#like do you know the odds of coming into existence???

[heejamas]

WAITING ROOM ──★ ˙

꒰ ‎﹒ pairing: heeseung x fem!reader ... ﹒ friends to lovers, fluff ... ﹒ w/c: 21k synopsis: for three years, you and heeseung have hovered between friendship and something more—stolen glances, late-night car rides, hands brushing under tables. but when the waiting finally ends, you realize you were never just friends to begin with. ꒰ ‎﹒ warnings: smut, mdni! explicit sexual content, petnames, unprotected sex (dont do it!!!!) not proofread 💿 % (◠﹏◠ ✿) #nowplaying: waiting room - phoebe bridgers

Three years ago, you met Heeseung at a Halloween party. And, in a way, he never really left.

You remember the night in sharp, neon clarity, the kind that only exists in memories warped by time and too many cheap drinks. The bass of the music was rattling against the walls, distorting into something unrecognizable by the time it reached your ears. The air was thick, humid with the breath of a hundred strangers crammed into an apartment too small to hold them. It smelled like spilled alcohol, synthetic fog from a cheap smoke machine, and the faintest trace of cinnamon, probably from some idiot who thought Fireball was a good idea.

You were standing in the kitchen, gripping a plastic cup half-full of something blue and questionably sweet, when you felt it. The warmth of someone moving too close. The press of a shoulder against yours. And then—disaster.

A smear of green, across your arm, your ribs, your stomach.

You stared at it, confused. It looked like paint. Wet, sticky, and clinging to the fabric of your skeleton costume like it belonged there. You blinked once, twice, before dragging your gaze upward, locking eyes with the culprit.

“Oh, shit.”

He was green. No, really, he was covered in it, from his jawline to his collarbone, down his arms, streaked across his hands. He was, in fact, one of the Ninja Turtles.

“Are you radioactive?” you asked, because that felt like a genuine concern at this point.

Heeseung—though you didn’t know his name yet—blinked at you, then looked down at his own arm as if just realizing that, yeah, maybe painting his entire body for a costume wasn’t the best idea. “I, uh—fuck, I didn’t think—”

“Didn’t think what?” you repeated, glancing down at your once-pristine skeleton costume. “That maybe body paint takes a while to dry?”

“No, see, I thought it was dry. I waited, like, an hour before putting the costume on.” He sounded both defensive and regretful, like someone who had just now realized the full extent of their mistake.

You sighed, poking at the stain. “Well, congrats. You’ve officially made me the first skeleton in history to die of green slime exposure.”

He let out a breath of laughter, then scratched the back of his neck—a habit you’d later come to recognize as his go-to nervous tic. “On the bright side… at least now you match me?”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re trying to make me feel better.”

“Is it working?”

“Not even a little.”

A slow grin spread across his face, lopsided and teasing. “Damn. Guess I’ll have to try harder.”

And he did.

That was the beginning of it, you suppose. A stupid mistake, an even stupider conversation, and a boy painted green who somehow managed to wedge himself into your life like he belonged there. You didn’t know then that he’d become your best friend. That in three years, you’d be sitting next to him in a car at two in the morning, singing along to songs you didn't really know. That you’d learn the exact way he liked his coffee, the rhythm of his breath when he fell asleep next to you on your couch, the way he always looked at you like he was on the verge of saying something important but never quite did.

No, back then, all you knew was that he was an idiot. And that, somehow, against all odds—you kind of liked him anyway. But you and Heeseung became friends by accident.

It wasn’t an immediate thing, not like some cosmic force snapped its fingers and tied the two of you together. No, it was slower than that, more like a series of small collisions, a gradual intertwining of orbits. And most of it had to do with Yunjin.

You and Yunjin had been friends since the beginning of college. One of those friendships that happens fast, like flipping a switch. One day, you were just two people forced into the same group project, and the next, you were sneaking snacks into late-night study sessions, texting each other memes at 3 a.m., and laughing until your stomach hurt over things that weren’t even that funny. She was the kind of person you felt like you had known forever, even though it had only been a few years.

But somehow, despite all that time, you had never actually registered who she lived with. You knew she had a roommate—she’d mentioned him in passing a few times, usually accompanied by an exasperated sigh or an eye roll—but you had never put much thought into it. The guy could’ve been a faceless NPC for all you cared. Just a background character in the world of Yunjin’s apartment. Until one fateful Tuesday afternoon.

You had gone over to Yunjin’s place to work on a mind-numbing, soul-draining research paper, and the two of you were sitting cross-legged on her living room floor. The atmosphere was calm, quiet—at least, until the front door swung open with the force of someone dramatically entering a scene in a sitcom.

“YUNJIN,” a voice rang through the apartment, loud and excited. “I JUST BOUGHT ZELDA: BREATH OF THE WILD. I NEED TO PLAY IT IMMEDIATELY.”

You barely had time to process before the source of the chaos came bounding into the room. A guy, slightly breathless from what must have been a very passionate journey home, clutching a Nintendo Switch game case like it was the most important thing in the world.

And he was green.

Well, not literally—he wasn’t still covered in body paint—but your brain made the connection instantly. The excitement, the unfiltered enthusiasm, the slight air of someone who had been making questionable life decisions since birth.

It clicked.

“Oh my god,” you blurted. “You’re the Ninja Turtle guy.”

Heeseung froze mid-step, eyes flickering to you like he was only now realizing there was another person in the room. For a second, he just stared, lips parted in muted shock, like you had just caught him committing a crime.

Then, in a tone that was both confused and slightly mortified, he said, “Oh. Uh. Yeah. That’s me.”

You squinted at him, taking in the full picture—the messy hair, the slightly wrinkled hoodie, the expression of someone who had absolutely not been expecting to relive his Halloween mistakes today. Then, you turned to Yunjin.

“You live with the Ninja Turtle guy?”

Yunjin, who had been watching this interaction unfold with barely concealed amusement, grinned. “I guess.”

Heeseung cleared his throat, regaining some of his composure. “For the record, my name is Heeseung.”

“Really?” you said, nodding slowly. “I thought your name was Donatello”

He looked mildly offended. “Excuse me?”

“Well,” you said, gesturing vaguely, “I feel like I at least deserve to know which turtle was responsible for my suffering. I thought it was Donatello.”

Heeseung rolled his eyes but played along. “Leonardo. Sunghoon was Raphael, Beomgyu was Michelangelo, and Jake was Donatello.”

You considered this for a second, then turned back to Yunjin. “I can’t believe you live with Leonardo.”

Yunjin, deadpan, replied, “Trust me, I can’t either.”

And that was the second collision.

You didn’t know it then, but this was how it would always be with Heeseung—dramatic entrances, loud declarations, and an energy that burst into the room like an unexpected firework. You had met him twice now, and both times, he had been the human embodiment of chaos. But for some reason, that chaos felt a little less like a background character now. And after that day, Heeseung stopped being just Yunjin’s roommate.

You started seeing him everywhere. Not because you were seeking him out—not at first, anyway—but because he had a tendency to appear in your life like some kind of recurring side character in a sitcom. You’d be minding your own business in Yunjin’s apartment, and he’d burst through the door, ranting about how someone stole his favorite study spot in the library. You’d go to grab coffee before class, and there he’d be, dramatically arguing with the barista about why oat milk was a scam. He just kept showing up, like the universe had decided that, for better or worse, he was part of your story now.

And then, you found out you had a class together. It wasn’t a real class. Not in the sense that it required effort or critical thinking. It was one of those ridiculous elective courses that the university offered purely to fill up credit requirements—something slapped onto the catalog as an afterthought, designed for students who were too lazy or too exhausted to take anything serious.

You had signed up for it without even reading the description, choosing it solely because it fit into your schedule and had a reputation for being an easy A. Heeseung, apparently, had done the same.

That was how the two of you ended up in "The Philosophy of Memes and Internet Culture."

The class was exactly as stupid as it sounded. The professor was a guy in his late 40s who still said things like “epic fail” unironically. The syllabus included assignments like “analyzing the impact of Vine on modern humor” and “writing a 500-word essay on the evolution of the Rickroll.” It was the kind of class that could only exist in a university desperate to appear progressive and relevant, and you were 90% sure the school administration had no idea it was happening.

It was, in short, the best class either of you had ever taken.

You and Heeseung immediately became the worst students in the room. Not because you weren’t paying attention, but because you were paying attention too much—finding everything so absurdly hilarious that neither of you could take it seriously. Every lecture felt like a fever dream. Every assignment was an excuse to see how much nonsense you could get away with before the professor caught on.

And then, of course, came the group project. It was a simple assignment: pick a meme, trace its origins, and present its cultural impact. Most people chose something predictable—Doge, Grumpy Cat, Distracted Boyfriend.

You and Heeseung, however, chose Shrek. More specifically, you chose Shrek’s cultural legacy as an ironic meme figure.

It was supposed to be a joke. A way to entertain yourselves in a class that was already ridiculous. But the further you got into your research, the more serious it became.

Somewhere along the way, you and Heeseung stopped just pretending to care and actually started caring. You spent hours deep-diving into obscure Shrek forums, analyzing the rise of “Shrek is Love, Shrek is Life” discourse, debating whether or not the character’s internet resurgence was fueled by genuine appreciation or detached irony. You became scholars of the Shrek Renaissance.

The night before your presentation, you were in Yunjin’s apartment, sitting on the floor with your laptops open, surrounded by a mess of half-empty snack bags and unfinished slides. The clock blinked 2:37 AM, and neither of you had any business still being awake.

Heeseung was slouched against the couch, staring at his screen with the expression of a man who had seen too much. “I think I know too much about Shrek,” he said, voice hollow.

You let out a dramatic sigh, rubbing your temples. “Yeah. We flew too close to the sun on this one.” There was a beat of silence.

Then, Heeseung slowly turned his laptop around, revealing a slide titled ‘Shrek and the Post-Ironic Era of Internet Humor: A Critical Analysis.’ And for some reason, that was it. That was the moment you broke.

Maybe it was the exhaustion. Maybe it was the fact that you had just spent the past three hours watching deep-fried Shrek memes with Gregorian chants in the background. Maybe it was just the sheer, stupid absurdity of the entire situation. But suddenly, you were laughing.

Not just laughing—cackling. The kind of breathless, full-body laughter that made your stomach hurt. That made you feel like you were going to die right there on Yunjin’s living room floor, lost to the void of Shrek academia.

And Heeseung—poor, equally sleep-deprived Heeseung—was right there with you. He doubled over, gasping for air, his head nearly colliding with your shoulder as he choked out, “We’re never recovering from this.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. You turned to him, trying to catch your breath, and found him already looking at you. His eyes were crinkled at the edges, his cheeks flushed from laughter, his whole body still shaking slightly from the aftermath. And for a moment—just a moment—you thought, this is nice.

Not just the laughing. Not just the inside jokes and the chaos.

But him.

You pushed the thought away before it could settle.

Because, at the end of the day, Heeseung was your friend. Your dumbass friend who still had green body paint under his fingernails two weeks after Halloween. Who got irrationally angry at mobile game ads. Who had just spent the last six hours dissecting Shrek memes with you like it was a matter of academic integrity.

And that was all he was.

Right?

Heeseung, on the other hand, wasn’t sure when it started. That feeling.

That weird, stupid, barely-there feeling. The one that sat quietly in the back of his mind, like a notification he refused to check. Like a waiting room. A vague, almost imperceptible awareness that he enjoyed your company a little too much—that your laugh had started to feel like background music in his life, something he didn’t know he needed until it was gone.

Not that it meant anything. Obviously.

He liked lots of people. He was a social guy. He made friends easily, enjoyed being around them, and—despite Yunjin’s many accusations—was not emotionally repressed. He just… liked the things you liked. That was normal.

It was normal that he started watching that terrible reality show you always talked about, even though he swore he hated it. It was normal that he got a random impulse to buy you a weirdly specific snack he saw at the store because “it just screamed your vibe.” It was normal that he sent you voice notes every time he saw something even remotely related to Shrek, even months after your presentation.

That was just friendship. Which was why, as a friend, he invited you to an arcade.

It was one of those places that felt like it had been stuck in time since the 90s—neon lights, sticky floors, a vague smell of burnt popcorn in the air. The kind of place that probably hadn’t passed a health inspection in years, but had an undeniable charm to it. You were too good at skee-ball.

It was honestly annoying. Heeseung had challenged you three times, and each time, you had obliterated him without breaking a sweat. It wasn’t even close. “You’re cheating,” he accused, arms crossed as he watched you land another perfect shot.

You grinned, tossing the last ball effortlessly. “You’re just mad because you suck.”

“I don’t suck,” he argued. “This game is just—rigged. The physics are all off.”

“Oh my god. Did you just say ‘the physics are off’ in a skee-ball game?”

“Yes,” he said, completely serious. “I am a man of logic and reason.”

You snorted, shaking your head. “Sure. Okay. Man of logic and reason. If you’re so smart, let’s see how well you do at Dance Dance Revolution.”

Heeseung froze. “I—uh—what?”

“Come on,” you said, already dragging him toward the machine. “Let’s see those skills.”

Here was the thing about Heeseung: he was good at a lot of things. He could play video games for hours without blinking. He could talk his way out of almost any bad situation. He could even recite the entire “All Star” lyrics from memory.

But he could not dance. At all. And that became painfully clear the second the game started.

Heeseung missed every step. Every single one. While you moved effortlessly, barely even glancing at the screen, he was flailing. His feet weren’t in sync with his brain. His arms kept jerking awkwardly, and he could hear you laughing beside him, and somehow, that made it worse.

By the time the game ended, Heeseung was defeated. He doubled over, hands on his knees, gasping dramatically. “I think I died,” he announced.

You patted his back. “You fought bravely.”

He looked up at you then, about to retort, but the words got lost somewhere in his throat. Because you were smiling at him—really smiling. Your eyes were crinkled at the edges, your face still flushed from laughing. The neon lights flickered against your skin, casting everything in shades of blue and pink, making you look—

Well. Heeseung swallowed. That weird, stupid, barely-there feeling? Yeah. It was there.

But you were just his friend.

So, when Beomgyu casually mentioned, in the most offhanded, unbothered way possible, that he thought you were cute, Heeseung should’ve just let it go. But he didn’t.

“You think she’s what?”

Beomgyu raised an eyebrow. “Cute. You know, in a hot way.”

Heeseung felt something in his chest twist. It was irrational. Objectively, completely irrational. Because, yeah, you were cute. That wasn’t news to him. He had eyes. He was aware. He had just… never thought about the fact that other people might also be aware.

Heeseung almost laughed. It was a knee-jerk reaction, the kind of dry, disbelieving scoff that came when someone said something so absurd it didn’t even process at first. But then, Beomgyu kept talking.

“I was thinking of asking her out.”

And Heeseung felt it. That twist, low and tight, in the pit of his stomach.

He blinked at Beomgyu, waiting for the usual rush of banter to kick in, for the easy teasing to roll off his tongue. But for some reason, his mouth felt dry. Beomgyu liked you. Beomgyu thought you were cute. Beomgyu wanted to date you.

It wasn’t that wild of a concept. People liked you all the time. You were funny and charming in that effortlessly chaotic way, the kind of person who made friends in the span of a single conversation. It made sense that Beomgyu, out of all people, would look at you and go, Yeah, she’s my type.

And it wasn’t like Heeseung had a say in the matter. So he shrugged, leaning back against the couch, and said, “Yeah, good for you, man. Good for you”

And that should’ve been the end of it. Except. Beomgyu actually did ask you out. And the worst part? You said yes.

At first, Heeseung didn’t think much of it. He was fine. It was fine.

So what if you had gone out with Beomgyu last Friday and came back looking kind of flushed, kind of happy? So what if, the next time he saw you, you had that soft, secretive look in your eyes, the one that said you were thinking about something that made your stomach twist in the good way?

So what. You weren’t dating. You weren’t his. And he sure as hell wasn’t jealous. Except then it wasn’t just one date. Because you went out again. And again. And again. And suddenly, Beomgyu wasn’t just one of Heeseung’s friends anymore—he was the guy you were seeing. And that, for some reason, was so much worse.

The thing about Beomgyu was that he was annoying. Like, Heeseung had always known this, but now, for the first time in his life, it felt personal. “Dude,” Beomgyu groaned, stretching his arms behind his head as they sat in their usual spot in the campus lounge. “Y/N is so fun, bro. Like, actually so fun.”

Heeseung clenched his jaw. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. She’s, like… different.” Heeseung made a face. “No, I’m serious,” Beomgyu whined. “She’s not like other girls.”

I’m gonna walk into traffic, Heeseung thought.

“No, like—” Beomgyu hesitated, looking off into the distance. “She’s just cool, you know?”

And Heeseung didn’t know why that pissed him off. Maybe because he knew that already. He had always known that. He had known it before Beomgyu, before any of these dates, before whatever the hell this was.

He had known it since the night he met you. Since the moment you called him Donatello when he was, in fact, Leonardo. Since the first time you said his name with that teasing edge, like you were permanently in on some joke he didn’t even realize he was making.

So, yeah. Maybe he didn’t like hearing Beomgyu say it like he had discovered it first.

But whatever. Heeseung let it go. Because it wasn’t like this was going to last forever. And then, it didn’t.

One day, you walked into Yunjin’s apartment, kicked your shoes off in a way that sent one flying across the room, and threw yourself onto the couch with all the weight of someone carrying a great and terrible burden.

Heeseung, sitting on the floor, scrolled mindlessly through his phone, pretending he hadn’t immediately noticed you. But then, you sighed. A deep, world-weary, existentially exhausted sigh.

Yunjin looked up from where she was painting her nails. “Jesus,” she muttered. “What.”

You groaned, stuffing your face into a pillow. “I think I’m over it.”

Heeseung’s thumb froze mid-scroll. Casual. He had to be casual. So, without looking up, he mumbled, “Over what?”

Another dramatic sigh. You rolled onto your back, staring at the ceiling like it held the answers to life itself. “Beomgyu.”

Heeseung blinked. Okay.

Yunjin, who had been the biggest advocate of this whole thing, frowned. “Wait, what do you mean? You were literally texting him heart emojis yesterday.”

“I don’t know.” You stretched out your legs like the weight of your own existence was exhausting you. “I just… don’t feel like it anymore.”

Yunjin gave you a look. “Like, what? He’s a hobby you got bored of?”

“No! It’s just—” You hesitated, pressing your lips together. “Like, I liked the idea of him. And at first, it was fun. But then, the more time we spent together, the more I realized… I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

You exhaled, shutting your eyes. “I feel like I was trying to make myself like him the way I was supposed to. But it just wasn’t working.”

And that was when Heeseung’s grip on his phone tightened. He forced himself to keep his face neutral, tilting his head slightly as he looked at you. “The way you were supposed to?”

You turned your head towards him. “Yeah. Like, Beomgyu is great, okay? He’s funny, and he’s cute, and he’s nice, and I should like him.” You paused, expression softening. “But every time he kissed me, I just…”

You trailed off, lost in thought. Heeseung swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He wasn’t sure why.

Yunjin made a gagging noise. “Okay, ew. Please don’t get all sentimental about kissing Beomgyu on my couch.”

You laughed, pushing her half-heartedly with your foot. “I’m just saying—it’s not clicking. You ever get that? Like, you try to like someone, but no matter how much you do, it just doesn’t fit?”

And the way you looked at Heeseung when you asked that—like you expected him to understand—made something in his chest tighten. Because yeah. He knew exactly what that felt like. He just… couldn’t say it.

So he swallowed, rolling his shoulders back, and forced a small smirk. “Damn,” he said, voice light. “Tough loss for Beomgyu.”

You let out a soft huff of laughter. “Yeah.” Then, a pause. “Guess I’m single again.”

Something in Heeseung’s chest lurched. But he just nodded, keeping his expression neutral, easy, unfazed. Like it didn’t mean anything. Like it didn’t change everything.

A few weeks later, Heeseung showed up at your apartment. It was raining that day.

