the short moments you will have to prepare yourself for this. 

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Damn this shower for feeling so good. Jake could fall asleep under the warmth if it weren’t for the fact that he’s been half-hard this entire time and truly fighting with himself on how to approach this situation.

It’s kind of awkward, actually. Knowing exactly what the two of you are about to do but having to wait even for fifteen minutes makes it seem like you both have a scheduled hook up and nothing more. 

It’s not a hook up though. Jake is finally where he’s always wanted to be with you, in your shower priming his body to go absolutely fucking insane on you. Before, when he ate you out, he really was controlling himself. He wanted to do more with you so bad, and now? God…

He’s flushed as he finally makes his way out of the shower, length still stiffening and softening with each thought that passes. He can barely look at himself in the mirror without wanting to laugh at how embarrassing he truly is. 

You’d probably laugh too, and he’d love the sound of it. 

Then, he’s faced with a dilemma. 

You, on the other hand, find yourself lying quietly in your bedroom after doing your best to fix the mess of yourself for whatever Jake may offer. Waiting for him, and ultimately wondering what the fuck is taking him so long when you finally hear the bathroom door open.

Faintly, you can smell your shampoo and body wash that he used as you hear him make his way to the living room and not find you. 

Then, you hear him making his way to your room. He doesn’t open the door any further than it already was and instead, stands behind it quietly before muttering out. 

“Um,” He starts, putting his hand on your door and only peeking his head in. “I wasn’t sure if there was a point to putting my clothes on–” 

Fucking pause.

God, he must sound so stupid saying that, especially after looking into your room and seeing you lying against your bed changed into the exact same pajamas you put on the night he initially made a move on you through the guise of friendship. 

Well, now it’s not even a question and he was right to assume that all he needed to do was wrap a towel around his waist and come to you. 

You watch his eyes travel your body curiously, a smile forming on his face.

“If you’re wondering if I put panties on this time too,” You smile, reaching a hand out as if to invite him to open that door and come have at it. “I didn’t.”

That’s all it takes, really, to have him pushing the door open and not-so-calmly making his way to your bed. 

Seeing his naked and damp chest is one thing, but smelling your scent all over him is another, especially when the first thing he does is practically envelop you with his body and plant his lips straight on your own. 

The first real kiss. Despite his lips having been on you before, you melt into it and find yourself forgetting how differently he’s acting now compared to before. He was so confident, so cocky, and now he’s almost docile. Meek. 

“I’ve wanted to do this for so long,” He leans back to whisper, adjusting his body so that he’s more comfortable and leaning down on one arm while the other holds your cheek. “Can’t believe you let me eat you out before ever letting me actually kiss you.”

Your face heats up at the comment, making you feel more scandalous than you ever truly tried to be. But he’s not wrong, and you regret making him feel like eating you out was the only way to get to your heart.

Strangely though, it was the way to your heart. Him doing that for you practically threw you into the deep end in search for more, from him, specifically. 

“Can’t believe you decided that you should just eat me out rather than admit your feelings for me.” You counter with a smile, lifting your head to kiss against him again and pretending you can’t feel the weight of his length under the loosely knotted towel on his waist. 

“Well, it worked, didn’t it?” He says through the kisses, quickly losing the ability to speak when you lick against his bottom lip and, ultimately, take control of the act.

He wonders what your mouth could do to him. His entire body reacts to the way your tongue flicks and licks against his own, it takes everything in him to try and control himself from pushing too far too soon– until he realizes that there is no reason to control himself now. 

Never has making out gotten him this turned on, and it’s not a surprise because it’s you. 

He half moans, half chuckles into your kiss when he does it, pressing his hips down and against your thigh much like he did previously to the very mattress he’s got you lying against. 

“There’s so much I want to do,” He finally admits, pulling back from the kiss and hanging his head to feel how his cock reacts to the flesh of your thigh. “Please, let me do all of it.” 

You sigh, somehow feeling a pang of arousal radiate between your legs despite not yet being touched there. The weight of him on you is enough, and all you can do is nod and await the ways he intends to relieve himself with you.

Hours of head, he could give. Even more hours of burying his cock between those pretty lips and watching you return the favor for him. His confidence grows as your body moves under him, waiting, waiting, waiting for what he will do next. 

First, he plants another kiss to you, pressing his hips hard against your thigh with a breathy sigh before moving his lips down, against your neck. 

At the same time, his hands work their way up your loose shirt, cupping one breast in his palm and easily teasing your nipple with his fingers. He works his lips down the center of your clothed chest, down to your stomach, and then up again. His nose nudges your shirt up with each kiss, until his lips replace his fingers and he’s sucking your nipple into his mouth.

You’ve never felt so wanted in your life with the way he appears to be savoring you. Leaving his own pleasure neglected once again, his entire focus is on you. You arch your back up a bit, hands shooting to his head and cradling it there against your breast. 

He groans when you scratch against the nape of his neck, wiggling your hips under him and chasing the sensation that his mouth manages to send to your clit. He groans again when your nipple remains firm between his lips, and he begins to nibble. 

And this time, he moans when he manages to trail one of his hands down just to see how much it will take of this to get you wet. He tucks one hand under your shorts, only to find that you’re already dripping, soaking his fingers with a mere single slide up your folds.

“Fuck,” He sighs as if it’s a compliment when he pops his mouth off of you, flicking his head up to look at your already dazed eyes. “Already?” 

You glance away, embarrassed by how badly you want the man who was once your best friend, and is now….more than that. You can feel his fingers graze and gently play around with the heat your body has already released for him, rolling your eyes back each time he pretends he’s going to offer pressure to your clit. 

He’s fucking teasing you, and you know it.

He knows it too, because of fucking course he is. After years of torture, wondering if you’d ever manage to get wet at all with the thought of him, here you are, dripping under him when all he’s done is kiss you and fondle your nipples. 

Briefly, he remembers how needy your hips were when his tongue was seeping into you. He remembers the taste of each thrust you pressed against his face, and the smell of how badly you needed him at the time. 

As used as he was by you that night, he wants nothing more now than to pull those same desperate moans from you, to taste the wet inside of you that no man ever managed to release for you. 

“I feel like I’m going insane,” He finally breathes out, still toying with your folds and keeping an eye on the way your eyes glare back at him. “I want you so fucking bad–” He stutters now, instantly sliding his fingers into you and scooting down on the bed at lightening speed, pressing your loose shorts to the side just to get the taste of you against his lips again.

Your legs instantly shoot over his shoulders, and one of his hands reaches up to hug your thigh against him as his tongue immediately laps at every dip and crease of your cunt. His eyes nearly roll back at being able to experience this again, his fingers holding firm without a single movement just so he can feel your body confirm that you want him just as much. 

The clench around his fingers are enough, and he licks around them only for a moment before returning his lips to your clit and giving you all he’s got. 

All he can feel is your legs tightening around his head, nearly lifting your ass up and off of the bed, all he can hear is his own moans vibrating through him each time he hears you react. 

Arguably, even after that brief moment of teasing from him, feeling his mouth so eager, much like before, sent you straight into a blissed state and made you forget about the restaurant, the shower, the weeks of pining before this. His mouth is so warm, and his vibrating moans sooth your clit through its desperate attempts to beg for more. 

You can’t help the fact that your legs hug his head, or the way your hands shoot down much like before, scratching through his hair before dropping down and spreading yourself open with two fingers solely to expose your clit in full to the assault of his tongue he’s giving you. 

He missed you so much, he missed this so much. Never again will he leave you wondering, from this point forward, you should be well aware that if you so much as pushed him to his knees and lifted a leg over his shoulder, he’d be eating like a fucking king. 

Still, even with his immense love for kissing your pussy until your legs shake, there’s more to be experienced here than just this. His pace slows with the reality of that, and only now does he move his fingers with intent, and he pulls back to see how you’re spreading yourself for him, even as your legs fall from his shoulders.

“Fuck.” He rasps, lips glistening with a mixture of his own saliva and your slick. 

You lend him a drunken smile, nodding slowly as you focus in on the way his fingers scissor you open. Within a blink though, his face is right there hovering above you, staring intently at the way you react to his fingers. 

“You look so good right now, you know that?” He compliments, leaning down again to plant a kiss against you, only pumping his fingers in faster when your kiss appears to be more hungry than his own. “God, I can feel you squeeze my fingers–” 

And it’s true, he’s seeing stars solely because he can feel the clench of your pussy walls pushing his two fingers together, almost pushing against his attempts to scissor you open and curl them into the spot inside he knows you have. He can only imagine how good that would feel if he were to…

His eyes squeeze shut in a drawn out moan at the thought, his own kiss growing more hungry as he releases the towel from his waist and quickens the pace of his fingers inside of you. 

You can feel him press his cock against you, and the weight of it only becomes heavier when his fingers pause inside of you just so he can slip them out and use those same slick-coated digits to hold his length down and against you before he slides it between your lips. Now coating himself in the same wet sensation. 

You listen closely to his moan, knowing that he seems fond of neglecting his own pleasure to the point of doing near-embarrassing things to get it back when he needs it the most. It’s strangled, almost. You can hear him swallow around it when he slides up harshly, bumping your clit and causing your shorts to stretch against the crease of your thigh. 

He seems so…desperate. Yet, he can have anything he wants. 

“Keep it spread open–” He mutters when he feels you try to remove the hand that had been holding your pussy out on display for him. “I want to feel all of it.”

God, you’ve never heard him say something so sexy. Easily you do as he says, now using both hands to hold either side of your pussy open for him, and feeling the underside of his length slide against your hole. 

You let out a pleased sigh, despite your shorts becoming a nuisance at this point. It’s easy to forget you’re still wearing them though, because they only become drenched more and more as the moments pass with Jake.

You can genuinely just assume that his cock must be aching as he does this, leaking all over you. That’s something you don’t mind at all, because the stimulation is far beyond what you could ever ask for. 

“Jake–” You try to speak, only to be cut off by his hand sliding under your head and his lips attaching yet again to you.

There, you can’t help it when you remove your hands and shoot them up to his face. Holding him there, feeling the way his jaw moves when he licks into your mouth in a desperate attempt to get as much of you as he can in this moment. 

His hips fuck forward much like they did into his palm all those weeks ago, and the anticipation of if or when he finally plunges it into you drives you to kiss him just as hard as he does you.

There is nothing but the sound of kissing in the room save for muffled moans from both of you, entirely tangled up together as he does nothing more than grind himself against you. His hand cradling your head and the other still pressing his length down and against you as close as he can manage. Yours, cupping his cheeks as he kisses you, up until you run one hand down to take over for him.

In that moment, with his free and now shaking hand, he pulls back entirely and just looks at you.

He’s out of it, entirely gone from this world as he stares down with his hair drying by the minute from that shower, messy as all hell with darkened hooded eyes. He continues to stare, each thrust against you becoming pointed to the extent that it almost feels like he’s already fucked you for hours. 

And then, you feel it. The weight lifting, your shorts being stretched until they’re sliding down your thighs and off of you, and then the warmth as he adjusts his hips just barely enough to line up with your quivering hole, practically begging for him to stretch you out for the first time. 

His eyes falter only for a moment when he realizes that this is a moment he will never forget. The way you look up at him with glassy and needy eyes, out of breath, seemingly loving him as much as he’s always loved you. 

“Yeah?” He whispers, not breaking eye contact even for a moment. 

“Please.” You mutter out, not fully intending for it to sound so broken.

And as broken as your voice was in that instance, he grows much weaker by it. Dropping his head with a deep sigh, a smile, and then a chuckle.

“You really, really, can’t look at me like that and expect me to be gentle…” He pauses to look at you again. “For your sake, please tell me to slow down.”

You can barely comprehend a word he’s saying when you can feel the head of his cock teasing where you need it the most. 

“Please.” You rasp out again, wrapping your legs around his waist and forcing his body forward, ultimately sliding the tip of his length into you yourself. 

“Oh, fuck–” He chokes out before sucking in a breath and letting out a moan at the feeling. His body jerks at the sensation, the sound of your voice, the way you pulse around him. “Fuck, so good.” He continues to mutter, controlling himself for only a few seconds longer just to see if you have the ability to understand that he truly and honestly will not have the ability to go easy on you at this point. 

“Deeper.” You plead, squeezing your legs tighter around him, uncaring of his attempt to control the situation. 

That’s all it takes. Your broken voice already had him shaking, and now he’s giving up any and all control that he could have possibly hoped to have. 

Right there, with your legs hugging his waist, your hands gripping the pillow behind your head, and his hands finding purchase on either side of your shoulders, he sinks himself into you as deep as he can go and feels as if the life is being choked out of him over how fucking good it feels. 

He throws his head back in an erotic and attractive moan of relief, allowing you a glimpse at the expanse of his stretched neck, naked of any marked territory. Still, your vision goes white when the stretch hits you.

So big, so strong on top of you. You can imagine he really could fuck you hard, you hope he doesn’t go gentle on you at all, actually

“Shit, please,” You moan brokenly again, releasing your pillow and gripping his forearms. “Jake, god–” You have no words to describe how good he feels inside of you, you couldn’t begin to fathom trying to explain to him how perfect he is. 

It feels deep, deeper than you ever could have imagined. His length alone should have been enough to tell you that, but you hadn’t yet factored in the girth of it. So heavy inside of you, touching each soft and sensitive surface your pussy has to offer. 

Your body jolts in adjustment, knocking the breath out of you despite him not moving just yet. 

“Shh–” He soothes, not at all actually wanting to hush your cries for him. In fact, he’s simply saying it because he could quite literally release at any moment if you continue to speak and clench him like this. And when he finally looks down at you, he can’t fucking help it.

His hips move at their own volition, and he was right in believing there is no gentle fuck to be had here. He slides out only slightly, with the intent to fuck you as full of him as he can. He wants to stay deep, because you asked, and he wants to keep you feeling stretched around him because he can truly never get over the way you look and sound right now. 

You shake at the feeling of him pressing impossibly deeper into you, keeping his hips flush against you before snapping his hips back more now. A slightly empty feeling inside of you being filled once again within a second. 

His moans sound beautiful, he feels beautiful, and all you can do is stare up at him with watery eyes and a slack jaw, wondering why it took him so long to do this with you.

Wondering why it took you so long to want it at all, when now, you think you could never feel this good with another person again. 

His arms flex in your grasp with each thrust, and his eyes land on each visible part of your body before he weakens his stance and lowers himself to you, hips still fucking you open at a pace that’s only becoming more and more rapid, more and more fucking blinding. 

“Yeah, yeah–” Jake suddenly chimes with out of breath words, kissing you before you can comprehend or respond to those words. “No one has ever reacted like this for me–” He continues, pointing his thrusts harder into you. “Feels so good, so tight around me.” He chokes up at the last few words, stuttering his and picking up a different pace.

This time, those harsh thrusts pull back further, emptying you before slowly pressing into you again. 

“I want you to remember how this feels,” He continues, seemingly rambling against your lips with each slow thrust. “No one will ever fuck you like I will.” 

Your hooded eyes shoot open with arousal at his confident boasting. Those words feel so final, as if it isn’t even a rule, but a logical fact that only the two of you could ever find to be true. 

You can’t even manage a response, and instead moan before tucking your lips up and against his neck, using one hand to grip his hair and skew his head. 