Not in a dramatic, cinematic way, but in that soft, half-hearted drizzle that made everything look just a little bit duller. The sky was gray, the streets were damp, and Heeseung had definitely stepped into at least two puddles on his way up to your place.

Which, in his opinion, was already way too much effort just to fix your stupid kitchen cabinet.

“Okay, I just wanna say,” he announced as soon as you let him in, dragging his slightly-wet socks across your floor, “I don’t know how the hell you managed to completely detach a cabinet door, but honestly? I’m kind of impressed.”

You rolled your eyes, stepping aside to let him in. “Are you gonna help me or are you gonna make fun of me?”

“Oh, I’m definitely gonna make fun of you.” He grinned, toeing off his shoes before making his way to your kitchen. “But I’ll fix it after.”

You followed behind him, crossing your arms as you watched him inspect the broken cabinet. It wasn’t like you had meant to break it. You had simply been existing in your own kitchen, minding your own business, when the handle somehow got caught on the sleeve of your hoodie—one tug too strong, and suddenly the door was in your hands instead of on its hinges.

“I literally don’t understand how this happened,” Heeseung muttered, crouching down to assess the damage.

“Okay, handyman,” you shot back. “Can you fix it or not?”

Heeseung snorted, shaking his head. “Yeah, yeah, let me just—” He held out a hand. “Pass me my phone.”

You blinked. “Huh?”

“My hands are kinda full,” he said, nodding towards the cabinet door that he was currently balancing on one knee. “Look up how to fix this real quick.”

You huffed but grabbed his phone from the counter, unlocking it without thinking as you leaned against the kitchen island. You didn’t love the idea of looking up a YouTube tutorial like some kind of DIY newbie, but considering that Heeseung was already physically here fixing your problem for you, you figured you could at least meet him halfway.

So, with one hand holding his phone, you typed "how to reattach cabinet door" into the search bar—

And then, your thumb froze. Because right there, at the top of the screen, was a notification. A message. From Chaewon. Your stomach twisted.

It wasn’t like you didn’t know who Chaewon was. Of course, you did. You weren’t stupid. Chaewon was his ex.

The one he never really talked about. The one who had, at one point, been a name you’d only heard in passing, just a piece of his past that you had no real reason to care about. Except… you did.

Because now, here she was. On his screen. Texting him. And suddenly, you felt fucking ridiculous. Because why were you even reacting like this? It wasn’t like he was your boyfriend. It wasn’t like he owed you an explanation. So, then… why did it feel like this?

You forced yourself to look away from the message, pressing the YouTube link on the screen as if nothing had happened. But something had. Because when Heeseung glanced at you, waiting for your next words, you just… couldn’t bring yourself to meet his eyes.

“Uh.” You cleared your throat, suddenly hyper-aware of the way your voice didn’t sound normal. “It says you need a screwdriver.”

Heeseung raised an eyebrow at your abrupt shift in tone, but he didn’t question it. “Okay,” he said slowly, getting up to grab one from his bag.

You took the moment to shove his phone back onto the counter, clenching your jaw as you crossed your arms tighter over your chest. It was fine. You were fine.

“Hey.” His voice cut through the air, slightly muffled as he rummaged through his bag. “Can you hold this while I—”

“No, it’s fine.” The words came out too fast, too stiff.

And Heeseung noticed. He glanced at you, pausing with the screwdriver halfway in his grip. “You good?”

You forced out a laugh. “Yeah. Why?”

He narrowed his eyes slightly, tilting his head. “You just got all weird all of a sudden.”

“I didn’t.”

“You definitely did.”

You exhaled sharply, schooling your expression into something that wasn’t betrayal or insecurity or whatever dumb thing was currently buzzing inside your head. “I’m just tired.”

It wasn’t a total lie. Heeseung didn’t look fully convinced, but he didn’t push. He just hummed under his breath, turning back to the cabinet as he started working again.

And maybe it was stupid. Maybe it was irrational. But you couldn’t stop thinking about it. The notification. The name. The way your stomach had twisted on instinct before you even had a chance to tell yourself it didn’t matter.

Because maybe… Maybe it did.

The next time you’re at Yunjin’s apartment, Heeseung isn’t there.

It’s not intentional, not entirely. Maybe there’s a small, petty part of you that’s relieved when Yunjin mentions he’s out, like the universe decided to grant you a break from the exhausting push and pull of whatever this thing is between you. But mostly, you’re just here because you always are.

There’s an old episode of some dating reality show playing in the background, and Yunjin barely glances at it as she paints her toenails a shade of red so deep it’s almost brown. You pick at the hem of your sleeve, casual, too casual, before finally asking, “Does Heeseung still see Chaewon?”

Yunjin snorts, like it’s the dumbest thing she’s heard all day. “God, I hope not.”

Something in your stomach untwists just slightly, but you don’t let the relief settle. You just raise an eyebrow, feigning indifference. “What happened with them, anyway?”

Yunjin pauses, her brush hovering mid-air. She gives you a look. The kind that says she sees through you. The kind that makes your skin prickle with the discomfort of being known. But then she sighs, leans back against the couch, and says, “They burned out.”

You blink. “That’s it?”

Yunjin tilts her head. “You ever leave a candle burning too long?” She dips the brush back into the bottle, shaking her head. “They were good until they weren’t. And when they weren’t, it was obvious. Chaewon got tired of waiting for him to catch up.”

You frown. “Catch up?”

Yunjin shrugs. “She loved him first. And she wanted him to love her back just as fast, just as much. But Heeseung…” She sighs, blowing lightly on her nails. “Heeseung takes his time. He doesn’t fall in love all at once, he kind of… eases into it. Like the dumbass that he is.”

Your chest tightens.

Because you think about the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not watching. About the way he always notices when you’re cold before you even say anything. And then you think about the way he doesn’t say anything. About the way he’s always on the edge of something, always almost.

Yunjin is watching you. You can feel it. And you know, you just know, she’s about to say something that’s going to ruin you.

So you get up, stretch your arms above your head like you can shake the weight of this conversation off your skin. “Right. Well. That was fun. Thanks for the gossip.”

Yunjin smirks. “You’re so fucking obvious.” You ignore her, grabbing a handful of popcorn from the bowl on the coffee table. But before you can shove it in your mouth, she says, “Heeseung’s not stupid, you know. He just doesn’t like to move until he’s sure.”

You pause. And because you’re you, and because this is Heeseung, and because everything about this whole thing is a goddamn waiting game— You pretend you don’t hear her.

And then it’s 2:14 a.m. when your phone buzzes.

You’re half-asleep, curled up in bed, the glow of your screen slicing through the darkness. You squint at it, groggy, before reading the message.

heeseung: you awake? heeseung: also. do u want mcdonalds

You blink. Then again. You type out a response with fingers that still feel half-dead from sleep.

you: is that even a question heeseung: valid. be outside in 10

And just like that, you’re stepping into your slides, and slipping out the door like this is the most normal thing in the world. Because with Heeseung, it kind of is.

The streetlights cast long, tired shadows across the pavement, and the air is that weird mix of crisp and stale that only exists at this hour, like the city itself is pausing, caught between the last breath of night and the first inhale of morning.

Heeseung’s car rolls up exactly nine minutes later, music already playing low through the speakers. When you slide into the passenger seat, he barely even looks at you before reaching into the back and tossing you his hoodie.

“You’re gonna get cold,” he says simply.

You huff, but you put it on. It smells like him—faint detergent, something vaguely woody, and the unmistakable scent of McDonald’s fries from however many late-night runs have preceded this one.

Heeseung pulls out onto the street, the familiar hum of the engine settling between you. He’s got one hand lazily resting on the steering wheel, and there’s a soft shadow of exhaustion under his eyes, but he still looks… at ease.

It’s quiet for a while. Comfortable. The kind of silence that doesn’t feel like it needs filling.

Then, as he turns onto the main road, he says, “You ever think about how weird time is?”

You glance at him. “That’s an insane way to start a conversation.”

“I’m serious,” he laughs, tapping his fingers against the wheel. “Like, right now. It’s 2:30 a.m. for us, but somewhere else, it’s a normal afternoon. Someone’s getting lunch, someone’s going to work. And here we are, about to eat McNuggets in a parking lot.”

You hum. “I feel like this is your way of convincing me that time isn’t real.”

He nods solemnly. “Nothing is real.”

“Except McNuggets.”

“Exactly.”

A beat passes, the soft rumble of the tires against the road the only sound for a moment. Then, quieter, more thoughtful, Heeseung asks, “Where do you think you’ll be in a year?”

The question catches you off guard. You tilt your head, thinking. “I don’t know,” you admit. “I mean, I have plans, but… life never really goes how you expect it to, does it?”

Heeseung exhales a small laugh. “No. It really doesn’t.”

You hesitate before adding, “Where do you think you’ll be?”

He takes a moment. His grip on the steering wheel tightens just slightly, like he’s holding onto the words before letting them go. “I don’t know either.” He pauses, then glances at you with something unreadable in his eyes. “I just hope I’m somewhere that still feels like home.”

You feel something shift. A small, almost imperceptible weight settling between the two of you.

And maybe it’s the hour. Maybe it’s the fact that your brain isn’t fully awake yet. Or maybe it’s just him—this version of Heeseung that only exists at 2:30 a.m., the one who speaks in half-truths and unspoken things. But you suddenly feel like you understand exactly what he means.

The McDonald’s drive-thru is basically empty when you pull in. The girl at the window looks like she hates her job, and Heeseung, being Heeseung, makes it his personal mission to get her to smile.

“Are McFlurries still a scam?” he asks solemnly.

The girl raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “You mean, is the machine broken?”

“Yeah.”

“Obviously.”

Heeseung sighs. “I knew it. A tragedy, really.”

Her lips twitch—just barely—but he sees it. He shoots you a triumphant look as he pulls forward.

With the food secured, he parks in a near-empty lot. There’s something about eating fast food in a car past midnight that makes it taste ten times better—something about the way the city is so still, like the world has shrunk down to just the two of you and the glow of the dashboard lights.

For a while, you just eat in silence, the occasional rustle of a fry bag or the quiet click of a sauce container the only noise. Then Heeseung says, “If you could live in any movie, which one would it be?”

You think for a moment. “Probably something stupid and fun. Like… a rom-com where everything works out in the end.”

Heeseung snorts. “Yeah? You want to be the main character that badly?”

“Obviously.”

He grins, dipping a fry into his BBQ sauce. “You’d be the chaotic best friend, though.”

You throw a fry at him. He catches it in his mouth.

“What about you?” you ask, popping a nugget into your mouth.

Heeseung leans back against the seat, thinking. “I don’t know. Something small. Quiet. One of those movies where nothing really happens, but it still makes you feel something.”

You tilt your head. “Like a waiting room.”

Heeseung turns to you. “What?”

“A waiting room,” you say, like it’s obvious. “That’s what those movies feel like. Like something is about to happen, but you don’t know what, and maybe it’s okay if nothing does.”

He stares at you for a long moment. Then he smiles. And it’s not his usual grin, not the teasing, lopsided smirk. It’s something smaller, softer. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Like a waiting room.”

Neither of you say anything after that. The city hums in the background, neon lights bleeding into the darkness, the last remnants of fries sitting forgotten between you.

And then, a party. Not the kind you remember from three years ago, not the one where you met a boy covered in green body paint who changed your life without even meaning to. But still, a party. The music is just as loud, the air just as thick with heat and laughter, the night just as full of things waiting to happen.

You’re not sure why you came. Yunjin had begged, of course, had stood in your doorway with her most dramatic expression, wailing about how you never do anything fun anymore. But even then, you could have said no. You could have curled up in your apartment, wrapped yourself in something soft and safe, ignored the way your stomach flipped when you thought, what if Heeseung is there?

But you didn’t.

And now, you’re here, standing in the middle of someone’s too-small living room, holding a lukewarm drink, feeling like a puzzle piece that doesn’t quite fit. And then, you hear your name.

It cuts through the music, through the laughter, through the static in your brain. It pulls you toward the kitchen, toward the familiar lilt of a voice you know better than your own. And there he is. Heeseung.

Standing in front of the fridge, cracking open a beer, wearing a faded t-shirt and jeans that hang just right. His hair is a little messy, his eyes a little bright, and when he sees you, he grins—that same lopsided, teasing, dangerous smile.

"Look who finally decided to show up," he says, raising his drink in a mock toast.

You roll your eyes, taking a sip of whatever’s in your cup. "Don’t make a big deal out of it."

Heeseung hums, leaning against the counter. "Wouldn’t dream of it."

But he’s looking at you like it is a big deal. Like maybe he’s been waiting for you all night. Like maybe he always is.

Hours pass, the party moves around you—people spilling in and out of rooms, music shifting from one song to the next—but you and Heeseung stay where you are, orbiting around each other.

At some point, someone suggests a game. Cards, or maybe something more ridiculous—something designed to make people confess things they wouldn’t say otherwise. You should say no. You should step away before you find yourself caught in something you can’t get out of.

But you don’t. You sit next to Heeseung on the floor, close enough that your knees touch. The game starts, questions fly, people laugh. And then—

Jake turns to you. "Alright, Y/N. Who was your first college crush?"

You blink. "What?"

The group whoops in unison. Jungwon throws an arm around your shoulder. "Come on, don’t be shy."

Your throat goes dry. Your eyes flicker to Heeseung, just for a second, but it’s enough. His smirk twitches—just barely, just enough to be noticeable—and suddenly, you know you have to get out of this.

You clear your throat, reaching for your drink. "I think I’ve blocked it out," you lie.

A chorus of boos erupts, but the game moves on. The moment passes. But beside you, Heeseung is watching you, his fingers tapping against his knee, like he’s putting something together. You pretend not to notice.

Later, when the party has blurred into something soft and distant, when most people are drunk or half-asleep, when the night has stretched itself out into something too fragile to hold forever, Heeseung finds you on the balcony.

You’re leaning against the railing, breathing in the cool air, staring out at the city lights. "You hiding from me?"

You don’t turn around. "You think everything’s about you, don’t you?"

He laughs—soft, amused, something warm threading through the sound. "It usually is."

You roll your eyes, but then he’s beside you, resting his forearms on the railing, close enough that you can feel the heat of him even through the night air.

For a moment, neither of you speak. The music inside is muffled now, the party nothing more than background noise. The city stretches out before you, endless and alive, full of people who have no idea that this moment is happening.

And then, quietly, Heeseung asks, "You really don’t remember your first college crush?"

Your fingers tighten slightly around the railing. You exhale. "I remember."

A pause. "Yeah?"

You glance at him. He’s watching you, expression unreadable, something deep and knowing in his eyes. You swallow. "Yeah."

Heeseung tilts his head slightly, and for a second, you think—Is he going to ask? Does he already know? But he doesn’t.

He just nods, looking back at the skyline, and says, "Me too."

And somehow, that’s worse. Because you think—no, you know—that he’s not talking about some early college memory, some long-forgotten infatuation.

He’s talking about you.

And for the first time, you wonder if this thing between you—this waiting, this almost, this three years of something unspoken—has been more obvious than you thought. You wonder if maybe, just maybe, you’re not the only one waiting.

One month later. The thing about time is that it moves whether you’re ready or not. It stretches, it folds, it carries you forward even when you feel like you’re standing still.

And ever since the party, things with Heeseung have been… different. Not in an obvious way. Not in the way that people would notice, not in the way that Yunjin would tease you about over breakfast. But in the small things.

In the way his eyes linger just a little too long. In the way your stomach flips when he says your name. In the way every conversation feels like it’s balancing on the edge of something you can’t name.

Because you and Heeseung have always been close, always been drawn together like something written into the universe itself. But now? Now, it feels different. Like someone turned up the volume on something you didn’t even realize was playing in the background.

And the worst part? Neither of you are talking about it.

Instead, you’re doing what you do best—pretending. Pretending that nothing is different, that things are still light and easy, that three years of something unspoken aren’t finally starting to spill over the edges.

Until one day, when you’re sitting on Yunjin’s couch, your phone rings. It’s your mother. You hesitate before answering, already bracing yourself for whatever she’s about to say.

And the moment you put your phone down, you groan, collapsing onto the couch, like the weight of the conversation is physically pressing down on you. Heeseung and Yunjin are both looking at you expectantly, their attention fully on you in a way that makes you regret opening your mouth at all. But it’s too late now, so you just exhale, pressing your fingers against your temples before muttering, "My mom called."

Yunjin snorts. "Yeah, we got that much. What did she want?"

You roll your eyes, but the annoyance in your chest is directed at yourself more than anything else. "There’s a wedding. My cousin’s. Next weekend."

Heeseung, who had been absentmindedly rolling a bottle cap between his fingers, finally glances up, eyes curious. "You going?"

"Yeah." You sigh again. "Didn’t really have a choice. If I said no, she would’ve found a way to guilt-trip me into oblivion."

Yunjin grins knowingly. "Classic mom move."

You hum in agreement, then hesitate, picking at the hem of your sleeve. "And then she made it weird," you mutter.

Heeseung raises an eyebrow, shifting slightly on the couch so he’s facing you more fully. "How weird?"

You pause for a second, then groan, throwing your head back. "She brought up the fact that I’ve never brought a boyfriend to anything."

Yunjin cackles. She actually leans forward, hands on her knees, cackling. "Oh my God," she wheezes. "That’s so embarrassing for you."

You glare. "Thank you, Yunjin, for your endless support."

But Heeseung doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t tease. He just tilts his head, watching you with an unreadable expression. "She said that?"

You nod, rubbing your temples. "Yeah. She was all, ‘You can bring someone, you know,’ and then just immediately went for the ‘You’ve never brought a boyfriend to anything,’ like I don’t already know that."

Yunjin wipes a fake tear from her eye, still far too entertained. "Damn. She really called you out like that."

"Okay," you deadpan, "I think we’ve established that this is humiliating for me. Can we move on?"

But Yunjin grins, her eyes practically glowing with mischief, and that’s when you know you should have never said anything at all. "Well," she says, stretching out the word, "if it bothers you that much… you could always bring Heeseung."

Silence.

You feel it immediately—the way the air shifts, the way your stomach twists, the way your breath catches for just a second too long. You don’t look at Heeseung. You can’t.

Instead, you scoff, shoving her shoulder. "Oh my God, shut up."

"I’m serious!" she laughs. "It makes sense, doesn’t it? You need a date. Heeseung’s around."

Heeseung is silent. And that—that’s what makes your chest tighten. Because Heeseung is never silent.

You finally force yourself to glance at him, just a flicker, just to see how he’s reacting to this. And when you do, you find him already looking at you—his expression unreadable, his fingers stilling where they had been absently playing with the bottle cap.

Something tightens in your throat. Because it’s one thing to laugh it off. It’s one thing to pretend this isn’t something charged, something delicate, something that feels like standing on the edge of something too big to name.

But Heeseung isn’t laughing.

When you open the door on the wedding day, Heeseung is already leaning against his car, hands tucked into the pockets of his slacks, looking entirely too good for someone who is supposed to be doing you a favor. His hair is neat but still has that slight, careless tousle to it, his sleeves are pushed up just enough to reveal his forearms, and his black dress shirt is criminally well-fitted.

You try very hard not to notice any of that. But Heeseung is looking at you like you just stopped time.

It’s not obvious—he doesn’t say anything right away, doesn’t let his jaw drop like some kind of movie cliché—but his fingers twitch slightly where they’re resting in his pockets, and his throat bobs as he swallows. His eyes move over you in a way that isn’t just admiration but something deeper, something heavier, something that makes your chest feel too tight.

You pretend not to notice that, either. Instead, you lift an eyebrow, shifting your weight onto one foot. "You gonna open the door for me, or are you just gonna stand there?"

Heeseung blinks, snapping out of it. He clears his throat, pushing off the car, his usual smirk creeping back into place. "Right, yeah. My bad."

You roll your eyes, but your face feels warm anyway. The ride starts out easy. The hum of the road fills the space between you, the occasional comment about the directions or a song playing on the radio breaking the silence.

"You, uh," Heeseung starts, his fingers drumming against the steering wheel. "You sure your mom’s gonna be cool with me coming?"