That once naked and markless neck is no more. He is yours, and you’re lucky enough now to know that this is exactly how he wants you to feel. 

“Ahh, you like that?” He questions your reaction to his words, feeling your hips make attempts to meet him halfway with each thrust. “You like when I talk?” He continues to urge your sucking lips to speak out to him, to answer him, to boost his ego just a bit more. 

“So much,” You nearly whimper against his neck, moving your lips to another spot. “Love when you’re confident like this–”

He’s in heaven hearing those words. As if it’s a confirmation that he wasn’t just talking dirty. You both truly take those words and will fuck by them from this point forward. He truly doesn’t want anyone else, and hopefully, you’d never give another person the chance to make an attempt to fuck you the way he does. 

And then the room falls silent again, as if Jake is focused on reminding you with each passing second that he’s never been more sure or right of something in his life. Despite you already believing him, the way his cock pulses inside of you is enough of a reminder even if he had never said it in the first place. 

His pace quickens again, and then slows, and then stutters. Only to fall back into a good rhythm before his entire body starts to shake through the act. 

You wonder if this is it. Is this how his body reacts when he’s about to cum? Is this what his face looks like? Is this what his eyes do? Did his arms strain like this the first time? Did his moans come out as choked and desperate? 

None of that matters, because as quickly as it started, he buries himself into you again and stays in that one spot, shaking and timidly looking down at you. 

“Don’t move, please, don’t move.” He practically begs, losing himself to the way your hips chase the feeling of constant stimulation. “Stop moving.” He pleads again, pulling his chest from you and sitting up on his knees, keeping his cock in place deep within you. 

You watch him, unable to keep your hips still, and he watches you– trying to keep his orgasm under control before seeing your fingers trail down your stomach and to your clit.

There, he loses himself, watching you rub the soft spot just above where his cock stuffs you full. 

“I can’t,” He chokes out, snapping his hips back and allowing himself to get lost in the feeling. “Fuck, I really can’t.” He continues to mutter out, pressing his strings of cum ever deeper inside of you as he feels every muscle in his body tense. 

It feels so sensitive, but he can’t stop moving, feeling his cum fill you up to the point it’s surely being pressed out of you by his desperate length wanting nothing more than to stay inside of you.

You moan through it with him, encouraging him to lose himself inside of you, and he’s so beautiful when he does it. The fact that he does it at all has your body tensing on its own. Teetering on the edge of your own orgasm with the way your fingers almost aggressively chase after the feeling he appears to still be releasing inside of you.

And then, emptiness. You are left empty and dripping, fingers still chasing your release before–

“What the fu–” You moan, squeezing your eyes shut at the feeling of his tongue instantly back on you. As if he’s looping back to the beginning of it all, uncaring of tasting himself solely because through it all, he can still taste you. “Jake, Fuck–yes, right there.” You continue to groan when he replaces his tongue against your hole with his fingers, fucking into you as quickly as he can before nudging your fingers away and taking over the chase of your orgasm. 

You’re entirely amazed by how eager he is to pull it from you, and that alone is enough. The desperate ways in which he decided to pleasure you right in this moment, it’s enough.

Your hands instantly reach for his hair, gripping so tightly that you can hear the pained sound he lets out at the sheer force behind it. You very nearly rub his nose in the mess he’s made of you out of the sheer arousal you feel through your orgasm. 

You’re seeing white, feeling his fingers expertly work you open and somehow don’t feel disappointed at all that you didn’t get there before he pulled out of you. You can still feel him dripping out, fingers squelching and sliding through the mixture of both orgasms inside of you. And his tongue, good lord his fucking tongue, licking up every bit and eagerly flicking your clit at a pace much faster than he offered before.

And now, you find your legs nearly kicking him across the room. As soon as the orgasm subsides, your body goes into overdrive with the overwhelming sensitivity between your legs and all he can do is laugh at the way you practically do kick him.

Right off the bed, actually, he tumbles. 

You lay there, staring into space as you attempt to bring yourself back to reality when you see his messy hair and glistening eyes peek from the edge of your bed at you. His shoulders huffing with each deep breath he takes. 

“Jesus fucking christ.” You manage to gasp out, spread eagle and almost completely naked on your bed save for the forgotten shirt that’s still pushed up to your collarbone. 

He makes his way back up to you, pressing your legs together, lowering your shirt, and planting his heavy dead-weight right on top of you. 

A solid ten minutes pass as the two of you lay there in the mess you’ve both created. Heavy breaths turn to easy, balanced breaths together. You can barely hold your eyes open when he finally rolls off of you and right up against your side. 

“Can I ask you something?” He mutters, throat dry and stomach growling embarrassingly loud. 

“Hm?” You hum out, entirely ready to just sleep in the mess.

“Are you always like that?” He questions, a little hint of doubt breaking his confidence. “Like, did Sunghoon see you act like that too?” 

You crack your eyes open and instantly turn to face him. 

“You’re insane if you think Sunghoon is that good. I’ve never used the word ‘please’ in my life.”

Jake glances away, thinking to himself and letting those words sink in.

“Well,” He starts, pausing and feeling that little pit in his stomach return. “That’s a lie because I’ve heard you use your manners at least twice in the years I’ve known you.” 

You smile, loving that the two of you can still be somewhat catty and playful even after the fact that you just realized how insanely in love with him you are. 

“Jake, no one has ever made me act like this in bed.” You try to reassure him. “I don’t think anyone else could, besides you.”

He smiles with a nod, running his hands down your body before pausing at the half dried cum that managed to make its way up to your stomach. And then? He groans. 

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

It’s insane really, that all it took for you to fall in love with the person you think you were always meant to love was him admitting it. Even more insane that he decided to take the route that involved faux playful head, with no feelings attached despite his feelings being deeply fucking attached. 

Still, the route taken to get to this point, he thinks, is fitting for the two of you. Especially now that he can look at Sunghoon without wanting to strangle him, and he can look at you knowing you’d very much invite him to strangle you, you know, considering the fact that you’re now trying to explore every sexual realm in the fucking universe with him.

Even with the desperate need to have you under him any chance he gets, and the fucking, and the arousal, none of it shines brighter than the small intimate moments he has with you that aren’t weighed down by pining or lust. 

As playful as the two of you are together, there is so much love here. So much love to still be discovered too, and he can’t help but feel excited by it. 

Romance isn’t dead, despite how the two of you tried to fucking butcher it. 

[hwallazia]

XMAS DINNER GOES WRONG – 정우영

⋆ synopsis. it seems like your husband can’t keep it in his pants, not even on a fucking christmas dinner with his family. but, as the lovely wifey you are, you gotta give him some relief, right?

pairing. husband! jung wooyoung & fem! reader.

wc. 3,2k

warnings. smut (mdni!), suggestive language, cussing, almost!! getting caught by wooyoung’s mom (oops), pet names (love, babe, my wife, pretty girl & more), nipple play, wooyoung sucks your entire skin (neck, collarbone, tits and the list can continue…), teasing, wooyoung tears your panties to shreds heh, not dirty—NASTY TALK, begging, yn at some point says “stop” but it’s bc she’s far too blissed out; not bc she actually wanted him to stop, this is alllll consensual!!, unprotected sex, praise ofc, squirting, gut-wrenching fluff in the end ‘cause love him too much.

nic’s notes ⋆ first ff of the xmas event yes sir !! i felt some shit writing this istg (๑/////๑ " )

you know holidays, right?

the perfect opportunity for the entire family to gather and celebrate achievements, blessings, and thousands and thousands of other things. cousins, nephews, aunts, uncles, and even great-grandparents were reunited in that cold and windy winter night. an entire feast was splayed on the table for everyone’s delightfulness, different kinds of foods and smells mixing and creating a delicious, toe-curling experience for anyone’s nostrils.