You blink. "What? Yeah, of course. I already told her."

He raises an eyebrow. "You told her?"

"Yeah," you say, adjusting the hem of your dress. "I mean, I talk about you all the time, so it’s not like it’s weird or anything."

Silence. You don’t notice it at first, but when you glance over, Heeseung is staring straight ahead, gripping the wheel a little tighter than before.

And the thing is—Heeseung is not someone who gets flustered easily. He doesn’t trip over his words, doesn’t get all weird when people talk about him. But now, he’s sitting there, completely silent, like his brain just blue-screened.

Because you talk about him all the time. To your mom. His ears burn at the thought.

Because it’s one thing to be close. It’s one thing to be your best friend, to be the person you go to for late-night McDonald’s runs and life-altering conversations on balconies. But it’s another thing entirely to know that he exists in your life even when he’s not there.

That when you’re on the phone with your mom, when you’re recounting your day, when you’re talking about the people who matter—he’s there. And it’s so stupid how much that does to him.

He coughs, forcing himself to sound normal. "Oh. Cool. Yeah. That’s cool."

You snort. "I told her you’re my friend, and that’s it."

Heeseung hums, tapping his fingers on the wheel again. "Yeah. Right."

But for some reason, the word friend doesn’t sit right in his mouth.

The wedding is beautiful. Not in the over-the-top, fairytale kind of way, but in the way that feels real. The ceremony is held outdoors, the late afternoon light draping everything in gold, the air carrying the soft hum of laughter and clinking glasses. There are flowers on every table, music drifting lazily through the air, and a warmth that lingers beneath the chatter of distant relatives catching up.

And you almost forget that you’re here with Heeseung. Almost. Except—you can feel him.

You can feel him next to you at the table, the warmth of his presence settling into your skin. You can feel the way his hand brushes against yours when he reaches for something, the way his eyes flicker toward you when he hears you laugh.

And the worst part is that he looks good as hell.

It’s almost unfair, the way he carries himself. The way his sleeves are still rolled up, the way his shirt is slightly undone at the collar, the way he leans back in his chair, legs stretched out, watching everything unfold like he belongs here.

And for the first time in a long time you don’t know where you stand with him.

Because this is Heeseung. The boy who sends you Shrek memes at 2 a.m. The boy who once argued with a barista about oat milk for a full five minutes. The boy who makes you laugh until you can’t breathe.

But right now? Right now, he’s something else, too. Something that makes your stomach flip. Something that makes you forget how to breathe.

The music shifts. It’s not immediate—not some grand, dramatic moment where the world slows down—but you feel it.

The moment the first notes of the song drift through the air, you feel it in your chest. Like something tightening. Like something pulling at a thread you don’t want to unravel. Because you know this song. Of course you know this song. And so does he.

You don’t even have to look at Heeseung to know he recognizes it too. That he knows exactly what’s playing, that he knows how much you love her, that he knows you’ve played this song before—in his car, in your apartment, in the quiet spaces between friendship and something else.

You know he knows. And yet, he still turns to you, his voice a low murmur beneath the hum of conversation. “Phoebe Bridgers,” he says.

You swallow. “Yeah.” Heeseung hums, watching you carefully. His fingers drum lightly against the table, slow and steady, in time with the beat of the song. Then, after a second—

"You should dance with me."

You blink. You blink again. Your stomach twists. “What?”

Heeseung shrugs, like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t mean anything. “You love this song.”

Which—okay. That’s true. But this is not a song you dance to. This is a song you listen to alone, in your room, in the quiet, when it’s too late and you’re too restless and you’re thinking about things you shouldn’t be thinking about.

This is not a wedding song. And yet, Heeseung is still looking at you like that, like this is a dare, like he’s waiting for you to say no, to call him out, to pull away before it’s too late.

And yet, his hand is outstretched, waiting, patient, warm. And yet— You take it. You don’t think, you just do it, just let yourself be pulled. And Heeseung holds you like he’s afraid to press too hard.

One hand on your waist. The other clasping yours loosely, like he’s letting you decide how close to be. Like he’s still waiting for you to laugh and push him away and say, ‘This is so stupid’.

But you don’t. You just breathe. You just exist here, in this moment, with him.

If you were a waiting room, I would never see a doctor I would sit there with my first-aid kit and bleed

Your throat tightens. Because God, this song.

Because you know every lyric by heart, because you know what it means, because there’s something about it that always makes you feel like you’re standing in the middle of something you’ll never quite have.

And now, here you are, dancing to it with him.

Heeseung exhales softly, tilting his head toward you. “You ever think about that?”

You blink. “Think about what?”

His fingers twitch slightly against your waist. “How music reminds you of people.”

Your stomach flips. Because of course you do. Of course, you think about it. Of course, this song, this moment, this whole damn night is going to be tied to him now, forever, no matter what happens after.

You nod. “Yeah,” you say quietly. “I think about it.”

Heeseung hums, like that makes sense. Like he already knew what you were going to say. Then—

"Does this song remind you of me?"

Your breath catches. The air between you thickens.

Because that shouldn’t be a question. Because he already knows the answer. Because you’re standing here with him, swaying to a song that makes your chest ache, and you know, you know he hears the lyrics just as clearly as you do.

I wanna be the broken love song that feeds your misery.

You clear your throat, forcing yourself to sound normal. “Maybe.”

His lips twitch. “Maybe?”

You narrow your eyes. “Don’t push it.”

Heeseung laughs, soft, breathless. And God, you hate him.

You hate the way he makes everything feel like a game, like he’s always hovering right at the edge of something and waiting for you to push him over. You hate that it’s working.

And when broken bodies are washed ashore—who am I to ask for more?

You shiver. Because this is the part of the song that gets to you every time. Because who are you to ask for more?

Who are you to ask for something that maybe, just maybe, was never meant to be yours? But then Heeseung, of all people, says “I think this song reminds me of you, too.”

Your heart stops. You look at him, and he’s already looking at you, and suddenly this doesn’t feel like pretending anymore.

This doesn’t feel like something you can laugh off. Because Heeseung is serious.

Because his hand is still on your waist, his fingers still brushing against the fabric of your dress, his breath still warm against your cheek, and you don’t know how to go back from this. You don’t know if you want to.

Heeseung shifts slightly, his grip tightening for just a second. “You ever think about it?”

You blink. “Think about what?”

Heeseung hesitates, his eyes flickering over your face. His jaw tightens—just barely.

"Us."

Your stomach drops.

Because he says it so simply, like it’s nothing, like it’s a passing thought, like he hasn’t just destroyed your entire world in one syllable. Us. The word sits heavy in the air between you, impossible to ignore, impossible to pretend you didn’t hear.

Heeseung doesn’t move, doesn’t look away, doesn’t do anything to make this easier for you. He just keeps holding you, keeps swaying with you, keeps waiting—like he has all the time in the world.

You want to say something.

You want to throw your head back and laugh it off, tell him he’s being ridiculous, tell him to stop playing with you. You want to scoff and roll your eyes and pretend that the thought of you and Heeseung has never crossed your mind, that it hasn’t been haunting you for years, that it hasn’t been living under your skin since the first time he looked at you like you were something worth remembering.

But you can’t. Because this is Heeseung. Because he knows you too well, because he’d hear the lie in your voice, because there is nowhere left to hide when he’s looking at you like this.

So instead, you stall. You breathe in, slow and careful, and say, "What about us?"

It’s a cheap move. A pathetic attempt at deflection. And Heeseung knows it.

He exhales, the ghost of a laugh slipping past his lips, his fingers tightening ever so slightly on your waist. "You know what I mean."

You glance down at your hands, the way your fingers are still laced together with his, the way your other hand rests so easily on his shoulder, like this is something you’ve done a thousand times before. And maybe you have.

Maybe you and Heeseung have always been dancing around each other like this. Maybe you’ve just never let yourself notice. The song keeps playing, keeps taunting you, keeps threading its meaning between your ribs, pulling you closer and closer to something you don’t know how to name.

I wanna make you drive all night just because I said, maybe you should come over

You let out a slow breath, forcing your voice to stay steady. "We’re friends, Heeseung."

He hums. "Yeah. We are."

But he doesn’t let go.

He doesn’t move away, doesn’t drop his hand from your waist, doesn’t step back into the safe distance you’re used to. He stays. And that’s the part that gets you.

Because if he really believed that was all this was, he wouldn’t be holding you like this. If he really believed that was all this was, he wouldn’t have asked the question in the first place.

You glance up at him again, searching, waiting for him to say something else, to give you an out, to change the subject, to laugh and let it go. But he doesn’t. He just watches you. And suddenly, you feel exposed in a way you never have before.

Like every late-night conversation, every half-smile, every almost has been leading here, to this moment, to this song, to this feeling that you don’t know how to escape. You force yourself to swallow.

"Why are you asking me this?" you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper.

Heeseung tilts his head slightly, considering you, considering his words.

"Because I think about it, too."

Your breath catches in your throat. Your fingers tighten against his shoulder. Your heart slams against your ribs.

You feel like the whole world has shrunk down to just this. To the space between your bodies, to the way he’s looking at you, to the fact that he thinks about it, too.

Heeseung’s fingers twitch slightly against yours, but he doesn’t let go. He’s watching you with this careful intensity, like he’s waiting for something, like he’s giving you the chance to decide what happens next.

And that’s the problem.

Because you don’t know what happens next.

Because you’ve spent years existing in this strange, untouchable place with him, in this in-between, in this waiting room of a relationship that never moves forward but never lets you leave either.

And now, suddenly, here you are. Standing on the edge of something irreversible.

She'll be the best you ever had if you let her

Your heart stumbles. Because this song knows too much.

Because this song feels too much like the two of you, like something ripped from your ribs and put into lyrics, like a truth you weren’t ready to confront. And maybe—just maybe—Heeseung feels it, too.

Because he leans in. Just a little. Just enough.

Not enough to cross the line, not enough to destroy the thing you’ve built, but enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath, enough that the scent of him—clean soap, something faintly woodsy, something entirely him—wraps around you.

Enough that you could close the distance if you wanted to. And God, you do.

But you don’t. Because you’re afraid. Because you don’t know what happens when you let this become real.

Because Heeseung is still looking at you like that, like he could ruin you if he wanted to, like he’s giving you the chance to ruin him first.

I know it's for the better

You exhale, too shaky, too uneven. And Heeseung notices.

His gaze flickers, barely, to your lips, to the space between you, to the way you haven’t moved away from him yet. And then his jaw clenches.

Like he’s just realized how close you are. Like he’s just realized this is about to happen if neither of you stop it. And that’s the thing, neither of you stop it.

Not immediately. Not when his fingers tighten slightly on your waist. Not when your grip on his shoulder trembles just a little. Not when the air between you stretches so thin it might snap in half.

Not until you hear, Know it’s for the better…

The song starts to fade. The moment fractures. And just like that, you both pull away.

Not much. Just an inch, a breath, a single second too late. But it’s enough.

Enough for reality to settle back in. Enough for the noise of the wedding to come rushing back, for the chatter and laughter and clinking glasses to remind you where you are, who you are, what you almost did.

And Heeseung, he knows it, too. You see it in the way his throat bobs, in the way he blinks hard, in the way he forces himself to take a step back, to drop his hand from your waist, to roll his shoulders like he can shake off whatever just happened between you.

The song ends. And neither of you say a word.

And three months later, silence.

At first, it’s subtle—just a missed text here, a conversation that doesn’t last as long as it used to, an inside joke that no longer lands the way it should. But then it becomes something else. Something colder. Something that feels less like a pause and more like a choice.

And that’s what happened to you and Heeseung.

You didn’t stop talking completely. That would have been too obvious, too final, too much like admitting that something had shifted beyond repair. You still sent the occasional meme, still ran into each other at Yunjin’s, still had conversations that skimmed the surface of what they used to be.

But it was different. The late-night McDonald’s runs stopped. The effortless teasing felt strained. The ease of being around each other—the one thing you never questioned—was suddenly gone.

Neither of you did anything about it. You let it happen. Because it was easier that way.

Because acknowledging it meant admitting that something had changed, that you had gotten too close, that something had almost happened that night at the wedding. And you weren’t ready to admit that.

You weren’t ready to ask if Heeseung had almost kissed you, or if you had almost kissed him, or if you had both just been caught in some stupid, fleeting moment that meant nothing at all. So, you didn’t.

And now, three months later, all that’s left is silence.

The rain comes down in sheets, heavy and relentless, drumming against the windows of your apartment. You sit curled up on your couch, blanket wrapped around you, phone abandoned on the coffee table. The storm had rolled in an hour ago, sudden and unforgiving, and now the whole city feels swallowed by it, the streetlights barely visible through the downpour.

Then, there’s a knock at your door. You weren’t expecting anyone. It’s too late, too stormy, too much of a nothing kind of night for visitors.

But something in you knows—before you even open the door, before you even take that first breath—that it’s him.

And it is. It’s Heeseung.

Standing in your doorway, soaking wet, hair plastered to his forehead, breathing unevenly like he just ran here.

You freeze. "Heeseung?"

His eyes flicker over your face, searching, desperate, wild in a way you’ve never seen before. His clothes are damp, sticking to his frame, his hands clenched at his sides. But it’s his expression that gets you.

Like something is breaking inside of him. Like something has already broken.

“I can’t—” His voice catches, hoarse and raw, and then he shakes his head, like words are failing him, like they’re too small for what he’s trying to say.

Your heart is pounding. “Heeseung, what are you—”

"I can’t stop thinking about you."

The words crash into you like a wave, knocking the breath from your lungs. You stare.

Heeseung swallows hard, shaking his head like he’s trying to clear it, like he’s trying to find a way to make you understand.

"I’ve tried," he continues, voice shaking. "I really, really tried. But you’re always there. You’re in every song I hear, in every dumb inside joke, in every single thing that happens to me. I see something stupid and my first thought is always, ‘Y/N would think that’s hilarious.’ I go to text you and then I stop because I don’t know if I’m supposed to anymore. I—"

He lets out a sharp, frustrated laugh, dragging a hand through his wet hair. “I thought if I just gave it time, it would go away. I thought I could just—move past it. But I still feel like I’m standing in that damn Halloween party with you, waiting for something to happen.”

Your throat is tight. “Heeseung—”

“I miss you,” he interrupts, pushing forward, stepping into your space like he’s afraid you’ll shut the door on him if he doesn’t. "I miss you so much it’s making me lose my goddamn mind."

Your pulse is roaring in your ears. You should say something. You should do something. But you can’t. You just stand there, staring at him, your body frozen in place. And Heeseung just keeps talking.

"I don’t know how to be your friend anymore," he admits, wrecked, his voice barely above a whisper. "I don’t know how to sit next to you and act like I don’t want more. I don’t know how to look at you and pretend that you’re not the first person I think about when I wake up and the last person I think about before I fall asleep. I don’t know how to listen to that fucking song without remembering the way you looked at me that night."

The air is too thick. Your vision is blurring.

Heeseung breathes out a shaky, desperate laugh, his hands curling into fists at his sides. "And the worst part?" He meets your eyes, and it destroys you. "I don’t think I want to stop thinking about you."

And that’s it.

That’s what breaks you. That’s what makes you move.

You don’t think. You don’t hesitate.

You step forward, grab the front of his stupid wet shirt, and kiss him.

The storm rages outside. And for the first time in three years, neither of you pull away.

The moment your lips crash into his, Heeseung stumbles back a step, caught off guard, but then he’s pulling you closer, like he’s been waiting for this forever.

His hands cup your face, fingers threading into your hair, holding you like you might disappear if he lets go. And you grip the front of his shirt like it’s the only thing keeping you standing, like if you let go, the moment might shatter around you.

Heeseung sighs into the kiss, like he’s relieved, like this is something he’s needed more than breathing itself. He tilts his head, deepening it, and you melt into him, the heat of his mouth sending shivers down your spine.

It’s surreal, familiar and foreign all at once, like stepping into a dream you’ve had before but never been able to hold onto. Because this is Heeseung. The boy who has always been by your side, the boy who has spent years making you laugh until your stomach hurts, the boy who has always been a constant in your life.

But now, he’s something else too. Now, he’s the only thing you can feel. And that’s the strangest part, how utterly consuming this is. Because your brain is struggling to keep up, still caught in the absurdity of it—Heeseung is kissing me, I’m kissing Heeseung, this is happening, this is happening.

And then he moves forward, stepping into the apartment fully, finally, his hands still tangled in your hair, still refusing to let you go. The door clicks shut behind him, the sound almost lost beneath the roar of the storm outside.

Heeseung doesn’t hesitate. His lips find yours again, his hands skimming over your waist, like he’s memorizing the shape of you, like he’s trying to make up for all the time he spent pretending he didn’t want this. And you can’t breathe. Because this isn’t like any kiss you’ve ever had before.

You’ve kissed people you liked. You’ve kissed people you thought you could love. But you have never, never felt this. This heat, this ache, this impossible, indescribable pull. Like your entire life has been leading up to this moment.

Like every other kiss you’ve had before this was just a poor imitation of what it was supposed to feel like. And that’s terrifying. Because how do you go back after this? How do you pretend this doesn’t mean something?

Heeseung exhales against your lips, his breath uneven, his fingers tightening just slightly against your waist. Like he’s thinking the same thing, like he’s struggling just as much as you are to make sense of this.

You should stop. You should pull away, take a breath, process. But you can’t.

Because he tilts his head, kisses you deeper, and suddenly, you’re walking backward without realizing it, your body moving on instinct, your hands clutching at his shirt as if he’s the only thing keeping you steady. Heeseung follows, one hand sliding down to rest against the small of your back, guiding you without thinking, without hesitation.

Your legs hit the couch. You stumble slightly, your balance faltering for the first time, and Heeseung, on pure reflex, catches you. His hands tighten instantly, pulling you against him, steadying you before you can fall.

But the movement leaves zero space between you. You can feel everything, his chest rising and falling against yours, the heat radiating off of him, the way his fingers twitch slightly where they’re curled into the fabric of your shirt.

His breath brushes against your lips, his nose bumping against yours as you both hover, just for a moment, just long enough to realize how close you are, just long enough to make it worse.

Before you can stop yourself, before you can think, you kiss him again. This time, it’s slower. This time, it’s deeper. This time, it’s not about the rush, the adrenaline, the storm raging outside. This time, it’s about everything else.

About the way his hands move carefully now, like he’s trying to remember every single detail, about the way he tilts his head slightly to fit his mouth against yours like he’s done this a thousand times in his head, about the way he lets out a soft, wrecked sound when you slide your fingers up into his still-damp hair. And you’re drowning in him.

You fall back onto the couch, pulling him with you, and he follows without hesitation, bracing himself with one hand on the cushion beside you, the other still gripping your waist, his fingers trembling just slightly against your skin.

His lips leave yours only for a second, just long enough for him to breathe, just long enough for his eyes to flicker over your face, like he’s trying to memorize you at this moment.

And then, so softly you almost don’t hear it—

“Tell me you want this.”

Your breath catches. Because God, you do. You do. You always have. So you don’t say anything. You just pull him down and kiss him again.

The weight of him settles over you, his body pressed against yours, his hands everywhere and nowhere at once—on your waist, your ribs, twitching like he doesn’t know where to hold you first, like he doesn’t want to stop touching you long enough to decide.

It's overwhelming. His warmth, his scent, the soft, unsteady breaths he exhales between kisses, the way his fingers slide under the hem of your shirt just slightly, just enough to brush against bare skin. It’s careful. Hesitant. Like he’s testing something fragile.

Heeseung groans softly, his grip tightening, his lips parting against yours in a way that sends a full-body shiver down your spine. His hands move up your sides, down to your hips, fingers pressing into the fabric of your clothes like he wants to commit this exact moment to memory. You arch just slightly, chasing his warmth, and the movement makes Heeseung suck in a sharp breath, his forehead pressing briefly against yours.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he mutters.

You laugh, breathless, hands sliding up into his hair, tugging just enough to make him shudder. “That’s dramatic.”

His lips graze yours again, barely there, just enough to drive you insane. “You have no idea.”

And you could stay here forever—wrapped up in him, in his weight, in the way his lips brush over your jaw, the corner of your mouth, like he’s learning you one kiss at a time.

He shifts just slightly, pressing more of his weight into you, his thigh slipping between yours, and your breath catches. Heeseung notices immediately. You feel it in the way his body tenses, in the way his grip on your waist tightens, in the way he exhales shakily against your cheek.

You don’t move. He doesn’t move. The air changes. Slows. Thickens. And suddenly, it’s not just kissing anymore. Suddenly, it’s so much more than that. It’s every feeling you’ve been ignoring, every second of the past three years, every single moment leading up to this one catching up to you all at once.

And Heeseung feels it too. Because he pulls back, just a little, just enough to look at you properly, his expression wrecked. His fingers brush against your cheek, light, careful, like he’s waiting for you to tell him to stop. Like he’s scared of what happens if you don’t.

You stare up at him, breathless, your pulse pounding in your ears, and— God, he’s beautiful.

His hair is still damp from the rain, strands falling over his forehead in a way that makes him look softer. His lips are kiss-bruised, parted slightly as he catches his breath, his chest rising and falling in time with yours.

You exhale slowly, one hand sliding down his chest, feeling the way his heart slams against his ribs, and he shudders. You know what this means. You know there’s no going back after this. So you whisper—soft, shaky, everything all at once—

"Heeseung."

And that’s all it takes.

Heeseung exhales—a shaky, uneven breath, like he’s barely holding himself together. His fingers tighten slightly where they rest on your waist, his body still hovering over yours. Then, softly, barely above a whisper—

"Say my name again."

Your stomach flips. You don’t, not at first. Because you feel lightheaded, because this is Heeseung, because what the hell is happening right now?

But Heeseung isn’t impatient. He doesn’t push. He just watches you, his gaze flickering over your face—your lips, your eyes, the way your breath catches in your throat. And then, carefully, deliberately, he grabs your wrist.

Your breath hitches as he lifts your hand, as he guides it slowly, until your palm is pressed flat against his chest. You can feel it. His heartbeat. It’s slamming against his ribs, too fast, too unsteady, completely out of control.

You stare at your hand, at where it rests over his racing pulse, at the way his skin burns beneath your touch. Heeseung swallows hard.

"You feel that?" he murmurs, his voice low, rough, wrecked.

And you do, because it’s all you can feel, because it’s like his entire body is responding to you, and you nod, your fingers twitching slightly against his shirt.

Heeseung lets out a breath like he’s relieved, like he needed you to know this, to feel this, to understand what you do to him. Then, slowly, carefully, giving you every chance to stop him, he leans down, brushing his lips against the curve of your jaw. You suck in a breath, your eyes fluttering shut as he moves lower, pressing the softest, slowest kiss to the side of your neck. Your fingers curl against his shoulders, your pulse hammering beneath your skin, and he feels it.

“Heeseung,” you breathe, and it’s embarrassing how it comes out, a little too soft, a little too needy, like you’re already losing yourself in him.

He shudders, letting out a sharp breath. “Fuck—”

Then, his teeth graze your pulse point, and you gasp, back arching instinctively into him. Your hips shift beneath his, your hands moving without thinking, fingers grasping at the hem of his hoodie, your skin itching for more of him, more warmth, more of everything.

Heeseung lets you. He lets you push the fabric up, lets you brush your fingers over the bare skin of his stomach, lets you feel the way his muscles tense under your touch. He exhales a groan, head dropping to your shoulder like you’ve just taken the breath right out of him.

He murmurs your name, voice strangled, his fingers digging into your waist as if you’ve completely unraveled him. You suck in a breath, your hands still fisting his hoodie.

“I want to hear you,” he admits, so quietly, like he almost wasn’t planning to say it out loud. “I want to—”

He cuts himself off with another soft groan as you push the hoodie all the way up, your fingers skimming over his bare chest before you finally tug it over his head. It hits the floor with a soft thud, but you barely register it.

Because Heeseung is above you, half-naked, breathing heavy, flushed, and looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world that exists. You don’t know what to do with yourself. So you just stare up at him, breathless, waiting. And then, finally, you whisper—

"Heeseung, tell me what you want."

Heeseung exhales sharply, his breath warm against your skin, his fingers still pressing into your waist like he’s trying to ground himself, steady himself, like he’s trying not to lose his mind completely.

His hand slides up, fingertips grazing your ribs, slow and deliberate, and you shudder beneath him. His thumb brushes the fabric of your shirt, his touch gentle but knowing, and he meets your eyes, and God, he looks ruined.

"I want—" He starts, but then he laughs breathlessly, shaking his head like he can’t believe himself, like this is too much, like you are too much. His hands are still moving, still exploring, still teasing at the fabric of your shirt, still making your body burn in ways you’ve never felt before. "I want all of you."

Your stomach flips. Because he’s not even touching you properly, and yet it’s the way he says it, the weight of his voice, the truth in it, that makes your pulse stutter.

And then, before you can respond, before you can tease him for how wrecked he sounds, his hands move, slow and deliberate. Fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt, pushing it up, knuckles skimming over your stomach, over your ribs, over every single inch of skin he reveals as he goes.

Your breath stutters, your body arching up into his touch. His jaw clenches, his lips part, and then he’s leaning down, pressing his mouth to your collarbone, trailing featherlight, open-mouthed kisses along your skin as he slowly tugs your shirt over your head.

And then, finally, your shirt joins his hoodie on the floor. And suddenly, you’re both bare and breathless, staring at each other like you don’t know what to do next, even though you both know exactly what’s about to happen.

"Heeseung," you whisper, and his eyes flicker, dark, burning, like your voice alone is enough to unravel him.

"You’re not making this easy," he murmurs, his fingers skimming up your sides, his thumb brushing along your ribs, his body pressing down just slightly, just enough to feel how perfectly he fits against you.

Your breath catches. "Good."

And that ruins him. Heeseung groans, low and deep, and then he’s leaning down again, lips trailing along your jaw, down your neck, to your collarbone, soft, open-mouthed kisses, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring every single second. His voice is strained, thick with something raw, something undeniable.

"You feel so good."

You whimper at his words, your nails digging into his shoulders, and Heeseung reacts immediately, his hips pressing down, his body slotting perfectly against yours, his breath catching as he feels you, all of you, right there beneath him.

"Shit," he mutters, his head dropping to your shoulder, his hands gripping your waist like he needs something to hold onto. You’re both breathless now, bodies pressed so close there’s no space left between you, every single movement sending heat crashing through your veins. "You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this."

Your heart stumbles. Because neither of you were supposed to say it. Neither of you were supposed to acknowledge it. But now—it’s out there. And there’s no taking it back.

And then Heeseung looks at you, really looks at you. His eyes, dark and hooded with something deeper than just desire, trace every inch of your face, your parted lips, the flush spreading down your neck, the way your chest rises and falls, rapid and uneven beneath him.

“You’re…” He swallows hard, his voice thick with something close to reverence. “God, you’re so beautiful.”

His hands move lower, squeezing your thighs before dragging up again, pushing your legs further apart beneath him. Heeseung exhales sharply, his pupils blown wide as he takes in the way you look beneath him, flushed, needy, completely and utterly his for the taking.

“Fuck.” His voice is raw, thick with barely restrained need. “You’re perfect.”

His mouth finds your collarbone, lips hot and insistent as he moves lower, tasting, worshiping. His tongue flicks over the sensitive skin, his teeth grazing lightly before he sucks, leaving a mark. His fingers dig into your skin as he rolls his hips down against yours, pulling a sharp gasp from your lips. He watches, fascinated, as your body reacts to his, as your fingers clutch at his arms, as your lips part with another breathy whimper that shoots straight through his bloodstream.

“You like that?” he murmurs, dragging his lips up to your ear, his voice nothing but a low rasp. “Like feeling me this close?” You nod, but it’s not enough. Heeseung needs to hear you say it. “Tell me,” he demands, his fingers tightening just enough to make you squirm.

“Yes,” you gasp, your voice barely more than a breath.

Heeseung smirks against your skin, the sound of your desperation fueling the heat building between you. “Good.” His lips trail back down, kissing, tasting, exploring every inch of you. “Because I’m not done with you yet.”

Heeseung hovers over you, his breath warm against your skin as his hands trail lower, fingers grazing the waistband of your pants. His fingers toy with the fabric at your hips, teasing. His voice, when he speaks, is deep and laced with restraint.

“Can I take these off?”

His eyes flick up to meet yours, and the sight of him like this—his lips swollen, his gaze dark with barely contained desire, sends a shiver down your spine. Your stomach tightens, heat curling low in your belly as you whisper, “Yes.”

And the second the word leaves your lips, Heeseung exhales sharply, like he’s been holding back this whole time. His hands move with deliberate slowness, sliding under the waistband, his fingers warm and firm against your hips as he starts to pull your pants down.

His hands guide your pants lower until they slip past your thighs, pooling somewhere near your ankles, and he takes his time, his lips pressing slow, reverent kisses along the soft skin of your lower belly, just above the edge of your underwear.

He groans against your skin, his voice husky. “You have no idea how good you look right now.”

His hands splay over your thighs, his lips follow the same path, pressing kisses, biting gently, dragging his tongue across the warmth of your skin as he moves lower. You let out a shaky breath as he spreads your legs just a little more, his fingers gripping, massaging, his lips marking every inch of your inner thighs as he inches closer to where you need him most.

Heeseung hums against your skin, his breath hot, teasing. “So soft,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with admiration, with hunger. His hands squeeze your thighs, his fingers digging in just enough to make you arch slightly. “So perfect.”

His lips brush dangerously close to the edge of your underwear, his nose nuzzling against the sensitive skin just beside it, inhaling deeply like he wants to drown in you. His grip tightens. His lips part, and he looks up at you.

The sight of him between your legs, hair messy, lips swollen, his dark eyes filled with something you can’t quite name—it’s almost too much.

His voice is thick, teasing but affectionate. “You’re shaking,” he notes, his thumb brushing the inside of your thigh in slow, soothing circles.

Your breath catches. “Because of you.”

Heeseung groans softly, his hands gripping tighter, his lips trailing higher again, back to your hip, back to your stomach, his teeth scraping lightly against the sensitive skin there. “You have no idea how much I love hearing that,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.

Slowly, he starts to move up. His fingers slide up to cup your face, his thumb brushing softly over your cheek, like he needs to feel every part of you, like he’s grounding himself in your presence. He exhales sharply, his forehead resting against yours for the briefest second, like he’s gathering himself, like he’s trying to hold back.

“I need to taste you,” he murmurs, his voice nothing but a raw, desperate rasp. “Please.”

Your breath stutters, your fingers gripping onto his arms, feeling the tension coiled tight beneath his skin. You swallow hard, trying to steady yourself, but the truth is, you want this just as much.

“I need to hear you say it,” he murmurs.

Your pulse is a pounding rhythm against your ribs, your whole body thrumming with heat, but somehow, you manage to find your voice.

“Yes,” you whisper. “I want it. I want you.”

Heeseung groans, his grip tightening for just a second before he’s moving again, kissing down your neck, your collarbone, your chest. His hands slide back down your body, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring every inch of you.

And then he’s sinking back down between your thighs, his eyes never leaving yours, his hands parting your legs with a reverence that makes your head spin.

Heeseung grips the hem of your underwear between his fingers, his breathing ragged, his hands slightly trembling as he looks up at you. His eyes search yours, dark and full of something raw. “Can I?” His voice is hushed, reverent, like a prayer whispered into the silence.

Your chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths, as you nod. “Yes,” you murmur.

Heeseung exhales, almost like he’s relieved, like he was afraid you’d stop him. Then, with slow, deliberate movements, he slides the fabric down your legs, his fingers grazing your skin as he does, his touch both featherlight and electric.

And then he sees you. His breath catches in his throat, his hands tightening slightly around your thighs as he takes you in. His gaze, hooded and heavy with admiration, rakes over you like he’s trying to commit every inch of you to memory, like he can’t quite believe you’re real.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, his voice almost disbelieving.

The way he’s looking at your body, so intense, so completely captivated, sends a flush of heat racing up your spine. Your instincts kick in, your legs twitching slightly as the urge to close them overtakes you. But Heeseung doesn’t let you.

His hands move quickly, firm but gentle as he grips your thighs, keeping you open for him. “Don’t hide from me,” he murmurs. “You’re fucking perfect.”

Your breath hitches, your whole body thrumming under his touch. Heeseung leans in, lips ghosting over your inner thigh, his breath hot against your already burning skin. He looks up at you again, his eyes locking onto yours, and what he says next sends a sharp pulse of anticipation straight through your core.

“I’m going to make you feel so good,” he promises, his voice low, edged with something sinful. “So good that you’ll never forget me.”

And then he dips down. The first press of his mouth against your clit is enough to steal the air from your lungs. Warm, wet, hungry—Heeseung doesn’t just touch, he devours. His tongue moves slow at first, tasting you, savoring every single reaction you give him.

You gasp, arching against him, your body already trembling from the sheer intensity of his touch. Heeseung groans against you, the sound vibrating through your core, sending shockwaves up your spine. His grip on your thighs tightens, his fingers digging into your flesh as he keeps you exactly where he wants you.

“You taste so fucking sweet,” he murmurs, voice muffled against your heat. “Just like I knew you would.”

Your moans come freely now, breathy, desperate, the pleasure crashing over you in waves as Heeseung works you open with his mouth. He hums against you, pleased, lost in you, whispering praise between every stroke of his tongue. “So good for me.” Kiss. “So fucking perfect.” Lick. “You’re mine.” Suck.

And when you whimper his name, broken and pleading, Heeseung only grips your thighs tighter and pulls you even closer, determined to ruin you completely.

Heeseung groans against you, the vibrations sending a shiver up your spine as he keeps his mouth latched onto your clit, sucking, licking, savoring you like he’s starving. Then, slowly, he moves one hand between your legs, his fingers tracing a teasing path through your slick folds. You shudder, your hips instinctively bucking at the sensation, and Heeseung chuckles, a low, rough sound against your skin.

“So wet for me,” he murmurs, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh before glancing up at you through dark lashes. “So fucking perfect.”

And then he presses a finger inside you. The stretch is slow, deliberate, his touch both gentle and utterly devastating as he sinks into your heat. You gasp sharply, your walls fluttering around him, and Heeseung groans, low and guttural.

“Fuck,” he hisses, watching the way you take him in. His finger curls inside you, testing, feeling. “You’re so tight, baby.”

The words send another wave of heat crashing through you, your body tightening at the sheer hunger in his voice. Heeseung doesn’t stop, he eases his finger in deeper as he continues working you open, his tongue never once leaving your clit. Your back arches, your fingers tangling in his hair, and Heeseung groans again, the sound muffled as he devours you, the heat of his mouth sending you spiraling closer to the edge.

“Heeseung—” His name slips from your lips, breathless, desperate.

Heeseung growls against you, deep and possessive, and you swear you can feel the sound reverberate through your entire body. His grip tightens, his pace quickens, his finger thrusting deeper, curling, coaxing pleasure out of you with every calculated stroke.

And then he adds a second finger. Your body tenses, the stretch just enough to make you whimper, and Heeseung groans at the way you clench around him.

“You’re taking me so well,” he praises, his voice thick, raspy, dripping with admiration. “So fucking perfect for me.”

His lips wrap around your clit again, sucking hard, and your body seizes, heat curling so tight inside you that you can’t hold back any longer. Heeseung feels it, and he sucks harder, pumps his fingers deeper, his other hand pressing down on your stomach to keep you still as your moans turn into cries, your body trembling beneath him.

“Cum for me,” he murmurs against your skin. “Let me feel it.”

And you do. The pleasure slams into you all at once, stealing the breath from your lungs, leaving you gasping as your body locks up, your thighs trembling around his head. Heeseung doesn’t stop, he keeps licking, keeps sucking, drawing every last drop of pleasure from you as you fall apart beneath him.

Your body shudders, aftershocks rippling through you, and Heeseung finally slows, his touch turning soft, reverent, as he presses one last lingering kiss to your sensitive clit before pulling back.

He looks up at you then, his lips glistening, his pupils blown wide, his breath ragged. And then he smirks, his voice low and utterly wrecked.

“Told you I’d make you feel good.”

You smile softly, but before you can even reach for him, he moves, fast, precise. A startled gasp escapes your lips as he manhandles you, lifting you effortlessly off the couch, your legs instinctively wrapping around his hips, his hands gripping your thighs with a possessiveness that sends a shiver through your entire body. His hold on you is strong, unwavering, his fingertips pressing into your skin like he’s afraid to let go.

You cling to him, your arms locking around his shoulders as he carries you with ease, moving through the dimly lit apartment. Your lips find his neck, tasting the warmth of his skin, inhaling his scent. The closeness, the heat between your bodies, makes you whimper softly against his throat.

And Heeseung groans. A low, deep sound that rumbles in his chest as he grips you tighter, his pace quickening like he’s growing just as desperate as you are.

Because this isn’t just anyone. This is Heeseung.

The boy who has been stitched into your life for years, who has laughed with you, argued with you, known you in ways no one else has. This is the person you love most in the world—and you’re finally having him like this for the first time. The thought makes you cling to him even harder, your lips trailing messily along his jaw, your fingers gripping at his shoulders, needing more, needing all of him.

When Heeseung reaches your bedroom, he doesn’t hesitate. He kneels onto the bed with you still wrapped around him, letting your back sink into the soft mattress as he gently lays you down, his body hovering over yours.

His breath is heavy, his chest rising and falling as he looks down at you, his gaze deep, searching. His Bambi-like eyes, so wide, so full of something tender, something real, hold you in place more than his body ever could.

His hands, still gripping your thighs, slowly loosen, his fingers tracing gentle patterns along your skin. Like he’s memorizing you. Like he’s realizing, holy shit, this is happening.

And then, without breaking eye contact, he reaches for his belt. The soft sound of the buckle unfastening fills the space between you, followed by the quiet rustle of fabric as he pushes his pants down, revealing his bare skin, the strong lines of his toned body, every inch of him that you’ve never seen before but already crave more than anything.

You exhale sharply, your eyes dragging over him, admiring the way the soft glow of your bedroom light casts shadows over his sculpted stomach, the definition in his arms, the sharp cut of his hips. He’s breathtaking. And every second that passes, the ache inside you grows, the need twisting tighter and tighter.

You swallow hard, your voice soft but certain when you finally whisper, “I didn’t know I needed you this much until now.”

Heeseung stills. For a moment, his breath catches, his fingers twitching where they rest against your skin. The flush that spreads across his cheeks, blooming down his neck, his lips part slightly, his eyes flickering between yours, something breaking, something giving way inside him.

Then he looks down at you again. And this time, his gaze is molten. Dark, intense, filled with something raw and unfiltered as he leans down, his lips hovering just above yours.

“I think,” he whispers, his voice low, breathless, “I’ve always needed you like this.”

And then he kisses you. Deep, slow, pouring everything into it, every ounce of longing, every unsaid word, every moment spent waiting for this. His hands roam, tracing the curves of your body, feeling, memorizing.

The moment you feel him, thick and hard against your aching core, you let out a soft, needy moan against his lips. Heeseung still has his underwear on, but the heat of him, the way his hips press down, grinding slowly against you, makes your body arch instinctively, chasing the friction.

Heeseung groans into the kiss, deep and guttural, the sound vibrating against your lips. His teeth catch your lower lip, tugging gently, before he soothes the sting with a slow, lingering kiss.

Your hands wander, trailing down his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin, the firm ridges of his toned stomach, lower, until your fingers reach the waistband of his underwear.

Your breathing is ragged, your body thrumming with anticipation as you whisper, “Please, take this off.”

Heeseung curses under his breath, his body tensing above you. He doesn’t want to tease you, doesn’t want to drag this out. He wants you just as much, he needs you just as badly. Without hesitation, he pushes his underwear down, freeing himself completely. The air between you thickens, the weight of the moment settling in as his bare body hovers over yours, his skin flushed, his muscles taut with restraint.