the hours you had spent shopping for every ingredient for each dish, cutting the vegetables, cooking everything to the exact, perfect point and term really paid off once your and your husband’s family were brought together at the large, dark oak table to celebrate your very first holiday — both families now joined together as one.

nothing could go wrong. the chatting flew as calm and joyful as spring water, sharing experiences and old memories pleasingly, smiles spread like the most enchanting disease—as well as the wholesome ambience, and everything was accompanied by a delightful meal, the well-deserved five star bonus of the evening.

so, if everything was meant to go perfectly, then why the hell was your husband staring at you with the most explicit, sluttiest “fuck me” eyes you’ve ever seen?

wooyoung sat in front of you, his two cousins sitting each on his sides. his plate was rather full, and that had an explanation: he was far too gone and busy burying heart-shaped daggers into your eyes while his hand cupped his cheek, head tilting to his right — his tongue glided over his dry bottom lip every now and then. you’d bet that none of his thoughts were in the bible. ‘cause fuck, even his younger brother would guess that something’s odd about him. that that’s not the usual behavior of his dear older brother.

“yn? darling?” the voice of wooyoung’s mother dragged out quickly of your insulation bubble. her tilted head clearly showed that she had been trying to talk to you for a while. a soft, warming hue of red struck your cheekbones.

as you gyrated your head to meet her worried gaze, you replied. “yes! mrs. jung, ‘m sorry. what were you saying?”

“are you doing fine, sweetie? you were gone for a bit.” she stared at you intently, genuinely worried about her daughter in-law. oh that woman was almost a fallen angel—if not one. if only she knew it was his own son who was to blame—the very last person she’d suspect, and oh, how deliciously ironic that was.

the figure of your husband’s shit-eating grin could be seen out of the corner of your eye—a sight that ignited a fiery rage within you, yet one you couldn’t help but savor, lingering on the view as long as possible before responding to your sweet mother-in-law. “oh, it was nothing. i’m prolly just zoning out because of how tired i am. y’ know, spending the entire day in the kitchen was exhausting.” the cherry on top of the excuse was the little, innocent giggle you emitted by the end. the woman gave you the most pitiful, yet endearing look. she lifted her arm, indicating with her open palm the white stairs, the reflection of the christmas-decorated banister lighting up her eyes.

“oh, sweetheart. you should go rest, it’s pretty late after all.” her gesture softened your heart, chest clenching a bit.

this woman was going to be the death of you! … uhm, never mind. first place is taken by wooyoung, who seems quite excited with the idea of going upstairs with you, by the way. take a guess at what his mind is scheming.

you shook your hands in front of your chest, quickly denying the opportunity. “thank you really, but i’m okay. i’ll just go wash my face.” you excused yourself, hovering your leg over the other and getting yourself up. “maybe that way i can wake up completely.” ending with a little giggle, you started walking towards the staircase when suddenly, the voice of your dear husband rang inside your ears.

“excuse me. i’ll go help my wife.” his foxy eyes curved into crescent moons, and his lips stretched wide, forming an upward line. oh fuck, you were done for.

“oh yes, i was about to ask you to do the same. please, son.” she stated, nodding approvingly. oh what a gentleman she had raised.

you resumed your steps quickly, arriving to the second floor in less than you expected. you turned your head, only to be met with an empty corridor. thank goodness he hadn’t gotten there yet.

or so you thought. ‘cause when you refocused your attention to your front, a pair of arms grabbed you by your waist and swung you around the air in a swift motion as he dragged you to an empty room. the last sound heard in the corridor was the slam of a closing door.

your breathless body was pinned against a cold wall, trapped between two quite familiar, tanned arms. simultaneously, your disoriented irises tried to adjust to the darkness of the room and focus on the feverish, hungry eyes standing in front of you.

“wh… what the fuck was that.” you muttered as the remains of your breath flew away. wooyoung seemed enchanted by your current state though.

“heeey, don’t curse at me like that.” his gentle, cocky voice penetrated your mind like a bullet. knuckles crept up the sides of your exposed arms, providing soothing strokes — goosebumps prickled to life in response. he opened his warm palms and reached to your also bare shoulder, massaging them. “after all, ’m jus’ here to help you.” he pulled his secret weapon and started making out with your neck, licking your flesh like a starving man and spreading wet kisses all over it.

“help me? how are you helping me like this?” you uttered as your breath hitched, head leaning to the side at the right angle to give him enough space.

wooyoung sucked that sensitive spot that always made your eyes roll to the very back of your head, dragging a whine out of you successfully. his chuckle and victorious smirk didn’t go unseen by your already blissed-out self. he leaned back a little to admire you. just for a bit, palms not leaving their place. “you’ll know when we’re done.” his hands moved in a swift motion, arms wrapping around your thighs and shoulders, lifting you effortlessly in a princess carry. “for now, just shut up and enjoy it, hm?”

“w-wooyoung—you know we can’t do this now— angh!” your anxious, flustered self made a futile attempt to reason with wooyoung, hoping he’d remember that both your families were gathered downstairs for a fucking christmas dinner—while he, entirely unbothered, seemed more than eager to spend the evening thoroughly ruining you in the bed just one floor above. and that was clearly shown when he threw you to the bed as if you were the lightest feather and immediately crawled to you.

“c’mon, love. i just wanna help you stay awake” his gravelly voice purred gift next to your ear as his taunting hands played with the sides of your dress, fingertips aching and itching to rip it off you.

he had you underneath him, completely flustered and nervous. he knew you were really anxious about the dinner—you’d spent a whole hour straight ranting about how nerve-wracking the preparations were, only to end up feeling physically ill from the overwhelming surge of dopamine flooding your system. but your reddened cheeks were smiling at him and your plump lips were whispering nasty things to him. holy fuck, how couldn’t he be tempted?

he needed to be balls deep in you. now.

his skillful tongue found home in your neck and collarbone, sucking cute love bites all over. but, your body was still tense, too uneasy at the thought of the possible scenario of someone entering the room and catching the two of you in such a compromising position.

“b-babe, please—hmph”

in a sultry tone, he muttered, “already begging. so fucking cute.” a smirk was drawn on his lips before his hands reached to your cleavage and popped your tits out of your low-cut dress. “y’ want me to fuck you? ‘s that what it is?”

before you could even think of an answer, he dived right into your breasts, licking your sensitive nipples as though they were his favorite toy — because they absolutely were.

god, the incessant thoughts that ran through your head and his tongue lapping around your buds were too much. everything was starting to be too much, and he hadn’t even taken your clothes off. with heightened sensitivity, your lips fell open and a beautiful, sweet melody of your moans and whimpers escaped through them — a delightful melody for your husband’s ears.

impatient hands stripped you of your glittery dress, leaving you with nothing but your black, thin panties. wooyoung took a moment for himself — well, more accurately for you, to admire and revel in your beauty as he should. a rush of blood surged to his cock, making it throb even harder than before. he was no more than a man, overwhelmed by desire. “you’re fucking irresistible, y’ know that?” he started down to where your and his crotch connected, brows furrowing when he saw your clothed pussy. “i think it’s time for this to go.”

a sharp rrrrrip! bounced through the walls and brought your attention. “woo did you just—?!” you followed the movement of his hands, which discarded the shreds of black fabric to the floor. “that was my—! hahh” and his thumb flew right to your already swollen clit, stimulating it with circling motions.