You lean in, hands splaying across his chest, feeling the rapid rise and fall of his breath. Your fingers trace every inch of him, his collarbones, the defined lines of his stomach, the dip of his lower abdomen, moving lower. But before you can go further, Heeseung catches your wrist. His grip is firm but gentle, his breathing heavy, his eyes dark and searching as he looks at you.

“Y/N,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “I need to ask you…” He swallows hard, his thumb brushing slow circles against your wrist, like he’s grounding himself in your touch. “Are you totally sure?”

Your chest tightens at the rawness in his voice. His expression—so open, so vulnerable—makes your heart clench.

“Because once this happens,” he continues, his forehead nearly touching yours, “I’m not ever letting you go.”

And there it is. The unspoken truth, finally laid bare between you. This isn’t just a night of pleasure. This isn’t just a long-overdue release. This is everything.

Your lips part, your throat tightening with emotion, and for a second, you can only stare at him, overwhelmed by how much he means to you, how deeply you feel this. Then you whisper, with more certainty than you’ve ever had about anything in your life:

“I’ve never been so sure about something before.”

The moment the words leave your lips, something shifts in Heeseung. His entire body tenses for a beat, then he exhales shakily, like he’s been holding his breath this whole time, like he’s just now letting himself believe this is real.

And then he kisses you. It’s not slow. It’s not careful. It’s hungry, possessive, filled with all the pent-up emotions neither of you ever dared to voice until now.

His hands slide up your arms, capturing your wrists, pinning them above your head as he presses you deeper into the mattress. His body presses against yours, skin to skin, warmth melting into warmth.

And then you feel it, the tip of his cock, hot and heavy, pressing against your entrance, so achingly close. Heeseung breaks the kiss, his forehead resting against yours, his breath uneven. He looks down between you, his jaw clenched, his grip tightening just slightly on your wrists as if this is the moment he’s been waiting for all his life.

His voice is nothing but a hushed rasp when he says: “Tell me if it hurts.”

Heeseung lets go of your wrists, his hands sliding down your body with a deliberate slowness, like he’s savoring the feeling of your skin beneath his palms. His fingers find your hips, gripping them gently before one hand moves lower, wrapping around the base of his cock.

He watches you carefully, his gaze dark, hungry, yet filled with something soft, something almost reverent, as he presses the tip against your entrance. He doesn’t push in just yet. Instead, he rolls his hips slightly, dragging himself against your slick folds, teasing, his length brushing against your clit in slow, deliberate strokes. The sensation sends a shiver through you, a breathless whimper escaping your lips as your fingers dig into his biceps, your body tensing in anticipation.

Heeseung groans, his grip tightening around himself as he watches the way your body reacts to him. “Fuck,” he breathes, his voice wrecked. “You’re so wet… so fucking perfect for me.”

Your nails sink deeper into his skin as he finally begins to press inside, the stretch slow and steady, filling you inch by inch. The feeling is overwhelming, him, thick and hot, splitting you open so exquisitely that all you can do is moan softly against his shoulder, your body trembling beneath him.

Heeseung curses under his breath, his forehead dropping to the crook of your neck as he stills, letting you adjust. His hands slide up your sides, fingers grazing over your ribs, your waist, gripping you firmly like he’s afraid to let go.

“You feel so good,” he rasps, pressing a kiss just below your ear. “So fucking good, baby.”

His words send another rush of heat straight through your core, and you can’t help the way your hips shift slightly, taking him even deeper. Heeseung groans at the feeling, his lips parting against your skin.

He lifts his head, searching your face, his eyes filled with both need and restraint. “Is this okay?” he murmurs, his thumb brushing softly over your hip. “Can I move?”

You nod quickly, breathless, your fingers tracing over the muscles of his arms, his shoulders, needing him closer. “Yes,” you whisper. “Please.”

Heeseung exhales sharply, his grip tightening on your hips as he begins to move, rolling his hips in slow, deep thrusts. Your breath stutters, a moan slipping from your lips, and Heeseung loses it.

His movements quicken, his hips snapping against yours, his grip turning bruising as he holds you in place, thrusting deeper, harder. His breath is ragged, his chest heaving, and with every stroke, he sinks further into you, like he’s trying to become a part of you.

“Fuck, baby,” he growls, his voice rough against your skin. “You’re taking me so fucking well. So perfect for me.”

His lips find your jawline, tracing a path down your neck, his tongue flicking against the sensitive skin before he sucks, leaving a mark, claiming you in every way possible. Your moans grow louder, your body arching against him, and Heeseung groans, loving the way you respond to him, the way you cling to him like he’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

His lips travel lower, over your collarbone, down to the valley between your breasts. He kisses, licks, nips, worshiping every inch of you as he keeps thrusting into you, each movement deep and unrelenting.

“You’re mine,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice wrecked, possessive. “Only mine.”

His grip on your hips tightens as he pounds into you, his pace growing desperate, wild, his body completely losing control in you. And all the while, he praises you. “Tighter than I ever imagined.” Thrust “So fucking beautiful.” Kiss “You feel like heaven, baby.” Groan.

His words, his touch, his everything push you closer and closer to the edge, your body trembling beneath him as the pleasure coils tightly inside you, ready to snap. And Heeseung feels it. He knows you’re close. And he’s not stopping until he sends you over the edge.

Your body trembles beneath him, pleasure curling tight inside you, hot and overwhelming. Your fingers cling desperately to his skin, your legs wrapped around his waist, trying to ground yourself against the way he moves, deep, unrelenting, perfect.

“Heeseung—” Your voice is breathless, wrecked. Your nails dig into his back as another wave of pleasure crashes over you. “God, you feel so good.”

Heeseung groans at your words, his hips stuttering for just a second before he leans in, his breath hot against your ear. “You’re such a good girl for me,” he rasps, voice dripping with praise, with something darker, something possessive.

And that’s when you snap. The coil inside you tightens dangerously, winding so tight you know you’re seconds from breaking. But you don’t want to break, not yet.

So, with the last shred of control you have left, you grab Heeseung by the side of his neck, your fingers tangling in the damp strands of his hair, holding him in place. “Let me ride you,” you plead, your voice thick with desperation. “Please.”

Heeseung growls. A deep, guttural sound that sends a shiver through your entire body. His fingers dig into your hips, his thrusts faltering for a moment as your request sinks in. Then, he moves. In one smooth motion, Heeseung shifts, rolling over and pulling you with him. The world tilts, and suddenly, you’re on top, straddling him, his cock still buried deep inside you.

A sharp, choked moan leaves your lips as you feel him fully, the angle changing, the sensation making your entire body tremble.

“Fuck,” Heeseung groans beneath you, his hands flying to your waist, holding you steady as his eyes drag over your body, your heaving chest, the flush painting your skin, the way you’re clenching around him, barely able to contain yourself.

His pupils are blown wide, his lips parted, his entire expression wrecked with need. “You look so fucking beautiful like this,” he murmurs, his voice thick, reverent.

His hands move, Heeseung slides them up your torso, fingers splaying across your ribs before catching your breasts in both hands, squeezing, worshiping. His thumbs flick over your nipples, and the sensation sends another jolt of pleasure straight through you, making you whimper.

“You’re so delicious,” he groans, his thumbs circling your hardened peaks, his hips rolling up slightly into you, making you gasp.

Your head tilts back, your hands bracing against his chest, your body arching into his touch. The heat between you is unbearable, your body already on the edge, but you refuse to let this end too soon.

You start to move, slowly at first, rolling your hips in a deliberate, teasing rhythm, feeling every inch of him stretch and fill you completely. The sensation sends a shiver up your spine, pleasure pooling deep in your stomach as you watch Heeseung’s reaction.

Heeseung groans, his grip on your thighs tightening, fingers digging into your flesh like he’s trying to ground himself, trying not to lose control too soon. His head tilts back for a moment, his chest rising and falling with deep, uneven breaths as he tries to contain himself.

“Fuck,” he grits out, his jaw clenching as his eyes squeeze shut, his muscles tensing beneath your touch. His hands flex on your thighs, squeezing, like he’s trying to hold back, like the feeling of you around him is too much.

But then he opens his eyes, and the second his gaze locks onto you, dark and hooded with raw, unfiltered hunger, your whole body burns. His pupils are blown wide, his lips parted, sweat glistening along his collarbones as he watches you move above him, taking him so perfectly, so effortlessly.

“You’re fucking unreal,” he groans, his voice rough, biting down his lips, barely above a whisper. “Just like that, baby. You feel so fucking good.”

His words send a jolt of pleasure through you, making you clench tighter around him. Heeseung feels it, and his breath hitches, his fingers twitching against your skin.

One of his hands moves from your thigh, sliding up your body, tracing along your stomach, your ribs, before finding the back of your neck. He grips you there, firm but gentle, and pulls you down until your foreheads almost touch, your breath mingling with his.

His other hand stays on your thigh, stroking, soothing, before he snaps. A deep growl rumbles in his chest, and he picks up the pace, his hips rolling up to meet yours, his hands guiding your movements. The pleasure intensifies, your thighs burning with the effort, but Heeseung doesn’t let you slow down.

His hands slide to your hips, gripping hard, his fingers pressing into your flesh as he takes control. And then he slams into you. A sharp, broken moan escapes your lips as he thrusts up, driving deeper, harder, filling you so completely that you swear you might lose your mind.

“That’s it,” he groans, his grip unrelenting as he pounds into you, chasing the feeling of you wrapped so perfectly around him. “Take it, baby. Take all of me.”

His voice, deep, rough, dripping with praise, sends you spiraling, pleasure building, your body trembling under his relentless pace. His mouth finds your jaw, then your neck, leaving open-mouthed kisses along your skin between ragged breaths. His tongue flicks out, tasting the salt of your sweat, and then his teeth graze your pulse point, his lips closing around it as he sucks.

Your fingers claw at his shoulders, your body arching against his, your moans coming faster, higher, completely overwhelmed by the way he’s taking you.

Heeseung doesn’t slow down. His thrusts stay deep, hard, relentless, his grip unyielding as he drives into you, chasing the pleasure building between you both. His hands remain at the back of your neck, keeping you close, keeping you exactly where he wants you, his breath hot against your skin.

He groans, voice wrecked, rough. “Fuck—baby, you feel so good. So fucking perfect.”

His words send another wave of pleasure crashing through you, making your thighs tighten around his hips. You’re close, you can feel yourself unraveling, your body tightening as the coil inside you threatens to snap. And Heeseung knows. He feels it.

His fingers tighten against your skin, his movements growing desperate, erratic, as his own release begins creeping up on him. His forehead presses against yours, his breath uneven, his voice nothing but a strained rasp.

“Cum for me again, baby,” he pleads, his words like fire against your skin. “Let it go.”

The command, the way his voice drips with authority and adoration, is what finally undoes you. A sharp, broken moan rips from your throat as your body tenses, pleasure surging through you like wildfire. Your walls clench around him, pulsing, milking him, and Heeseung loses it.

A deep, guttural groan escapes his lips as he thrusts into you one last time, burying himself deep, his entire body shuddering as he lets go, his release spilling into you. The pleasure crashes over both of you at once, your moans mixing together, filling the room, raw and unrestrained.

And then, stillness.

Your body, still trembling, collapses against his chest, your forehead pressing into the slick heat of his skin. Your breaths are ragged, uneven, matching his as he tries to catch his pace, his chest rising and falling beneath you.

Neither of you speak for a long moment, the silence filled only with the sounds of your slowing breaths, your racing heartbeats.

Heeseung moves his hands, still firm but now gentle, slide down to your lower back, his fingers tracing lazy, soothing circles against your damp skin. His touch is tender, reverent, like he’s memorizing you all over again, like he can’t believe this moment is real.

His lips brush against your hair, barely a whisper of a kiss, before he exhales shakily. And then, he murmurs—soft, breathless, like a vow.

“I’m never letting you go.”

Your chest tightens at the raw emotion in his voice. His arms wrap tighter around you, holding you impossibly close, his hands never stopping their slow caresses against your back. His lips press against the top of your head, again and again, each kiss softer than the last.

“Never,” he whispers. “Never, never, never…”

His words sink into your skin, into your bones, into you. And as you melt further into his embrace, letting the warmth of him envelop you completely, you realize: You never want him to let go.

You slowly lift your head, your breath still uneven, your body still thrumming with the remnants of pleasure.

You meet his eyes, his Bambi-like, doe eyes, wide and full of something so deep, so undeniable, it makes your chest tighten. They glimmer under the dim light of your bedroom, reflecting every unspoken word, every silent confession hanging thick in the space between you.

You let out a breathy, almost disbelieving smile, your gaze sweeping over his face, his flushed cheeks, his damp hair clinging to his forehead, the soft sheen of sweat on his skin. He looks wrecked. He looks perfect.

And he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.

Heeseung mirrors your smile, soft and hazy, his expression filled with something tender, something so Heeseung that it makes warmth flood your entire body. His hands find your face, large and warm, his knuckles grazing your cheeks in slow, delicate strokes, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you.

You lean into his touch, nuzzling against his palm, and the way he exhales, soft, shaky, like he’s feeling everything too, sends a shiver down your spine.

Then, barely above a whisper, you say, “I…”

And suddenly, you stop yourself.

Because the weight of what you were about to say hits you all at once.

Your lips part slightly, your throat tightening. The words are right there, sitting heavy on your tongue, aching to spill out. But there’s fear too, fear of what this means, fear of how much this changes everything.

Heeseung notices. His fingers pause against your cheek, his brows twitching just slightly, his gaze flickering between your eyes like he’s searching, trying to read you.

But then, he smiles. Soft, knowing, patient. His thumb brushes over your lower lip, his touch featherlight, his voice a quiet murmur in the space between you.

“I know,” he whispers.

Your breath catches. Because you believe him.

Heeseung has always known you better than anyone, always understood you in ways that no one else could. And right now, in this moment, with the way he’s holding you, looking at you, you realize you don’t have to say it.

Because he already knows.

Heeseung leans in, his nose brushing against yours, his lips hovering just above yours, waiting, giving you the choice. And when you press your lips to his in the softest, most deliberate kiss, you’re telling him everything you couldn’t say in words.

Heeseung sighs into the kiss, his hands sliding down your back, pulling you closer, pressing you against his warmth, his heartbeat steady beneath your palm.

And when you finally pull away, when you rest your forehead against his and breathe him in, you realize: You were never afraid of loving Heeseung.

You were afraid of admitting that you always have.

But now, with his arms around you, his lips brushing against your temple, his heartbeat syncing with yours, you don’t have to be afraid anymore.

Because he’s never letting you go.

And neither are you.

That’s why he stays at your house the next day. And the day after that. And for the few days that follow, until time becomes a blur and neither of you think to question it.

Because how could he leave, how could either of you go back to a world where you weren’t tangled up in each other like this?

The first morning, you wake up wrapped in Heeseung’s arms, your head tucked against his chest, his fingers absentmindedly tracing soft, lazy circles against your back. Neither of you move for a long time. Neither of you want to.

His lips press into your hair, a silent good morning, and you melt into him because it feels natural, because this is Heeseung, your best friend, the boy who has always been a constant, and yet, now, everything is different.

And it’s better. He doesn’t leave. You don’t ask him to.

Instead, you spend the morning like you have a thousand times before: lounging on the couch, talking about nothing, watching movies you’ve seen a hundred times. Except now, there’s a new rhythm, an unspoken understanding.

His fingers brush yours absentmindedly. His arm finds its way around your waist without hesitation. His lips press against your temple between conversations like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Because maybe, it is.

The second night, he kisses you in the kitchen while you’re making dinner, stealing a taste of the sauce on your lips, grinning when you roll your eyes. The third night, you fall asleep with your fingers intertwined, his breath warm against your neck, his hand resting over your heart like he’s afraid you might slip away in the night. By the fourth day, he’s using your shampoo, leaving his clothes in your drawers, stealing your socks because he swears they’re more comfortable than his own.

By the fifth, you don’t even realize he never went home. Because this is home now. Not the walls. Not the bed. But this. Him. You. Together.

One night, a week after everything changed, you find yourselves in your living room, curled up against each other, laughter spilling into the quiet air.

It feels surreal, how easy this is, how natural. And yet, when you look at him, really look at him, you realize this was never sudden at all. This wasn’t a moment. This was a lifetime in the making.

It was in the late-night phone calls when you both should’ve been asleep. It was in the way he always kept your favorite snacks in his kitchen without thinking. It was in the stolen glances, the inside jokes, the nights spent shoulder to shoulder, pretending you didn’t feel the weight of something more. It was in every single thing before this.

And now that the truth is out in the open, now that you know, you don’t ever want to live in a world where you don’t wake up next to Heeseung. And it doesn’t feel real.

Not because you don’t want it to be—but because it still catches you off guard. The quiet way Heeseung reaches for your hand without thinking. The way his presence in your space isn’t something fleeting, but something constant. Something permanent.

It’s been two weeks since everything changed, and somehow, the world didn’t shift to match it. The sun still rises the same way. Your friends still send memes in the group chat. Life moves on, but now, there’s this.

This is Heeseung pressing a sleepy kiss to your shoulder when he wakes up before you. This is him playing with your fingers absentmindedly when you’re watching something together. This is the way he still teases you the same, still makes fun of you the same, but now he kisses you after like he can’t help it.

Yunjin is the only one who knows.

She had her suspicions, she always had her suspicions, but it became painfully obvious the moment you showed up at her place wearing a hoodie that was at least two sizes too big, one she distinctly remembered seeing Heeseung wear last week.

Which is why, at her birthday party, there’s this lingering tension in the air. It’s subtle, the way you and Heeseung hesitate just slightly when you’re around the others, the way you don’t know if you’re supposed to act like you always have or like something’s changed.

Because something has changed. But the world doesn’t know yet.

You and Heeseung sit at the dining table, pretending everything is normal, pretending that you’re not constantly aware of the warmth of his body next to yours, the way his knee brushes yours every time he shifts.

And then, under the table, he takes your hand. It’s subtle, careful, the warmth of his palm slipping against yours, his fingers threading through yours in a way that makes your stomach flip. Heeseung doesn’t look at you, doesn’t acknowledge it, just holds your hand beneath the table, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Finally,” Sunghoon mutters, watching Heeseung with a knowing smirk.

Heeseung freezes. You both turn to see Sunghoon leaning against the chair next to him, arms crossed, eyes flickering down to where your hands are intertwined beneath the table.

“I was wondering when you were gonna stop being a coward,” Sunghoon teases, nudging Heeseung’s foot under the table. “Took you long enough, man.”

Heeseung groans, dropping his head back against the chair. “Jesus, Sunghoon.”

Sunghoon just grins, clearly enjoying this way too much. “Nah, I’m happy for you guys. But also, I knew you two had something going on.” He points a lazy finger at you. “Your whole ‘we’re just friends’ thing was so fake.”

The table erupts in laughter, and you sigh, shaking your head. But then, Heeseung squeezes your hand, and when you glance at him, he’s already looking at you. Soft. Quiet. Certain. And you realize, this feels right. Being here. Being together. Being this.

The night winds down. People leave. And you end up in Heeseung’s car, the windows slightly fogged from the cold air outside. The soft strum of Waiting Room fills the quiet, the melancholic chords settling deep into your chest.

You watch Heeseung, his hands gripping the wheel loosely, his face relaxed, bathed in the glow of the streetlights.

“Wanna go to McDonald’s?”

You blink. “What?”

Heeseung smirks, eyes flickering to you before turning back to the road. “You heard me.”

A beat of silence. You laugh. “Yeah. I do.”

You order fries and ice cream and talk about the dumbest things. about how Niki's new girlfriend is the worst, about how Jay got too drunk, about how Jake still doesn’t know how to properly pour a drink.

But somewhere between the laughter, somewhere between the way Heeseung licks salt off his fingers and tosses fries into your mouth, somewhere between the way you lean against his shoulder in the drive-thru line.

Heeseung sighs. And then—

“I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy.”

You still. Your fingers tighten slightly around your drink, your breath catching at the quiet, vulnerable way he says it. And when you turn to look at him, he’s already looking at you, soft, so soft, his gaze deep, searching.

Your chest tightens. “Heeseung…”

He smiles, a little shy, a little unsure. Then, he reaches out, sliding his fingers over yours, his thumb brushing your knuckles.

“I just—” He swallows, then exhales. “I think I’ve loved you this whole time.”

Your breath catches. And in that moment, in the soft hum of the radio, in the glow of the streetlights, in the taste of salt and ice cream and the warmth of Heeseung’s fingers against yours, you know.

“I thought maybe it would go away,” he continues, his lips quirking slightly, like he’s laughing at himself. “Like—it’s just Y/N, right? My best friend.”

You hold your breath, watching him, the streetlights casting soft shadows across his face, making his eyes look even softer, warmer.

“But then,” Heeseung shakes his head, laughing under his breath. “Every time I thought I had it under control, you’d do something stupid, like wear my hoodie and refuse to give it back, or make me watch Shrek 2 for the tenth time, or grab my hand in a crowded room like it was nothing.” He swallows, his voice dropping to something even softer. “And I’d realize—I was never going to stop feeling this way.”

Your chest tightens. Because it’s always been like this, hasn’t it? The quiet kind of love. The kind that slips into the cracks of everyday moments, unnoticed until one day, it’s too big to ignore.

You feel the words sitting heavy in your throat, pressing against your ribs, and when you finally speak, your voice is barely a whisper.

“Heeseung.” He looks at you, his brows lifting slightly, like he’s bracing himself. You take a slow breath, steadying yourself, then squeeze his hand. “I think I’ve loved you this whole time, too.”

The tension in his shoulders dissolves instantly. His lips part, his eyes searching yours like he wants to make sure he really heard you right.

And then, he smiles. Not the teasing kind, not the smirk he throws at you when he’s making fun of you, but something real. Something deep. The kind of smile that says, I know. I knew before you even said it.

You shift closer, your forehead brushing against his, the warmth of his breath mixing with yours. “I don’t know why it took me so long to realize it,” you murmur. “But I do now.”

Heeseung hums, tilting his head slightly. “You sure?”

You laugh softly, rolling your eyes. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

“Good.” He squeezes your hand, his nose nudging against yours. “Because I would’ve had to spend another three years waiting for you to catch up, and I don’t think I could survive that.”

You groan, shoving his shoulder lightly, and he chuckles, his arms wrapping around you as he pulls you in, pressing a lingering kiss to the top of your head.

And just like that, it’s easy again. The way you tease each other, the way you fit against him, the way you fall back into the rhythm of your friendship except now there’s no pretending.

Now it’s all out in the open. And it’s better.

As Heeseung drives you home, the song still playing softly in the background, your mind drifts back. To three years ago. To that stupid Halloween party where you met, you in your skeleton costume, him in that ridiculous Ninja Turtle onesie.

To the late nights spent working on that Shrek project, arguing about PowerPoint transitions like it was life or death, only to laugh until your sides hurt. To the wedding where he spun you around on the dance floor, looking at you like he already knew, like he was just waiting for you to catch up. To every car ride, every inside joke, every time you almost realized what he meant to you.

Your fingers tighten around his, and Heeseung glances at you, his eyes flickering between you and the road.

“What?” he asks, a small smile tugging at his lips.

You shake your head, but you’re smiling too. “Nothing.”

Because you understand now. Because Waiting Room plays softly in the background, and the lyrics echo in your chest—know it’s for the better.

You do. You know now that keeping Heeseung in your life like this, is the best thing you’ll ever do.

And when Heeseung looks at you, his grip on your hand tightening like he knows too, you realize.

For you, it was worth waiting.

my masterlist 🧦 ☆★ // previous fic

author's note: hey guys! this is my first long fic about heeseung, the first one i've ever written, and i hope you liked it! i know 21k+ words is a lot, but i had so much fun writing it. thank you for reading! <3

[myfriendpokey]

letters from my friend the strangler

1. we glimpse pleasure as we do movements of consciousness: fleetingly, in the creation and destruction of forms. if pleasure couldn't be faked we wouldn't have an entertainment industry. the idea that pleasure is static and knowable and can be doled out in fixed proportions is why we have the sad and mangled little tribe known as videogame players - people driven nuts by a boredom and unhappiness they can't even articulate, since by rights it shouldn't even exist. art as sentimental education; art as an education in pleasure, this thing we don't quite recognize or know what to do with.

2. the idea that the world could be otherwise is the basis of fiction; but as a result we can't look at a work of fiction without knowing that it, too, could be otherwise. that it might be wrong, could be adjusted, that whatever it excludes could have been contained and whatever it contains might just as well have been excluded. to me this is why art can only mean something in a negative sense, by omission or evasion. a mask that doesn't have anything behind it is still a mask. when we put the things we love into fiction we raise the suspicion that they might not be real; when we leave them out we wonder if they might be real, after all.

3. the problem with puzzle games is that their skills translate too well to a CV. art should only ever make you less employable than you were before.

4. condemned to live by metaphors of the balanced checkbook - individual, family, studio and state, all have to make sure the money going out matches the money coming in. yet we survive on dwindling lines of credit extended to us by the dead generations, specifically by actions that themselves refused to make this kind of sense. and the only way to extend credit is by our own actions that make no sense, the ones whose benefit we'll never get to see.

5. when we say experimental art we tend to mean whatever makes no money. and so just by existing this work performs a useful purpose, by demonstrating the gap between what's materially possible and what's economically possible. most people already live and work inside this gap. trying to maintain the facade of self-sufficient economic life, one propped up behind the scenes by innumerable acts of care. but what i appreciate about the experimental is the suggestion this everyday distance is just wider than we know. odd and slippery things rush from it, misshapen, "formless" - we ask ourselves what these are, who they can possibly be for. but just by existing they attain the terrible authority of a thing in the world, an unseen aspect of the universe. experimental art is good because it tells us we don't even know what material possibility might look like.

6. for me, playing a videogame is generally less interesting than remembering one. memory is not "playful" the way videogames try to be - we don't choose or want what sticks with us, and what sticks with us is often what videogames themselves don't seem to choose or want, their clunky material qualities and dead zones. play as a dream of unalienated life becomes grotesque as soon as it's identified with leisure, the other face of work. for me the truth content of videogames is the way that they're unfree, the way they're faithful to an unfree world.

7. the most basic belief in videogame spaces: that what we're doing is basically good, that everything will work out in the end. what kind of games would you make if you no longer believed this was the case?

8. all i want from a videogame is the sense that people making it did things because they wanted to. that they were willing even for a second to omit the guarantees of effort, craft, or form, and bet it all on the strength or folly of their miserable desires.

9. from a comics journal essay on yoshiharu tsuge: "there is a difference between Hollywood talking about making movies (a world involving hundreds of millions of dollars, thousands of people and some of the most recognizable names in the world) and some guy crouching over a table taking pot-shots at someone who snubbed him at a comic con […] the insularity simply feeds into itself, becoming ever more distant from the rest of the world." to me this is the problem of contemporary culture writing in miniature. it craves something more "real" than art, than the aesthetic. but the things it takes as real are themselves abstractions: money, jobs, celebrity. efforts to get real by talking about money will fail if they don't recognize money itself as unreal, a garbled dream of more general productivity; say, the kind embodied by someone making unprofitable comics at the kitchen table, or doing any other kind of work, conversation, thought. good work will not have investor backing. all of it - from local acts of care to organized blockades of port used for weapons shipments, or performing unnamed activities at a healthcare CEO - relies on a recognition that the regime of money is not truly universal, that acts outside its logic can still be performed, even provisionally. compare to a supposedly hardened industry realism that spends all its time weepily combing through box office receipts to find proof of its own experience. art is the opposite of money - something that's not "real" but that nevertheless exists, and which in doing so proves other kinds of realism might be possible.

10. the denial of shared or public life turns into a kind of white flight from communication itself, now seen as hopelessly contaminated by the other. to look someone in the eye and know they're looking back is unendurable. the crying laughing emoji's eyes are shut - the enemy is so far beneath contempt they don't even exist, except as a distant flicker at the edges of this joyous infant world. what's left when communication itself seems a few syllables too close to communism? the endless work of announcing you exist beyond its terms. gurning, sneering, winking at the invisible audience, in your suburban house covered with security cameras.

11. when criticism itself becomes means-testing all we can do is point to the sheer useless abundance of the aesthetic. if despite everything else i still find myself coming back to art, it's because i find attempts to think about it a little less grotesque than attempts not to.

12. we can't buy back our life, it must be stolen.

[ay0nha]

PLEASE MAKE THAT INVINCIBLE FIC OH MY GOD I'VE BEEN LOOKING FOR SMTH LIKE THAT FOR AGES

UGH. I tried...I gave myself immediate writers block so I might have to do a multi-parter....here's a little 2K I started to set the tone.

Thoughts and comments are SUPER encouraged and will help me out of this rut!

Pairing: Mark Grayson x gn!reader (currently in jail for being morally grey)

Notes: inspired by Blade Runner, eeao, etc. Reader's power is being able to see the future, currently set in the beginning of season three, etc.

By a cruel twist of fate, the moment you were born—created, was also the moment you began to die. You didn’t mind at the time, thinking death was a gift given only to the living. But it took time for you to learn that people—real people—had mothers that took time to form a baby that would grow into a someone worth something.  

Not many were “born” the way you were. Your body was fully formed, mature like an adult rather than someone who had just come to be moments ago. Your infancy, childhood, adolescence, and adulthood never existed. You just were. 

You lay there at your beginnings, wet and trembling, atop compressed rubber and metal grating, you felt nothing but terror. Your body was stricken by wracking sobs like a newborn. Your face gradually relaxed, already nothing left within you. Soon, your wailing turned into coughing as your body expelled the synthetically made amniotic fluid from your lungs.

“Are you done?” The voice was sudden. Clinical. Detached.

The voice made you aware of the world around you; a small, sterile room that it was, you opened your sticky eyelids only to be forced to squint against the penetrating glare of the artificial lighting overhead. You lay there for a moment, twisted and gasping like a crushed bird on pavement. 

You shivered—no convulsed. 

It took a few heaving breaths to focus your eyes. The first thing you made sense of was your hands. The sensation was odd. They were attached to you, but they weren’t yours. You weren’t sure. 

It was too much. 

Your brain was pressing against the confines of your skull, threatening to crack the bone and spill out onto the rubber. You wanted it to; your first desire. You wanted it to slip through the grate like the yolk of a broken egg. 

Feet come into view. They’re clad in sensible heels over black stockings—utilitarian. You peered through the pulsing behind your eyes to find a worn woman’s pinched face peering down at you. Only in retrospect did you know it was with disappointment. 

With human-like instinct, you reach out for her. For help. For empathy. She would become the closest thing to a mother you would ever know. 

You clasped your slimy hand around her tight-clad ankle. The bones were fragile underneath your grip. One too-tight squeeze and they would snap under the pressure. She tried to shake you off, like this was familiar. Expected. 

You clung on, desperate for contact. You didn’t know yet that you would be “raised” solely by the wire mother with no comfort of the cloth. 

“Enough.” Her voice cut over the faint hum of the room. Disgust marked her face. You would grow familiar with the expression. Both from her and others. “Let go.” 

As if burned, you immediately do. The compulsion to obey was too pressing to ignore. Every blood vessel and muscle fiber of your body was hardwired for submission. You tucked your hand against your chest, shrinking in on yourself. You were not praised for your obedience or comforted through turmoil. 

Tools, you learned, did not get rewarded.

—

“You’re not supposed to smoke in here.” 

You scoffed, pulling the contraband from your sock. The cigarette was rolled along your lips, a habit formed by comfort, before you lit it with a stolen match. 

“Nothing matters, Mark.” You filtered smoke through your nose, half-lidded eyes remaining ahead. The thought was absentminded, your lips tingling with indifference. “I’ve told you already…”

Mark frowned. You never got him with a relaxed posture or a kind tone; dejection carved into him and he looked to place the guilt. The weight demanded to be shared. 

“...Plus…” You took an obnoxiously long drag. “I’ve been on my best behavior…” 

Smoke in Mark’s face fueled your ego. He’d let you stretch your legs for now, but you toyed with the boundaries. 

“...Haven’t you noticed? No collar.”  You smirked, elongating your neck. It was playfully seductive, but Mark couldn’t find the humor. “The warden just couldn’t resist me.” 

Mark already berated the warden for the choice of returning your powers. Yet, the warden’s sport gambling outweighed the reason you were confined to these four walls. Even enforced justice was corrupt. 

“Didn’t take much convincing,” You shrugged. “He loves baseball. You know Mark, Yankees are on a hot streak—

“Don’t you wanna know why I’m here?” Mark cut you off.  His posture was hesitant, cautious with the vulnerability of his question.  

You prickled, used to being a commodity. “I don’t give out fortunes for free.”

Mark leaned forward as if trying to bring you back. He was trying to reason with you. Loneliness touched with hints of regret, or hope colored by impatience. It was a pattern you recognized and rejected. Especially as only one of you were tethered to the leg of the table. 

“Always Cecil’s errand boy.” Your tone was bare as you sucked in a crackling breath; the top of Mark’s hourglass was almost empty. It filled your chest filled with ill-suited humor.

You heard what happened; Dr. Seismic unveiled Cecil’s fallout plan that challenged Mark’s so-called incorruptible morality. You saw the way fear clawed its way up Mark’s throat, determined to make itself known. It fought with another emotion he was too proud to name. He wasn't unfamiliar with loss. But this. The feeling was wild. 

Sentimental.

Mark wasn’t naive, though. He knew fear was like a pet to you: something you picked up to get a better look at but that you soon grew tired of. And now, fear was your ally.  It weakened Mark’s instincts. 

“Or have you finally come to your senses?” You were locked on Mark, eyes unwavering as you spoke. 

Rarely had Mark seen you use your powers, but he’d heard plenty of its repercussions. Never had he thought it would affect him. It was like poison; something subtle that infiltrated his senses. 

Slowly, things around him were off. An untrained eye wouldn’t see it. Couldn’t. Even now, Mark struggled to make out what the feeling was. Uneasy, but not tense. Stuck, but restless. Sound started to echo, wanting to linger on the skin. A touch unwanted. 

He tried not to blink, it becoming strenuous with each repetition. The fraction of time expanded with each flutter, his life becoming fractured, but not privy for him to see. His attempt to focus was in vain as his attention was clung to the metallic taste on his tongue. 

Then, able to muster up a final, sluggish blink, he reopened to see your eyes were no longer vibrant. They were devoid of everything. The white of your eyes turned black, seeping into the background to match your pupils. 

“Oh, Mark…I hear the storm…” It hadn’t mattered if your mouth actually moved. Your voice stuck to him like warmed honey weighing him down.  “They talk to me about progress…”

People theorized about the future. Some believed it was non-linear, fragmented by decisions unmade. Others believed it was predetermined. But you saw everything. Felt everything. Everything was just a random rearrangement of particles in a vibrating superposition. 

It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. 

A simple breath through your nose was enough to translate your pessimism. It marked your return to the present. Your eyes were no longer dark and all encompassing. The room no longer spun and closed in on Mark. It was as if nothing happened. As if his soul wasn’t breached. As if no time had passed from your display. 

“But I wouldn’t dare spoil your ending.”  You tutted with gentle wit. Your forgotten cigarette was put out on the leg of the table. The remnants now belonging to the floor.  “It’s just too good to miss out on.”

He pulled at his mask like he was suffocating; Mark never hid his anger well. 

“Enough—!” He sucked at the air. Overwhelmed, he reacted with his strength, Mark’s grip dented the table to steady himself. Each breath helped clear the lingering fog you planted. “Listen to me—Just listen.”

“You want my attention, that it? Well, you have it.” You reminded yourself you could be fair. “Don’t waste it.” 

“The guards said you’re not sleeping again.” His voice tempted to waiver, but his strength supported his point. 

Mark’s admission made your ears ring. It was only meant for self-alleviation. To clear his conscience, but in doing so, he reminded you of your position. The only barrier seemed to be Mark’s incorruptible moral code, a space where you couldn’t quite freely exist. 

In an ideal world, you’d like to think you and Mark could be friends. Frankly, though, his compassion made you nauseous. Or maybe it was nerves. The feeling was always hard for you to distinguish. You wished the way he looked at you would bring warmth to your chest, but it only reminded you of how that was another impossibility.

“You’ve been watching me.” Your eyes narrowed at the realization. Anger wouldn’t settle outside your chest. “You’ve always been weak Mark, but this—” You whistled lowly. “Pathetic.” 

“Have you been dreaming again?” 

“Try to understand. You do not have to be good, Mark.” You laughed. The smile his question elicited seemed genuine, but Mark’s guard went up. To you, he destroyed and betrayed himself for nothing.  “You don't have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.”

“I’m not here to pity you.” Mark read between the lines. The idea of redemption bored you. “I don’t need to know what you saw. I just need to know if people are in danger. Last time was…” 

Last time earned you freedom. No one saw it the way you did. They didn’t see the prison uniform as a comfort. Or finding solace in the itchy sheets of a metal bed. You lived better in a broken world; there were more corners for you lurk in. 

Yet, it became Mark’s nature to think the worst of you, but it was never easy to swallow. There was a simpler time when he would have blindly followed you, not needing an excuse for your presence. But his skin crawled with something unspoken. 

“Don’t you think I’ve learned my lesson?” You referenced something only Cecil was skilled enough to see through. Mark was still learning your tells. “Things are different."

With a sigh of your name, the original task was forgotten—Mark took the bait. 

“I know, I know…” 

There was exhaustion in his words. He was tired. Things had finally started to make sense only to upend. It was always too much, no matter how often you told Mark he was running in circles. 

You couldn’t fault him, fucked up things happened and he was left to pick up the pieces. Even through all the noise, he sought you out. Mark didn’t understand what drew him toward you for consolation when you’d never stoop so low. He felt guilty for seeing your selfishness as something admirable.

“Chin up, Mark.” You said, voice lighter and less deceiving. The sudden lightness filled your chest, just shy of euphoria. “It’s the year of the dragon. It’s said to be an auspicious time.” 

You relaxed in the metal chair. Its harshness was familiar, a comfort because when you saw everything, you felt everything. When Mark was the soft wool, you were the sacrificial knife.

[miss-vanta-likes-to-write]

· · ────── ꒰ঌ· Drip ·໒꒱ ────── · ·

A slow drip is better than a flood.

+18+ Primordial Master List +18+

At first, John felt like he was sleeping for years upon years at a time. The first thing he remembered when he woke up was that disastrous mission that had gotten his team damn near killed. The next thing was black eyes and panicked screaming and the slow drip dripping of fire into his body. The sharp pinch of teeth against his skin and then there was nothingness. Then, after he was awake and thrust into a world that only ever existed in stories and movies. Despite his anxiety over this new unknown, he doesn't show that he is disturbed or worried about his new life. If he starts to show apprehension, then his team, his actual family, will worry and panic.

John is annoyed at the fact that he has to actually be at the bottom tier of this family...or coven? It had been explained to him that the Mistress and boy was that a word he had to get used to, just liked to call it her family. She was the oldest vampire in this family and the only one allowed to turn humans. It's a rule that was told to him and his boys when they woke up. It was the first rule, and if he or one of his boys broke it, they would be quartered alive.

He can't have that. Surviving literal Hell and then being quartered alive? No thanks.

"So like the first thing you have to know about drinking blood is that you don't wait till you're starving." The young man, who is definitely human, says. He was one of the soldiers from that disastrous mission that he saved, and in turn, the kid saved him. His name is Karma, but John has known him Sgt. Whitley. He always thought Karma was an odd name for a guy, but now that he knows him, he knows where he comes from, and it's the least odd thing about him. The first odd thing was that he willingly betrayed Sheppard and Graves and went out of his way to feed him information. The second odd thing is that when the mission went to shit he pulled him and his team to safety, seemingly ready to take their last rites. What ended up happening, however, was the shabby safe house door opening and a woman kneeling next to a half dead Soap and speaking to him.