“why’re you whining when you know i’ll buy you ten more pairs,” he whispered as he soaked in the unsteady shiftiness of your body — and for that, he posed a strong yet harmless grip on your waist. his fat thumb worked nonstop over your bud, sending sparks right to it. your body jolted upward at the feeling of his middle and index fingers tracing soft lines up your pink folds. the sight of your walls clenching and relaxing around nothing spun him. “ooh, what a greedy wifey i got.” he chuckled under his breath, gaze stuck to his home — and i mean your cunt. “sooo desperate for my fingers, huh?”

at this point, any sense or unsteady thought had already vanished away, completely replaced by a selfish state of mind. you wanted him to finger you, fuck you, drive you insane. and you wanted it right fucking now. and so you mewled, “god, please just do something.”

“got the name wrong, darling.” and with that, he pushed two fingers at once inside your fluttering walls, tugging a satisfied moan out of you. “it’s wooyoung. or hubby” he giggled. he fucking giggled as he rammed those fingers mercilessly, shooting stars and fireworks filling your vision.

“w-wait stop— baby, please— fffuck!” stuttering words and incoherent gibberish spilled from your swollen lips, too red and slick from how often and harshly you’d bitten them; eyes welling up with tears from the intense pleasure overload.

“stop?” a chuckle rumbled through his chest. “fine then” he withdrew his long phalanges, leaving you empty. completely fucking empty, with velvety and throbbing walls already missing him. you cried as you felt the void of your pulsating pussy, but before you could coax a desperate “please” from your lips, wooyoung grabbed you by the waist. you gasped, as he manhandled you, positioning you on top, naked folds grazing his clothed sex.

you pouted and wooyoung laughed. he was finding this shit way too funny. “since you so nicely begged me to stop, then put your back into it, mm?” a loud smack! reverberated through the walls as his heavy palm landed on the flesh of your ass. “fuck yourself on my cock, pretty girl.”

and did he have to tell you twice. desperate, shuddering hands worked on his dress pants, quickly undoing his belt and zipping it down just enough to uncover his rock-hard bulge. you grabbed the band of his boxers and pulled it down as well, his cock springing finally free. with a smooth movement, you took his member and positioned it below you. and just before you sit down on him completely, someone knocked on the fucking door.

the surprise caused you to jolt and lose control, sinking in a faster and sloppier motion than you intended — a loud cry resonating through the thin walls the moment his tip kissed your cervix perfectly. with eyes wide open, you slapped a hand over your mouth, cursing yourself for being so fucking noisy and sensitive and—

“yn? are you in here?” the muffled voice of wooyoung’s mother echoed from the other side of the door.

shit shit shit.

“y-yes, ma’am! i… ’m kinda busy over in here—ugh!” you tried to speak as loud and clear as you could, but wooyoung seemed to be unbothered by your efforts since he grabbed your hips and started swaying your core up and down his girth. up, down, up, down.

you stared at your husband with glaring eyes, stabbing knives into his. fuck, did this man even care about being heard by his own mother? now, with all doubts gone, you’re certain you’ve married a freak.

“are you okay, sweetie? what’s going on over there?”

and you swear you heard the door creaking open, so you exclaimed. “no! everything’s fine!” you yelped, your voice higher-pitched than you intended. “please don’t come in.”

wooyoung chuckled underneath you, soaking in the sight of your nervous self trying to mute your cries as your tits bounced right on his face. he could die right there and then and he’d be happy. “what’s wrong, baby? can’t take it?” he whispered as he gazed directly into your tightly scrunched eyes, your partially open mouth releasing nothing more but silent cries and pleas.

“fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.” you hushed soundlessly, yet willingly bouncing up and down his length. the low, manly giggle he uttered spun you. fuck, he had you wrapped up around his finger.

“oookay? uhm, do you know where my son is? is he there with you?”

he grinned. that shit-eating grin you hated so damn much appeared all across his face. “c’mon pretty, tell her the truth. tell her how good i’m fucking you, how good you’re taking my cock, hm?” he growled into your ear, his voice low and raspy, sending shivers down your spine. the sound was intoxicating, clouding your thoughts and turning your mind into mush.

your throbbing walls clenched around him subconsciously, his head rocking back in reaction. “he’s… he’s here with me, h-helping me like he said he would.”

wooyoung seemed utterly satisfied by your answer, his grin only spreading wider. “that’s my wife. so beautiful.”

“perfect then! i’ll see you in a bit then.” after those words, no other sound was heard — other than the wet clapping of your flesh against his hips.

“‘s she gone?” your half-lidded eyes stared down at your husband, who was hugging you by the waist, face deeply buried in your bobbing, soft tits. your hands flew to the back of his head, cupping his neck whilst caressing his raven hair fondly. at your words, his head lifted, and took a glance at your divine expression.

“baby, i didn’t care, not even a second, if she was hearing or not.” his intoxicating, dark irises sent love letters to yours, utterly drunk in love. “i jus’ wanna cum inside your sweet pussy.”

skillful fingers crept to your hardened, overstimulated nipples and all the way down where your bodies collided, positioning right on your clit. his left hand stroked your firm nipple and played with one breast, letting wooyoung’s tongue take care of the other whilst his right hand shifted rapidly over your bundle of nerves.

he fell in love with you again as he saw your back arching into a perfect crescent moon. “good girl.” your loud whines and moans only encouraged him to keep going. “so responsive to me.” he exhaled breathlessly. “fuck, are you about to cum, baby?”

“y-yeah, fuck— woo, i-i’m gonna cum, ‘m gonna fucking cum” you yelped as your bounces became sloppier, more desperate and more reckless. wooyoung motivated you by whispering sweet things and heart-melting praises right into your ear.

“cum, baby. cum for me, milk me dry.” and with one last bounce, you sprayed your juices all over him, soaking his pants and white shirt even more.

exasperated grunts and exhales left your husband’s mouth at the sensation of your folds clamping down on him — you definitely understood the assignment of milking him dry. ‘cause your pussy received the hot ropes of cum that his dick spurted out with great pleasure, sucking the life out of his poor, now softened length.

you crumbled down on him, your weakened core landing on top of him with his dick still inside you. your head found home in the crook of his neck as his hand reached to your back, wrapping your waist safely whilst the other provided soothing ministrations to your face. with your last ounce of strength, you pulled the sheets over your naked bodies, an even warming sensation drowning the both of you.

“fuck” was all you could mutter. “how’re we going to get back there, they’re waiting for us.”

wooyoung hummed thoughtfully, the vibrations rumbling through his chest and brushing against your skin. “we could pretend we fell asleep. with that, they shouldn’t suspect a thing.”

“hey that’s actually a great id—“

the door creaked open and your bodies jerked softly. the both of you knew exactly what to do, so your eyes flew shut. wooyoung even started snoring quietly to add a spec of realism to the scene.

the sound of your mothers’ voice echoed through your ears. “she said wooyoung was helping… her” wooyoung’s mom immediately lowered her voice as she took in the scene. an almost soundless aww escaped your mom’s lips.

“well sure he was helping her.” your mother sighed at the wholesome moment she had the luck of appreciating.

“i think he was massaging her. ‘cause when i knocked on the door, i could hear like— muffled sounds, that seemed like moans.” she stated, and you froze in place — well, not like you could move an inch. “at first i was confused, but then she clarified that wooyoung-ah was helping her “like he said he would”” she remarked your words as if she had studied them.

“oh i see.” your mother spoke. “i think we should let them sleep. my poor yn had a long day.”

and with that, the door shut closed with a soft click.

wooyoung giggled under the covers as your face burned from the embarrassment.

“massaging? well, that’s a way to put it.”

“wooyoung, babe, as much as i love you, please shut the fuck up.”

he laughed wholeheartedly, a gut-wrenching sound that never fails to make you smile. “you embarrassed, my love?”

you slapped your open palm against his exposed chest as you whined. “stoppp.”

his small, soft giggle buzzed inside your eardrums before he left on the top of your head a kiss full of fondness and affection. “cutie.”

| masterlist

[keferon]

“I've done something wrong again. It's not moving.”