"Captain, you paying attention?" Karma asked, he looks concerned. His dark brown eyes bore into his own, "I know it's not ideal, but my sister is worried that you guys won't adjust well if you go any longer without eating...and regular food just won't cut it by itself." Despite the Louisiana muggy heat, Karma keeps his neck covered in a scarf. It's a modesty thing in a house filled with vampires.

"And you're sure I won't hurt you?" John is staring at the expanse of smooth brown flesh and how the pulse point beats rhythmically. He can't tear his eyes off of it, and his mouth feels dry. For the past few weeks during the change, he spent most of it with his boys trying to soothe their own aches. Eating was the last thing on his mind, and the food he did eat was mostly liquids like soup with a slight taste of iron in it.

Karma nodded his head, "I would rather show you how to do it, so you can explain to the others on how. I don't think Sissy trusts them to feed from anyone here. Especially Simon, he's still so hostile, and Kyle seems like the type to not want to do it." He bares his neck and traces across the main artery, "Don't bite here too deep. It will kill me." He then tilts his head back just a bit to show his throat, "Don't ever bite here, you will turn me, and then you will get killed." He chuckles. "Get it, Captain?"

John is finding it hard to pay attention, but he nods his head. He can hear Karma's pulse and it thrums loudly like a drum. "I got it."

"Good, well go on then." He smiles, so trusting of letting this man that he's met on the opposing side of the battlefield sink his new fangs into his skin.

They are in Karma's room, as it's the closest to the Mistress' preferred room. John knows a precaution when he sees it. The Mistress adores Karma. He's seen her affectionately call him little brother, and from his knowledge, the only reason he is existing is because Karma simply asked for it. She didn't tell him no and took them all in.

He isn't sure where to put his hands, but he rests them on Karma's waist and leans into him. He positions his lips against his skin and tastes the salt, and he smells his blood just beneath the surface. The first bit of pressure from his teeth makes his teacher gasp, and when he sinks his fangs into him, Karma groans and scoots closer to him. It's an explosion of sweetness and warmth, and when he sucks the first pull of warm blood into his mouth, he feels fundamentally different. Part of him thinks he's going to get lost in the feeling, drown in the ocean of euphoria that sweeps him away. There's a dark urge in him that wants to keep going until there's a corpse in his arms, and that scares him.

He doesn't stop, though. The sounds that Karma let's out are soft and sweet, and push him through the initial shock. A low growl creeps up from his chest, and he pulls the warm body closer to him. He has to stop but he can't bring himself to do that. Not when it feels good and it feels warm. He can hear the faint struggle of Karma trying to get him to stop. It's distant against the roar of the call of his hunger.

"John, stop, you're taking too much!" Karma is beating his chest, trying to push him away. There's panic between them both, and John wants to stop. John wants to rip himself away because he doesn't want to kill the kid who took a chance on him and his boys. He doesn't want to hurt his first tether and connection and guide in this new life.

His body is yanked off of Karma, and he is face to face with angry black eyes. She's pretty in an unreal way. Her strength is unnatural. He's seen her eyes hold softness normally. Right now, they are angry, hostile with a threat, and he feels like he is going to be scolded. Her dainty hands scruff him by his shirt, and she manhandled him away from Karma. A delicate arch of her eyebrow, the slight raise of her lip showing a hint of her fangs, and they are double on each side compared to his one set. He was told that naturally born vampires, while rare, were the only ones to have eight sharp fangs.

"You fledglings always eat more than you can drink." She speaks low and soft, voice smooth like honey, and if John didn't have sharper hearing, he would need to lean into her. She looks at Karma and shakes her head, "You are sure about his control?"

Karma is taking deep breaths to regulate himself. "Yeah, Aayana, I'm sure." He is applying pressure to bite wound, and he keeps a sweet smile on his lips. "Just first feed jitters that got him-"

"First feed jitters almost got you killed...and then what am I supposed to do?" She shakes her head and turns her gaze back to John. Her eyes aren't the bottomless pitch black anymore. Instead, they are the same as smokey quartz that glow in the refractured light from the window. John thinks they are beautiful as they stare down at him. "And you John? Are you still with us?" She asks.

There's the dribble and smatter of blood on his lips and chin. While his hunger is quiet, the faint buzz that's always in the back of his head now begs him to submit to her. He closes his eyes, "Yeah, I'm fine. Karma, I didn't hurt you too bad, did I?"

He only laughs and shakes his head, "No, but you'll get the hang of it. The first few times are harder, but it gets easier."

Aayana let's go of his shirt, and she nudges him to the door, "Let Karma clean up. You and I need to talk." She steps around him, she doesn't look back because she has all the confidence that he will follow.

He does.

"I really didn't mean -" He thinks he needs to explain and apologize.

"Karmy already forgave you." She stops him dead in his tracks, "You need to understand, when I have the cook send you liquids with blood or iron supplements in them...it's not for any of you to decide if you eat it or not." That honey voice is crystallized with a sharp sterness that makes him snap to attention. She runs her home, and by extension, everyone's lives like a commanding officer, maybe even a strict general. It relaxes him to have a routine and to have someone to answer to.

She reaches into her cleavage and pulls out a handkerchief, offering it to him. He takes the soft embroidered square, and the white cloth has pretty roses sewn onto it. He looks back at her, and she's expectantly watching, waiting. John doesn't really want to wipe the blood on his face with the pretty fabric, but he does because it's expected of him, and he knows an order when he sees it. The order doesn't have to be verbal. Just one looks into her eyes, and he feels compelled to act.

It's not different than when he served under the crown.

"There now. That's better." She approves, "Keep it and wash it. Tonight, I need for you four to eat all of the soup that is served to you. I encourage you to go for seconds, maybe for Simon thirds to help with his blood lust. Kyle needs to eat, or he will have issues. He won't starve before he attacks someone." Everything she says is more like a fact of life. He suspects it is, she was born this way, she's been at this for hundreds of years.

"Yes, ma'am." He tries to smile, but the stretch of his lips over his fangs is still an odd sensation to him. The smile ends up being a grimace, and it makes her chuckle.

"You're dismissed, John. I'll see you at dinner, and yes, Simon has to leave his room. Everyone is excited to see you." She turns to leave but stops and looks at him with sweet concern. "My mother, rest her soul, always said that a slow drip is easier than a flood. Don't fight your new life, John. The change will win before you do."

She leaves him alone in the hallway as she disappears into her room.

a.n: How feeling y'all? Good I hope. Comments appreciated.

[eurydicees]

aaaand gliyeraba, things you said that i wasn’t meant to hear

lie to me (i'll forgive you), but don't lie to yourself

summary: an accusation, or a confession, or maybe a lie, that elphaba was not ever meant to hear. prompt: things you said that i wasn't meant to hear pairings: glinda upland/fiyero tigelaar (established) talking about their love for elphaba words: 882  warnings: none 

Elphaba has been standing in front of her dorm room door for five minutes, long enough that at least two other students have walked past and given her strange looks. It probably looks strange: a girl, green; alone in front of her own bedroom door, clearly eavesdropping on whoever is inside. 

The fact that it looks so odd, even for her, is probably a sign that she shouldn’t be doing this. She shouldn’t be paused outside of her own door listening to her roommate and her roommate’s boyfriend talking inside. It’s an invasion of their privacy. She shouldn’t be hearing any of this. It’s not fair to be here, listening, when they don’t know she can hear. 

But Galinda doesn’t really have a quiet mode, and Fiyero has the kind of booming voice that carries through thin wooden doors even when he doesn’t intend for it to. So when Elphaba got back from her seminar with Madame Morrible and she stood in front of the door fumbling with her key—that is to say, when she caught the distant syllables of her own name, she paused. And she started listening. 

She can only catch every other sentence, every few scattered words. The conversation doesn’t really make any sense. 

“—trying to have a real conversation,” Fiyero is saying, sounding more agitated than Elphaba has ever heard from him. The easy, carefree banter is over; the prince who charmed Galinda into young honeymoon love is nowhere to be heard. 

“And I’m participating,” Galinda tells him, but her words are short and clipped, and it’s clear to all three of them that she does not at all want to be participating. 

Fiyero is silent for a long moment; long enough that Elphaba almost considers the conversation done and puts her hand on the doorknob. Then, “You’re going to have to get better at this, you know.” 

“Better at what?” 

“Real conversations,” Fiyero tells her. His voice is low, but steady. Firm. “If you’re going to get her attention anytime soon, you’re going to have to learn to have a conversation about something that matters.” 

“And when did you become the expert on my roommate?” Galinda sneers. 

There’s a kind of breathlessness to Fiyero’s words when he says, “Around the time I realized we both feel the same about her.” 

Galinda is silent, and the quiet is tangible, palpable. Elphaba is tense, wound up, ready to burst into the room and fall apart. Bare her heart and her every vulnerability to beg one of them to explain in more words what the fuck any of that means. 

Finally, Galinda speaks again, shaking voice giving away the lie: “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“You do.” Fiyero’s words are sharp as a knife. “You can deny it as much as you want, Galinda, but we both know how you feel.” 

“She’s my roommate,” Galinda tells him. There’s a terrible, previously unknown lack of composure to her. She sounds like she’s trembling, like she’s breaking into pieces. “She’s my best friend.” 

Fiyero doesn’t back down, but Elphaba finds herself silently begging him to. Begging him to stop this conversation before it goes too far. Before he pushes Galinda to the brink, before either of them admit to things that they can’t take back. Things that can’t be true. Things that can’t exist, can’t be kept. Things she can’t let herself dream of. 

“Fine,” Fiyero spits. “I’ll say it. I love you, Galinda, and I love—” 

“Stop it.” 

Another long beat of silence, and Elphaba realizes that her hands are shaking. She still has her ear pressed to the door, and she needs to hear what comes next no matter how much it terrifies her. She needs to know how he was going to finish the sentence, how he was going to break her heart. 

Galinda’s voice trembles when she speaks again, breaking the silence. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t know what you’re saying. So don’t say it.” 

“Lie to her about it,” Fiyero says lowly, “but don’t bother lying to me.” 

Galinda is silent again, at a complete, terrifying loss for words for maybe the first time in her life. Elphaba needs her to say something, needs her to deny what Fiyero is implying, needs her to break this before it begins. 

He cannot be allowed to continue this train of thought. He cannot be allowed to want this—want her—not when Elphaba is who she is and Fiyero and Galinda are who they are. If that’s even what he’s implying; if she’s even the one they’re discussing. She knows that’s the only logical conclusion, but it feels so far out of the realm of possibility that Elphaba doesn’t know what to do with it. 

“Get out,” Galinda says, voice thick and wet with tears. “We’re not talking about this.” 

“Galinda—” 

“Out.” 

Quiet inside, and Elphaba blinks once before scrambling to leave. She can’t face either of them right now. She needs to recalibrate by herself, needs to digest everything she heard without either of them giving more input. She hears footsteps approaching the door slowly, and Elphaba runs. She gets the fuck away from their room and makes herself scarce for the rest of the night, until long after Galinda has fallen asleep. 

[starsandink13]

Mansion by The Sea Drabble

You're a simple maid. You've been here for almost a year at this point, and you've learned by now to not ask questions and do as you are told-- no matter how odd any sights or sounds or smells are. You know it is best to not question why the young master spends his nights deep down in the bowels of the estate. Ignore the ethereal and somber singing that comes from outside. Take no heed to the faint smell of something metallic as you pass by the halls. After all, your job is to keep the estate tidy and clean-- not ask questions. So, you busy yourself with dusting the portraits, sweeping the floors and switching out the bed linens. You can't help but feel like some of the paintings' eyes watch you, judge you, scrutinize every iota of your very being; take offense at your mere presence. The home makes eerie noises; some of them sound make it seem as though it is alive. Each shudder, moan, squeak, and groan almost sound like the cries of a dying man. However, that can easily be chalked up to its age. It is an old property after all. With an especially stubborn stain of red on the stone floor, you let out a small noise of annoyance and scrub harder. The question of what exactly going on still seeps into your mind like a slow-acting poison. It seems like they become more common as a full moon approaches, and you have to work twice-- if not, thrice-- as hard. Your footsteps echo out in the lonesome halls, and it seems as if you are the only person in existence here. Even with the other servants, they seem more like the shadow of ghosts than actual people formed of flesh and blood. You wonder if they too have long since forgotten to question what is going on, or if they know and thus decide to not divulge any details. But, you shake the concept out of your mind. After all, your job is to keep the estate clean and tidy-- not ask questions. As you carry on with your day and humming to yourself as you wipe down a mirror, you try to not let your eye wander too long on the young master passing by. Though it is rather difficult, as he carries himself with an unearthly air to him that matches his beauty. It is pale and serene as a full moon: white hair that drifts and shimmers with each move he makes, colorless skin as luminescent as moonlight, and eyes a brilliant green-blue like crystalline ocean waters. Sometimes as you work, you look up through your lashes to watch him for a bit before resuming the task at hand. Watching how his slender and long fingers wrap around the crystal doorknob and pull it open, drifting into the next room without so much as a whisper of rustling clothes. But yet, you couldn't shake the feeling of his eyes lingering on you from afar. Every muscle in your body locks up with dread; a cold sweat crawls down the back of your neck like a spider. You swallow the lump that formed in your throat and ask if he needs something from you. Instead, he slowly shakes his head while a gentle smile forms on his soft lips. "No, I just thought you looked rather lovely today." You let out an awkward chuckle. "Oh, alright then..." And an awkward silence follows as you quickly scurry to your next task. As you briskly down the sunlit halls, you notice something glimmer. Stopping in your tracks, you bent down and picked it up. Shining like a thin pearl is a white fish scale.

[luciaintheskyainthi]

First off, just, you and your writing is amazing. Like chef's kiss 💋 amazing. Everytime a new chapter of ECM updates I read the chapter twice by itself, read the previous chapter and the new chapter, and then start the whole fic over from the beginning so I can absorb the words into my soul.

Now, I was curious. I have a few interconnected questions if its ok? (I have very limited knowledge of DC Universe so if I get this wrong I apologize) From what I understand there is a collar in DCU similar to the Marvel Universe that can turn off a metas power? And if so, through all the different dimensions and rewrites Peter's body went thru, would you say that if one was put on Peter he would be ok because in this universe his body never had Asthma or needed glasses or would it do nothing, or would he automatically be needing an inhaler, glasses, and feel kitten weak?

How likely would it be that Batman is the one to put the collar on him, either out of suspicion or because he thinks Peter dangerous (he comes into a situation out of context) and if this was the case would Peter would have a bad reaction?

If none of this makes sense I do apologize. But it was something that had been rocking around in my brain for a bit.

thank-you so much! I'm glad you've enjoyed it so far!!!

While I can't remember if I've come across the collars in the comics (they might have been featured in the Rebirth RHATO?), I've seen them in both the animated suicide squad and Young Justice. And I actually think they'd have a greater success on Peter than the collars in the Marvel comics (not sure if they've been used on Peter before????) since he's a mutate not a mutant (therefore no x-gene).

In regards to how they'd effect Peter, I don't think he'd revert to pre-bite Peter with the asthma etc (even before the Gotham re-write) because the bite itself led to a full physiological re-write of Peter's body. Meaning he'd be de-powered but be effectively a non-powered human. He'd certainly feel weak as a baby though, since he's so used to that strength, but otherwise no.

In regards to Batman putting a collar on Peter, the odds of that are pretty much non-existent. I know in the story hasn't been especially sympathetic towards Bruce/Batman, but I'd like to note that each of these instances have been told from Jason's perspective. Like Peter, he is far from an objective narrator and his past experiences with Bruce/Batman have shaped the way he views Batman/Bruce. Jason's POV represents reality as much as Peter's POV represents reality (which is to say, not faithfully - but they're not deliberately unreliable, either).

I've said before, in both notes and my interim chapter, that Batman is not anti-meta. He's also not anti-Jason. Unfortunately, Jason's both unwilling and unable to realise this (because! Past Actions! Have Consequences Bruce!). Likewise, most instances of Jason fearing Bruce will chase Peter away come not from an expectation that Bruce will deliberately chase Peter away, but that Peter will run if Bruce sticks his nose into things that are currently in a very delicate balance (flight risk princess anyone??).

But just because we haven't seen much from Bruce doesn't mean he's not been working behind the scenes. He's wary of Spider-Man because he's affiliated with the Red Hood (and because he's such a fresh face on the scene), but that doesn't mean he's about to discount the stories he's heard from actual people who've actually interacted with him (Cass's judgement of Spider-Man for instance went a long way). If Batman was anti-Spider-Man, he would have chased right after them after Pyg.

Despite the negative portrayal of Bruce so far, I've no interest in engaging in any kind of character bashing/assassination of Bruce/Batman. I think that like his children (Jason included), he's a flawed character whom the narrative (of the comics that is) has a tendency to portray as being the one to always be in the right because Batman=Good+Right sells.

*coughs* anyway, I'm going to sheepishly step back from the soapbox I was about to climb up on. Long and short of it is, the only reason Bruce (or anyone) would use the collar on Peter is if Peter went out of control. ✌️

Thank-you for your questions!!! I love seeing how people have been thinking about the world of ECM!

[ducktracy]

> online animation community wants 2d animation to make a comeback in theatres > mainstream 2d animated film currently in theatres > barely see online animation community talking about it > ?????

Should I be worried? I really want this film to do good… (love the new banner btw <3)

i agree that hypocrisy is often extremely prevalent in online animation communities, but i don't like putting the blame on consumers (or, at least, people going "YOU ARE ACTIVELY HURTING THE LIVELIHOODS OF THE ANIMATORS IF YOU DO NOT SEE AND SUPPORT THIS FILM RIGHT NOW", ESPECIALLY when people working in animation spread that message--which, nobody has been doing for this film, but i do see it sometimes.) it's just going to turn people away even more and turns the moviegoing experience into an obligation, which should never be the case (perhaps in contrast to my own excessive advertising of the film!). there are certainly people who could benefit to own up to their word, but, ultimately, it's not the consumer's fault that the film has essentially been set-up for failure by nearly being written off and sent off to a very small distributor. the public is not responsible for the irresponsibility of the higher ups. i can't get too mad at people not knowing about the film because.. well, it's by design.

personally, i'm avoiding all talks or acknowledgement of the box office. this film has been through the wringer and back and it's amazing that it's even released at all, much less theatrically. its existence is a win in itself. it would be wonderful to even see it break a profit--i'll be realistic and say i personally am not sure if that'll be the case, but i would love to be wrong! but i think it's just a genuine miracle that this film has survived, much less even been made at all. it really feels like it shouldn't have. but it has, and its survived against all odds.

and while i'm keeping expectations realistic about box office numbers, i still think it's incredibly important to try anyway. this probably won't make a huge turnaround. try anyway. yes, it's a miracle that the movie exists in itself, and that is worth celebrating alone. convince anyone and everyone you know to go see it anyway. people working on the film themselves are saying that your--our--support makes a difference. even if it feels "redundant", try anyway.

so, no, i wouldn't essentially be "worried". encourage your friends to see it, go see it yourself, patronize it in any way you can. instead of getting mad at people not talking about it, pick up the slack yourself and spark a domino effect of difference. i've been so overjoyed to hear how many people i've convinced to see the film. please keep it coming! i wouldn't have done it if i wasn't persistent about it, likely to a degree of annoyance haha! i think, genuinely, much of the problem is that people simply don't know about it. it's not out of spite or willful ignorance. it's because WB doesn't want people to know about it. it has literally been set-up for failure. that's not the fault of the consumer. so just do what you can, spread the message and use positive reinforcement instead of shaming people (not saying you are!! but just in general), and, most importantly, ENJOY IT!! enjoy the novelty of seeing 2D animation on the big-screen. enjoy the novelty of seeing a funny, gorgeous and heartwarming movie. enjoy a very welcome distraction from The Horrors (this has been the carrot dangling over my head to get out of bad times for years, and now i'm kind of falling into a depression that it's "over" haha). spread the news and spread the love

and THANK YOU!!!! i'm always so hesitant to change my theme, but i just HAD to.. it's the cutest thing i've ever seen and just feels right at home here. gifs that radiate happiness. i'm happy you like it!!