There was a lot of stuff spread out in front of him. Old spare parts, pieces of armor, tools. Lots of warped plates.

And his creation. A real golem. An entity woven of metal and magic.

Shockwave walked around the table and stopped right above the head of the figure lying on it

“Golems exist to serve, my friend. It won't move unless you ask it to.”

Orion clutched his servos. The figure remained stone still. There was no ventilation noise, no engine sound, not even the barely audible spinning of a spark. It could just as easily have been a long-cooled dead body lying in front of him.

“Wake up.”

___________________ Part 2->

Magical Golem Prowl anyone? ‘,:) This story exists in the same universe as Spellbound au. and Monster hunter au and ties them together so I highly recommend you read all of them.

The fic under the cut⤵️

He seemed to be nothing.

The emptiness that infinitely defined his nonexistent self bounced off the metal plates and glinted in the droplets of still-warm energon. He was nothing, but there was so much around him that the space was like an infinite buzz of cluttered noise. The voices above him sounded excited. The metal slab beneath him was cold and hard.

“Good. Now you need to put a piece of your armor on this. Somewhere it will be in plain sight and easily reachable.”

“Oh...wouldn't it make more sense to hide it under the armor? I mean, it's an obvious weak point.”

He idly thought, his hands felt numb.

“No no, that's the whole point. You're using an artifact you haven't fully studied and you don't know exactly how it's going to turn out. If it goes crazy and becomes dangerous, you should have an easy way to destroy it. Where's the artifact by the way?”

The tinkling of metal.

The sound of a crystal clattering against armor.

Warm hands on his head.

“Here.”

“Excellent. Now. This will be the base on which the entire spell will be held, so you want to hide this artifact very well and secure it carefully so it doesn't break by mistake.”

Did he have hands too? He was nothing, why did he have hands? It didn't make sense.

Orion took a couple steps away from the table and stood pensively.

“I've done something wrong again. It's not moving.”

There was a lot of stuff spread out in front of him. Old spare parts, pieces of armor, tools. Lots of warped plates.

And his creation. A real golem. An entity woven of metal and magic.

Shockwave, hitherto distracted by an almost invisible spot on his shoulderplate, glanced leisurely over Orion's shoulder

“Golems don't need much to function. You made a good shell. The magical structure is strong as well, I see.”

Orion hesitantly pointed to the golem's forehead, decorated with a neat sharp chevron.

“I added some things that weren't in your instructions and I think I made a mistake somewhere.”

“Golem making is a complex skill, don't give up if it doesn't work right awa...you know what, actually no, you did everything right.”

Orion shrugged in frustration.

“Then why won't it move?”

Shockwave walked around the table and stopped right above the head of the figure lying on it

“ Golems exist to serve, my friend. It won't move unless you ask it to.”

Orion walked back over to the table with a quiet “oh” and nervously clutched his servos. The figure remained stone still. There was no ventilation noise, no engine sound, not even the barely audible spinning of a spark. It could just as easily have been a long-cooled dead body lying in front of him.

“Wake up.”

The emptiness that forever defined his nonexistent self stammered. He wasn't nothing. He had a purpose and that purpose shaped him, put strength into his numb limbs and molded his lack of thought into naked intent.

He wasn't nothing. He was a void, but suddenly that void had a direction, no matter how meaningless it sounded.

He stopped being just nothing. He became his purpose. And it felt so right that it was unclear how he could ever have been anything else before.

He opened his optics.

Orion, who apparently hadn't expected that the thing he'd made specifically for it to move would move, jerked back with a funny sound.

On the opposite side, Shockwave nodded proudly, returning to the spot on his armor that even in the bright lights of the workshop only he could see.

“I believed in you.”

_________

“Oh my god! How do you sneak up on me so quietly every time?”

He wasn't nothing anymore. He was a whole long list of instructions and rules. His creator sat him down at a table and meticulously listed everything he could and could not do. Handed him many books and ordered him to attend a huge number of lectures. He now knew who to bow to if he passed them in the hallway and who to avoid. He had learned hundreds of names and thousands of titles. Learned how to pretend to be a real Mech, even though he wasn't.

The world around him was complex and confusing, but he found that this complexity had its own patterns, linked together in a bizarre web of systems and sequences. It was worth pulling on the right end, and the meaningless facts organized themselves into something much more manageable.

Everything made sense. The planet revolved around a star. Mechs rejoiced when they got something that improved their quality of life. Energon burned, producing energy. Big things tended to be heavier than small things.

The world was divided into Mechs and monsters...and him.

He was inclined to be...quiet.

His creator - he'd asked to be called Orion - twitched when he found his creation standing right behind him.

He was very talented at finding Orion wherever he was. And very light compared to most things his size. Like everything else it made sense. He wasn't a Mech, he was just an empty shell. An armor summoned to life by magic. His footsteps were as quiet as a mini bot's. Whatever Orion called it, he wasn't 'sneaking' on purpose.

A few cycles later, Orion accidentally bent one of its finals when he turned around too quickly, startled by the quiet footsteps behind him.

He named him Prowl. It was...not exactly logical, but there was a certain sense to it. Prowl nodded and agreed. He always agreed with everything Orion said, even if it didn't make sense at all. Orion's opinion took a higher priority than anything else.

Until it didn't.

Until Orion gave him a focused look and told him that he should argue if he thought it was necessary.

Until Orion put the servo on his shoulder and said something along the lines of....

“You can disagree with me if you think my opinion is wrong. I'm not asking you to go against me. I'm not perfect and I can't be the one absolute point of reference for everything. You can and I'm sure will be smarter than me about many things. I want you to tell me if I'm wrong and what I should do about it.”

Like…well….like an absolute fool.

This concept was new. Prowl wasn't built to argue. He was made to obey orders and to serve a function.

Orion smiled slyly. At least it was probably a smile behind his mask that made the corners of his optics lift.

“It wouldn't be considered a disobedience of my order if I ordered you to disobey it. Don't you think?”

Prowl opened his mouth to agree out of habit, but then changed his mind mid-motion and closed it back. It...it didn't make sense. It made sense that was breaking under its own weight. It was mercilessly mixing up all of his pre-learned patterns for talking to Orion. If he agreed with that logic now, it would mean accepting its use. If he protested, it would also mean accepting it, but in a bit more embarrassing way. Just when he was thinking of simply retreating silently to the nearest shadow and banging his head against the wall, he heard a quiet chuckle and realized that Orion had been amusing himself for some time now, watching him struggle.

Prowl decided that verbal responses might be overrated and frowned his face in the most believable expression of displeasure he could portray.

Orion broke out into laughter.

________

“What exactly is my goal?”

Orion looks. Curious. He stops talking to Shockwave and leans back on the bench.

“Right now, to study these journals. I already told you.”

Prowl nods to indicate he heard him and continues

“Studying serves a future purpose. Studying for the sake of studying would be meaningless to me. What is my final goal?”

“To assist me” Orion says slightly confused. ”Within the best of your ability of course.“”

“Аh. Assist in the fulfillment of your goal.”

“Well. I'd say so, yes.”

Prowl nods

“And what is your goal?”

Shockwave, who has been sitting next to them the whole time looks like they're a couple of previously unknown to science species he's just personally discovered.

Prowl ignores him.

“I...you remember the separation between Mechs and monsters, right?” asks Orion cautiously.

“Yes.”

“Mechs...are unfair to monsters. Monsters are cruel to Mechs. It's a needlessly violent situation that I want to...try to. Fix.”

Prowl frowns to indicate that the information isn't completely clear.

“You're a member of the order of hunters. And...” he shakes his head toward the nearest window ”...you have a considerable number of hunters under your command. Your job involves destroying monsters.”

Shockwave makes some sort of quiet amused sound and props his chin up with his hand.

Prowl ignores him harder.

“My job is to bring peace.” says Orion “You don't have to kill monsters to do that. You can negotiate with them. Find a compromise. Coexist. I...I guess basically, I'm trying to make the world a little better?”

Prowl doesn't look impressed. He's actually making a special effort to not let Orion think in any way that he might be intrigued by the whole endeavor.

“You do realize that's a disproportionately large goal for just one Mech, right?”

Orion shrugs awkwardly

“That's why I made you.”

__________

Ratchet puts aside his tools and critically examines his work.

“Don't touch that and it will heal normally.”

Orion smiles gratefully

“Thank you.”

Ratchet is important to Orion. They are close and very valuable friends to each other. The two of them look peaceful now, despite the fact that Ratchet threatened Orion when he first showed up in Sick Bay, so Prowl decides it would be a socially acceptable moment to start talking

“Orion, you're wanted at the Council.”

The second half of his line is drowned helplessly in two startled exclamations at once. Orion, to his honor, calms down almost immediately, but Ratchet continues cursing for a while.

Prowl doesn't wait for him to finish. The Council meeting is earlier than usual today and Orion has already had a few occasions of misbehavior. It's in his best interest to at least show up on time this time.

“Shockwave asked me to tell you to hurry. I will add that showing up at the last minute will not be good for your reputation if you are still hoping to convince the council to let you take more units.”

Ratchet .....stares.

“Primus' rusty hinges, Orion, who's that? Did they assign a nanny to you?”

Orion twitches his finals playfully and immediately crinkles in pain, remembering that one of them should have been left to heal.

“Remember when I wanted to find an assistant? Well...”

Ratchet casts an increasingly more suspicious look at Prowl. Prowl decides that friendliness is overrated and limits his expression to a barely perceptible tilt of his head in response.

“...Shockwave recently helped me figure out how to create golems and I figured if I couldn't find anyone I could trust, I might as well...make one. So. Ratchet meet Prowl.” finishes Orion awkwardly.

Ratchet glares at Prowl for a while longer. Then he turns away and starts tidying up Sick Bay.

“I'm not buying it. I don't know where you found this guy, but you're not playing me. Nice poker face by the way.”

One of Prowl's wings twitches

“He wasn't lying.”

Ratchet snorts grumpily.

“Those...” he waves toward the next room ”...are golems.

There, behind the wall, several golems scurry around. They have medical staff symbols painted on their shoulders, and there is not a trace of thought in their eyes. Two are scrubbing the floors, another wiping the shelves and window sills clean of dust. They occasionally mumble softly under their noses or utter an inane “excuse me” every time they accidentally bump into each other. Prowl knows that if you ask any of them a question with more than one variable, they start babbling guiltily and shrugging their shoulders. They're stupid, but they themselves don't seem to care about that at all. They are their purpose. And their purpose is to keep things clean. They are pride because they are good at their job.

Prowl frowns. He's a headache. Because his "purpose" has been distracted by his conversation with Ratchet and will probably add another tardy to his list in the near future.

Orion begins (thank goodness) to move toward the door

“I've made improvements. There might have been...some not exactly allowed artifacts.”

Ratchet rubs the bridge of his nose tiredly. Prowl can see that his face is already starting to wrinkle in that spot. Patient antics probably age Ratchet far more effectively than the passage of time itself.

“I...you know what...go before the Council sends a search party to look for you.”

Orion sighs and without further distraction finally walks out the door.

Prowl decides that Ratchet might be a good ally when it comes to managing Orion.

He nods politely goodbye before leaving.

______________

“I am different from them. Why?”

Orion puts down the document he's been working on and looks first at Prowl and then, over his head, at the other golems scurrying down the hallway with brooms and rags. He doesn't need to interject exactly who he thinks Prowl is different from.

“Do you want a philosophical answer or a technical one?”

Prowl reaches out and pokes somewhere in Orion's document

“ You missed a comma. Both.”

Orion obediently puts the comma in and folds up the document. His finals are twitching faintly. It could be a sign of concentration as well as distraction. Prowl has already figured out that Orion's body language is a double-bottom trap. For a Mech with this level of expressiveness, Orion is surprisingly difficult to read.

“Sometime quite a while ago during one of my expeditions, I found a unique artifact. A fascinating item, granting wisdom to anyone brave enough to use it.”

“I have a feeling a ‘but’ is coming.”

“You're right. The artifact's unique gift was also its curse. It fed so much information through the Mech's heads that it literally caused the processors of its owners to melt.”

“Oh. Good thing I don't have a processor then.”

Orion laughs quietly

“Indeed. You won't have that problem. And about the other part....Think of all the Mechs you know who are savvy enough about politics and available to work together at the moment.”

Orion gives him a moment before continuing.

“ What is the likelihood that the most trustworthy of them would betray me, for their own gain or out of fear?”

“ Twenty-eight percent,” Prowl informs.

And then hesitates a moment.

Orion is obviously a smart Mech. Not smart enough to single-handedly dominate the political arena, definitely not with his ideals and ideas of what's right. But smart enough to realize it. He knows what he wants and he also knows he can't achieve it alone.

Prowl looks at Orion, who just stands there, eyeing him, without in any way trying to continue the conversation.

Orion is idealistic, and therefore often mistaken for stupid. He isn't. Orion doesn't just know that he can't succeed alone, he knows that everyone else knows it too. He thinks this knowledge will be used against him when the opportunity arises. He's right. By Prowl's count, at least three suspiciously clever Mechs were going to sweet-talk their way into becoming Orion's assistant one way or another before... he appeared.

One of the janitor golems runs past them down the corridor. He doesn't turn around, doesn't even slow down or cast a curious glance. His only goal, his only interest is cleaning. The rest of the world might as well not exist at all.

Prowl thinks he's not that different.

Orion apparently reads the understanding from his face, because he nods contentedly and starts walking further down the hall.

“You didn't take yourself into account when you made the statistics, did you?”

Prowl follows him silently on his heels. Not close enough to be familiar, but not so far away that the conversation stops being private.

“The sampling condition was all mechs. I am not one.”

“That's true” Orion shrugs “You have no loved ones that the Council could use to influence you. You have no desires to be bought by their fulfillment. And while I cannot say with absolute certainty that you will never be capable of going against me...” Prowl starts to open his mouth to object but Orion gestures him to stop, “...no no no no, let me finish. And while I can't be sure you'll never betray me, I at least know for sure that before you met me you had no reason to do so. Do you understand?”

Prowl understands. It makes sense. He still feels the need to argue back, because it is part of his function to do that.

“I would never betray you. I'm not capable of it.”

Orion twitches his finals. Without seeing his face Prowl assumes it is a sign of doubt.

“You are a creature of intellect, Prowl. I am a Mech of ideals. Those two things don't always combine well.”

______

“Foolish and presumptuous.”

Prowl ponders that his function could be much easier if he didn't have to constantly try to balance what is right and what is right in Orion's eyes.

“If you were spotted, the Council would have good reason to assume this isn't the first time you've done something like this.”

“No one noticed,” Orion tries, but Prowl doesn't let him finish that thought

“No one has seen you, because you're lucky. You can't count on it being a permanent occurrence! You undermine your own position by giving the Council grounds for suspicion, you...”

Prowl stops, still pointing his finger accusingly somewhere on Orion's chin. Shockwave, who has witnessed the scene, makes an impressed face and steps closer.

“I swear, you're probably the most capable golem maker I've ever had the pleasure of teaching, Orion. If I hadn't seen that guy on your assembly table, I would never know.”

Prowl takes the statement as a compliment, but doesn't feel the need to show it outwardly. Shockwave, as one of the few who knows about him not being a real Mech, doesn't take offense to it in any way.

“Did I interrupt something dramatic?”

Prowl snorts, because the gesture maintains just the right amount of judgment for his situation.

“Orion is once again harboring a monster instead of killing it or letting it escape.”

This news immediately enlivens Shockwave's posture. Prowl knows he's an even bigger fan of collecting suspicious side projects than Orion. Their friendship, frankly, will one day bury either one or both of them. Prowl just hopes his presence will be enough to sway the percentages when that happens.

Orion doesn't try to deny anything.

“One of my squads encountered a ghost near the northern border. I couldn't... listen Shockwave, he's a good guy. He just needs to be given a chance to show it.”

“Can he talk?” there's almost visible stars in Shockwave's eyes..

Prowl slumps his shoulders helplessly, already knowing what's coming next. These two have done this dance a hundred times before. One of Shockwave's favorite side projects was a school for, as they called them, magically gifted and extraordinary Mechs. In fact, it was the largest den of various monsters that Prowl had ever seen. Every time Orion's hunting squads found a monster that could even remotely resemble a normal Mech, Orion would rush with happy optics to hand it over to Shockwave for care. There, the monsters were taught everything they needed to fit into the society of normal Mechs, but more importantly, they were given documents. Precious pieces of paper that granted their holders rights, freedoms, and protections as Shockwave's apprentices.

Prowl could appreciate the noble endeavor. He could also see clearly that with each addition, this school would become more and more of an inconvenient thorn in the Council's side. Just like Orion, Shockwave was happy to paint a brighter and brighter target on his own back for many cycles.

Orion, insensitive to danger that is not immediate, cheerfully begins to recite

“Can read, write, speak, even makes music.”

Shockwave nods happily

“Introduce us?”

Prowl wonders how far Shockwave can stretch the definition of “magically gifted Mech”. One day Orion will pick up a Kraken on the street and then they'll both probably have to do a lot of mental gymnastics to make it's documents. Ugh.

When Orion had asked him to calculate the probability of betrayal, the most reliable mech he was evaluating at the time was Shockwave.

Twenty-eight percent...

Prowl wonders how many students must be on the opposite side of the scale from Orion for Shockwave to choose in their favor. Speculation is actually useless. If the Council decides to nail Shockwave, they will of course use his entire school at once.

In fact, they probably won't even have to force Shockwave to choose between the school and Orion, because Orion himself will choose a bunch of monsters over himself.

This ridiculously dangerous social construct they call friendship rests entirely on their reputation as honest and honorable mechs. Prowl stares at Shockwave's back and wonders how one mech could have so much charisma, that he gets away with keeping a huge number of Council enemies right under the noses of that same Council.

_________________

Orion gently lifts the now graying shell of what was once a monster from the ground

He doesn't even turn toward Prowl.

"Did you kill him?"

Killing...it's a stretch. Does the act of helping a murderer qualify as murder? Or the lack of action that could have saved the now murdered person? In most cultures and languages, “murder” refers to the act of ending someone else's life, but the context implies a physical act. Did you put a knife in his back? Did you push him off a cliff? Did you cut him with a sword?

By those criteria. Well. Prowl never killed anyone. Nor is he likely to, for he has neither the skill nor the strength to do so.

Did he cause death? Absolutely.

Orion's always had this heroic streak that wouldn't let him just pass by the distressed and disadvantaged. Orion has always had a great spark of kindness and principles as strong as titanium alloy as to what is right and what is wrong.

In Orion's world view, murder is wrong. And murder in conditions where it was possible to solve everything by peace is immoral and unacceptable.

Prowl's worldview tells him that Orion could do much better if he stopped wasting his potential on helping those who will only drag him down in the long run. Orion's life depends entirely on the Council's opinion of him. A Council that has been watching him closely lately. Even if Orion doesn't like it, it's Prowl's job to make sure they like what they see.

Orion turns to him, shaking him out of his thoughts.

"Prowl. That mech tried to escape. Past you. And now he's dead. Were you the one who killed him?"

"No," says Prowl, "he ran into one of the patrols."

That statement is missing a good half of the details. Like mentioning that the patrol wouldn't have been there in the first place if Prowl hadn't sent them an anonymous lead.

Orion doesn't need to know that. Orion lives under the idea that every life is precious and, even more inconveniently, equal.

Prowl sometimes feels like yelling at him for it. Because that shiny perfect picture is simply unsustainable outside of Orion's head. The monster, whose graying body now lies on the ground, would be of little use to society. Likely left free, he would have simply continued to attack and kill travelers.

Whereas Orion spends his life making the world a better place. This is an objective fact confirmed by numerous observations.

They are not equals. And they probably never will be. Orion's life is much. Much heavier on the imaginary scales of statistics.

Orion squints at him suspiciously. He's clearly hesitant.

"You could have just let him go instead of killing him."

The trap is honestly too obvious.

"I didn't kill him" Prowl repeats "he ran into a patrol. You can't blame the hunters for doing their job."

Orion places a hand on the dead creature's forehead in a respectful gesture of regret while simultaneously averting his gaze. It's a habit by now.

Look the other way, don't let the council know what you're doing. Sympathize but not in plain sight, help but in secret.

"They had no right to attack him.This is neutral territory. He has the right to run wherever he wants."

Prowl's mouth is twisting with the urge to argue. To say that according to existing information, this monster would have just continued the attacks if he'd stayed free.

He says nothing. Orion is clearly in no mood to argue right now, and he's already questioning Prowl's claim. It's not worth pushing any further.

Prowl only nods, showing that he's heard Orion's point of view.

__________________

He is surprisingly good at lying.

Of course the skill doesn't just come naturally, but he's been known for his straightforwardness. Mechs automatically expect him to either remain silent or tell the unpleasant truth.

All he has to do is give only certain bits and pieces instead of coherent information without changing his usual behavior in any way and the mechs won't be inclined to verify it, filling in the gaps themselves. As a golem, he can't lie, but he can get others to lie to themselves.

He exploits this a lot. Probably more often than Orion would approve, but Prowl doesn't ask him to confirm. Conversations with Orion tend to narrow down his list of options. Because Orion is a real living mech. With a spark. With feelings. And his complex moral code revolves entirely around what he feels to be right.

Prowl has no spark. Prowl has an empty armor that he considers his body and a wisdom artifact that he considers his worth. Both his and Orion's understandings of what is right...overlap...sometimes.

Not always.

______________

"I saw a demon in person for the first time today."

Prowl politely shifts his posture to show he's listening

"A …demon?"

"Demon" Orion repeats "When...when a mech commits especially terrible crimes against the will of Primus, the very magic of their spark rises up against them and turns them into a demon. And I just learned today what a...demon looks like."

Prowl remains silent, waiting for a continuation that never comes. Orion seems gone in his thoughts....

"And what does it look like?" prompts Prowl.

"Creepy. It looks creepy and unnatural and terrifying. Primus' wrath has a very ugly shape..."

"Ah...I see...what did that mech do to be met with such punishment?"

Orion frowns

"I'm not sure. But what we're doing can't go against Primus' will, right? I mean, all beings are his creations! He can't condemn us for trying to make peace between mechs and monsters..."

Prowl is familiar with the concept of punishment for wrongdoing. But something about the very idea...the idea that punishment will find you no matter how well you hide because you can’t run away from your own spark...he has to admit it's disturbing.

"I hope he doesn't."

——————————

Thoughts?👁

Ahsjfjfj

This is the first half of the fic btw because I don’t have enough time to translate the whole thing in one day. I’ll try to post the second half tomorrow🤞