[flutterbyoz]

A year ago today, what I can easily say is my favourite TWD episode ever, aired.

'What We' has been widely praised by fans and critics alike and rightly so. Danai Gurira did a phenomenal job writing this episode, her understanding of these characters, her love for them both as well as their relationship and her dedication to telling not only a brilliant story but a story that handles the trauma and PTSD Rick is suffering from in a sensitive and accurate way is easy to see. She put everything into this.

Andrew Lincoln was also amazing, his emotions, inner turmoil, the way you could see he was fighting with himself, between what he wanted and what he thought he should want, is incredible.

The biggest reveal happened in this episode, one that so many fans have been wanting to see and hear for years and though it may not have been how many people had imagined I thought it was so well done. You could see the break in Rick's well constructed mask when he found out about RJ, the son he never knew existed. That inner turmoil must have exploded at that second but still the effects of the CRM still had such a strong hold on him.

So many emotions were felt, frustration, heartbreak, joy, love, even a little humor and everything in-between, this is without a doubt one of the best episodes in this franchise and my personal favourite.

We got to see quite a different side to Richonne, a side we haven't really seen before, the tension was palpable, the frustration, the anger, the sadness, both Andy and Danai played this perfectly. And though they were at odds, quite understandably, for part for the episode, the love between them is always evident. The fact they are still so deeply in love just makes it ever harder, but wow, were they both amazing!

Some of their very best performances were seen in this episode.

We the enjoyed the most beautiful coming together of these two lovers, the reconnecting, the love making, the tenderness, the sexiness, the happiness it was all perfect. And though we got the heartbreak of realising what was really going on inside Rick, the fact he felt he had lost Carl and then lost Michonne and in order to keep living he had to mentally die, was both hard to watch and impossible not to.

Michonne knew exactly what her man needed, she knew he needed to get it all out in order to be able to move forward and she gave him that safe space to do just that. As she admits earlier in the episode, she only feels safe when she's with him and here she was his safe space, his sanctuary, his oasis from the darkness that had enveloped him for the past 8 years, just like she's always been. Michonne is his guiding light and shelter from the storm, they protect each other.

By the end of this episode, Richonne were back to being the in sync power couple we all know them to be. They fight their way out of that collapsing apartment building, working together, in sync and in tune and of course making out any chance they get. They couldn't keep their hands off each other and you know as soon as they were far enough away they were getting busy in that yellow truck!

I've lost count the amount of times I've watched this episode but to me it is perfect and just like every other episode in this series/season, I can watch it over and over ❤️

And should we get Rick and Michonne back, please can Danai write again because she knows these characters and their relationship better than many of the writers and she showcased that without fault in 'What We'.

A 10/10 episode for me!!

[autistickatie]

Dude why is it acceptable to say “I’m a libra” (or whatever other star sign) but not “I’m autistic”???? Sis why are you more okay with the month I was born being an excuse than the LITERAL STRUCTURE OF MY BRAIN!?!?!??

[whimzycle]

you wanna know the fun thing that I noticed about Jack when I was rewatching rotg?

On both instances that Pitch was about to attack him, he froze up.

[toddtakefive]

thinking about todd and his resolve toward… not quite isolation, but being alone in a room full of people again. he goes along to the study room to sit on his own and do his homework, he sits at the poets table and follows along with what’s being said while keeping quiet, he goes to the meetings at all but doesn’t necessarily contribute (in fact, if you watch him when cameron is telling the story ‘from camp in sixth grade’, you can see that he recognizes it before any of the other poets but doesn’t voice it until they all have). he’s not alone, necessarily, if you want to get technical about it, he’s just lonely, and he’s generally okay with that. he doesn’t have friends and that’s fine, he doesn’t participate in class and that’s fine, he doesn’t have a relationship with his family and that’s fine—he could live without any real connection and he’d have been, more or less, fine.

the thing about when he says “i can take care of myself just fine!” is that he isn’t really wrong, you can infer that he’s been doing it his entire life anyway, it’s that ‘taking care of yourself’ isn’t the same thing as really living or being happy. todd’s an introvert, certainly, and even as he gets closer to the group he defaults to sitting quietly in the background, but he’s also denying himself community out of fear not introversion. todd isn’t friendless because he’s an introvert, although that definitely plays a part, he’s friendless because he pushes anyone that might want his company away. if anyone has every wanted for his attention in the first place. (neil’s unwavering interest in him is unique (even when it comes to the rest of the poets, who are fine with todd coming along and joining the group, but aren’t really hellbent on him being there in the beginning) and his refusal to accept it is a direct result of being so lonely growing up.)

there’s obviously something to be said about the implications of his parents neglect, and the more than likely fact that he grew up friendless, and how those both play a part in in him being so skilled at dodging social interaction/being so avoidant of it, but by the time we see him in the movie he’s all but accepted his fate as being alone his entire life. he’s already accepted being the family disappointment, and he’s already accepted he’ll never amount to anything, and he obviously doesn’t like it, but he’d have managed living with that knowledge without the confirmation that it was all wrong. would he have been miserable? almost certainly. but he’d have managed. he’d done it for that long already, anyhow.

[unproduciblesmackdown]

also if only the physical copy of how to disappear completely & never be found i first encountered & read a few years ago (sort of [roughly avg age ten] reader book, not any similarly titled How To) hadn't disappeared completely & not been found since, probably b/c i put it somewhere i intended to be For Safekeeping, which is also how my binder vanished....b/c it's one of those like. those book for late elementary/middle school readers when they just weave in this unrealism which makes for a delightful range & unpredicability? and with a cynical protagonist girl like off to the races like wow her mom is depressed asf & smoking? and it's about A Family History Secrets Mystery so blatantly a haunting that the inciting incident is basically introducing a haunted [family history secrets mystery] house. and spoilers don't matter like it's stemming from there being this missing uncle who grew up so in contrast to the Winsome Winning Sibling Who Does It All Right while seeing his own affiliation with rats that he tried to disappear completely & never be found which led to this Tragedy which led to this more unintended disappearance of his & he haunts this house & wants to be left alone & only goes out at night with this [ambiguous Is That A Giant Rat Or Weird Small Dog (protagonist affected by these family situations who expresses her preoccupation with an awareness of how fate can Strike and Get you with this interest with roving packs of killer chihuahuas. people think she's weird though she spontaneously befriends this other girl struck with this bolt from the blue & a bit weird / outcast & then Insightful who i wish was in it more)] & plays into the hauntedness danger like playing into the [something's Wrong with you then] until having to take yet more action where the urge to express the truth comes out more both b/c living that hidden is more threatened but also b/c now the niece children are more threatened as well. ft. a sort of preternatural blurring of time b/c of only being communicated with through this uncle via his comic pages (that he paints?) of dubiously accurate translations of irl events that are created so quickly it seems to verge on foresight, imagine like "hmm what's this painting. it's me standing in this room looking at this painting??? as someone ominous lurks in the shadows right behind me?" in both [now how could you know this & paint it really fast ahead of time] and [horror]

[captain-krow-drozdov]

Danny Is An Alternate Version Of Ra's Al Ghul And Flash Already Called Dibs On Adopting Him

Danny In All His Sleep Deprived Slightly Scuffed Up From A Fight Glory Is On His Way To Clockworks Tower To Hopefully Get A Nap And Maybe Some Homework Done When A Natural Portal Opens Up In Front Of Him And Proceeds To Unceremoniously Drop Him In The DC Verse Just Outside Of Central City Before Promptly Closing Leaving A Tired Danny Behind In A Run Down Abandoned Parking Lot.

It's Times Like This When Danny Regrets Putting Off Learning How To Make His Own Portals, Cause Now He Is Very Much Stuck For The Foreseeable Future And He Has No Idea Where Or When He Is. Luckily For Him However Central City Isn't Too Far Away, Unlucky For Him However Is That Once In The City He Realizes This Isn't His Dimension. He's Pretty Sure He'd Remember Something Called The Justice League.

So What Do You Do When Supernatural Bullshit Fails You? You Fall Back On Your Mad Scientist Roots And You Make A Portal Gun. So That's Exactly What Danny Plans To Do.

Unfortunately Staying Alive And Building Questionably Safe Portal Technology Requires Money And Supplies, So He Ends Up Wandering From City To City Doing Odd Jobs/Fixing Up Busted Tech For Cash Or Unwanted Electronics For His "Operation: Get Home" Needs. This Obviously Ends In A Few Superhero Encounter Shenanigans.

Though He Always Ends Up Back Near Central City, Both On The Off Chance The Natural Portal Will Open Up Again And Because Out Of All The Superheroes That Apparently Exist In This Universe The Speedsters Are His Favorite (Red Robin Is Solidly His Second Favorite Ever Since The Gotham Vigilante Gave Him A Large Coffee Filled With Enough Caffeine To Kill A Man).

Unbeknownst To Danny However Is That Every Hero/Vigilante He Has Encountered Has Come To At Least One Of The Following Conclusions; 1. Run Away Meta Who Is In Desperate Need Of A Good Meal/Adoption Bait. 2. Possibly Red Robin/Tim Drake Clone 3. A Good Kid But Could Possibly Be A Future Rouge If Left Unsupervised. 4. Did Bats Get A New Kid And Why Is He Here?

All Flash Knows Is That He Saw The Kid First And Therefore Has Dibs. Suck It Bruce.

Fast-forward A Few Months And Danny Gets Hurt During A Rogue Attack While Trying To Help Some Civilians Get To Safety (Old Hero Habits Die Hard (Ha Die Hard) And All That Jazz) And He Nopes Out Once Everyone Is Safe And When The Paramedics Are Busy With Other People Unaware He Left A Blood Sample Behind.

One DNA Test Brought To You By Paranoid Bat Concerns Of A Possible Red Robin Clone Later And They Find Out That Dannys DNA Matches One Ra's Al Ghul.

They Now Think Danny Is An Escaped Ra's Al Ghul Clone.

Memes For The Vibes:

[not-neverland06]

Hey I’m just begging for a fic of Logan with a shy reader that she has a crush on him but thinks he’s never going to fix on her since Jean exists (maybe the reader can make her hair color change depending on the emotion or something

a/n: sorry I haven’t been responding to asks. The new job has officially killed my spirit. But I got to work out finally and do some yoga so hopefully I’ll start feeling more motivated 🤞���this one will be shorter

Logan Howlett x X-men!reader (Chameleon)

“Chameleon!” You jump, shoulders flying up to your ears. Almost immediately you can feel the tips of your fingers tingling. Sure enough, when you look down they’re already disappearing. Sighing, you turn around and glare at Scott. 

“What have I told you about scaring me?” 

He grimaces, raising his hands in surrender. “Sorry, I forgot.”

You roll your eyes and turn back toward your project. “Every time,” you mutter bitterly. You’re not an idiot. You know he thinks scaring you is funny. The whole school does. They all like to see you yelp and blend in with the nearest surface, the only thing visible is your stupid hair. 

“You’re, um, turning red.” Scott points to your head and you don’t have to look to know your hair is shifting colors.

You reach over and swat harshly at his arm, “Because you pissed me off! I know you scare me on purpose,” you accuse, jabbing your finger into his chest. He laughs and stumbles away from you. 

“Alright, alright, calm down. I was just messing around a little. Look,” he glances down at the lesson plans before you and sighs. “All this will have to wait. Charles needs us all for a mission.”

You huff and shove the papers into your desk drawer. “Alright, lead the way.” You feel Scott’s eyes still lingering on your hair and glare at him. “Move it, Summers,” you demand. 

You were already in a bad mood, you didn’t need him making it worse. It honestly shouldn’t be such a big deal for you. You get scared by everyone all the time. You used to enjoy it, enjoyed the way it felt like you all had your own joke. But, eventually, it started to feel less like an inside joke and more like you’re the unwitting butt of one. 

Some mutants get amazing powers, like Jean or Charles. Logan’s abilities are incredible, even if he doesn’t believe you when you tell him that. But yours, well, you're better suited as the cheap gimmick of a children’s birthday party than an X-Men. You’re just a walking mood ring that blends in with her environment. 

The only thing you’re good for is reconnaissance missions and embarrassing yourself. You don’t know what Charles sees in you. You’ve never understood why he insists you’re such a good asset to the team. Yes, you are good at spying on people, but you don’t need to when Charles has such strong telepathic abilities. You’re essentially useless in a fight due to a lack of regenerative or strength abilities. 

More often than not you feel like a child playing dress up, chasing after the big kids. You know the others don’t mean anything bad by it when they tease you into going invisible or laugh when your hair changes. It’s all in good fun. But it doesn’t make you feel any less like easy entertainment rather than a teammate. 

It doesn’t help that you’ve got little to no control over your abilities when it comes to Logan. You’ve never had such a horrifically bad crush like this. Anytime he opens his mouth around you, you're fighting off the urge to just go invisible and run away. You feel like you go feral around him. You don’t know how he hasn’t caught onto what the colors of your hair mean when you’re near him. 

It’s constantly switching between some odd mix of red and pink when you talk. Which, you know what it means, but you’re praying no one else does. Red can mean angry, depending on whether you’re talking to Scott or not. You know, though, that with Logan it just means you want to jump his bones and you’re hopelessly in love with him. 

Thankfully, like the others, he associates red with anger. Which isn’t great for you because that just means he thinks every time he opens his mouth you’re pissed off. At yourself, maybe, but at him, never. It just means when he wears those stupid tanktops you want to dig your teeth into his biceps and never let go. 

Scott opens the door to the meeting room and you slide in past him. Charles gives you a brief smile as a greeting. You take the chair at the end of the table, which just happens to be next to Logan - completely coincidental. He gives you a tense smile and you return it stiffly. You tug your hood over your hair, praying he doesn’t notice the red in your strands yet. You don’t want him to think you hate him. You completely prefer that over him knowing how feral you are for him, but it’s not conducive to your slow plan to finally get him to acknowledge you as a sexual partner. 

You swear, if your name isn’t Jean Grey, you might as well just be a shapeless blob of nothing. He glances over at her, that smoldering look in his eyes, and you try not to throw up in your mouth. Scott wraps an arm around Jean’s shoulders and they break their lingering stares. 

Logan glances over at you and catches the glare on your face before you can get rid of it. He huffs and turns towards Charles. With a sigh, you sink back into your chair and focus on not just going invisible. 

“Chameleon,” Charles says your name and your eyes widen. You wonder how much you’ve missed while you’ve been glaring at the back of Jean’s head. “Does that sound alright with you?”

You look around the table for help but they’re all staring expectantly at you. “Sure,” you stumble over the word, racking your brain for any answers. It seems not even your subconscious was paying attention to Charles droning on. “Sounds great.” He gives you a satisfied nod. 

“Good. Off to the jet, all of you.” he rolls out of the room and you wait until he’s out of earshot to kick Logan under the table. 

He glances back at you, smirking. “Don’t know what you agreed to?”

You purse your lips and shake your head. “Nope,” he gives you a look like he knew you’d say that. You hate how well he can read you when it feels like you’re constantly hitting walls trying to understand him. 

“You’re scoping a place out for us. Making sure it’s safe so we can retrieve some information.” You give him a thankful look and he chuckles. “You need to start paying attention, kid.”

You groan and get up from your chair, brushing past him. “I told you to quit calling me that.” It makes you feel like that’s all he’ll ever see you as, some kid invited onto the team. You want him to see you as someone he could have sex with, hopefully, love one day. 

He glances past you at Jean. She smiles at him and you fight everything inside you to not roll your eyes and gag at them. She’s holding onto Scott and making fuck me eyes at Logan, which he’s happily returning. This is just too disgusting for you. 

You shove past him and ignore how he calls out your name. Your real name. He’s the only one that uses it. For some reason, most people just refer to you by Chameleon. You don’t understand why. They just don’t seem to think of you outside your abilities as a mutant. 

You make it to the jet before the others, taking the private time to change into your X-Men suit. If there’s one useful thing about your ability, it’s that it affects whatever’s touching you. Which means, you don’t have to strip naked to go completely invisible. And if anyone is around you, all you have to do is hold onto them and they’ll blend in too. 

You’re tugging up the zipper of your top as Logan walks in. He gives you an odd look, sitting on the bench in front of you. “Angry about something?” He asks, gaze darting up to your head. 

You drag your fingers over the ends of your hair and sigh. “No,” you tell him bluntly, taking the seat beside him. 

His brows furrow in confusion. “It’s red, though,” he points out, his tone colored in suspicion. 

You laugh a little, “Red doesn’t always mean angry.” It’s the most you’ve ever confided about your hair colors to him. The largest hint you’ve ever given him that you don’t hate him. You’re worried if he knew how you really felt about him, he’d think you were a little creep. 

He slides his arm behind you on the bench, leaning in until you’re practically sharing the same air. You know your eyes are comically large, you don’t even want to know what color your hair is turning right now. “What else does it mean, kid?” He whispers and you don’t even pay attention to the nickname. All you can see and hear right now is him. How close he is, how close your lips are. 

You could lean forward an inch or two and you’d be kissing. “Um,” you swallow harshly around the lump in your throat. You don’t even know what he asked you, all you can think about now is kissing him. 

“Logan!” Ororo’s voice echoes through the jet and you leap away from him, trying to calm your racing heart. Logan sighs and leans back in his seat, giving Storm a tense smile. She glances at you and laughs, “She’s nearly see-through, what are you doing to her?”

You frown and look down at your hands. Sure enough, you’re going translucent. You let out a silent groan, and tuck your knees into your chest. You take a few deep breaths until you’re one solid form again. It’s so embarrassing when that happens, when you lose control over yourself like that. 

But it’s even worse when Logan does it to you. He gives you hope, stupid, hateful hope, for one minute that he might feel something deeper. Only for it to be another joke. You’re a walking mood ring, nothing more than a quick laugh to all of them. 

Jean walks up the ramp, her gaze going to Logan first before drifting towards you. “Are you alright?” She mutters, trying not to let the others hear. Of course, Logan can, with his stupid enhanced abilities. “You’re turning blue,” she points out and you roll your eyes. 

You can feel Logan’s stare burning holes into the side of your head and it only makes you feel worse. You hate being a joke, but you also hate showing them just how much it affects you. You don’t want to seem like a crybaby that can’t handle a little teasing. But you’d thought coming to Charles’ school meant people would stop poking fun at you. It feels like being dragged right back into high school. 

“I’m fine,” you tell her. She doesn’t look like she believes you but she takes a seat anyway. Of course, placing herself right next to Logan, even though her fiancee is a few feet away from her, looking just as hurt as you. They lean into each other and whisper. They’re not even trying to hide it anymore. You let your glare bore into the floor, ignoring how much seeing them together hurts. 

The mission had gone well, Logan had been hoping to go to the bar and grab a drink with you. But the second his back is towards you, you’re running off the jet. Logan calls out your name, trying to catch up. You glance back at him, looking like a deer caught in the headlights. He smiles at you and your eyes widen. You go invisible and Logan glances around, baffled. 

He calls out your name again but the door ahead of him opens and closes quickly. He can only assume you’ve run away again. You always run away from him. You’re always pissed off at him. He doesn’t know what Jean’s talking about when she says you like him. 

Logan’s never met anyone more repulsed by him. 

“Would you just trust me?” Jean tells him lowly, creeping up behind him. 

His face falls and he turns to her, glaring at her knowing smirk. “She just fuckin’ ran away from me. Pretty sure that’s about as good a hint as I’m gonna get, Jean.”

She glances over her shoulder, waving Scott away and looping her arm through Logan’s. “You’re an idiot, Howlett.” He scoffs and she swats at his shoulder. “Trust me, I can read minds, remember?”

Of course, he knows she’s got some pretty decent telepathic abilities. But he didn’t think she would so brazenly breach your boundaries. There’s an unspoken rule that the mind readers of the school don’t delve into your brain without permission. 

She sees the look on his face and sighs. “I didn’t read her mind. She got drunk a little while ago and told me about her raging crush on you,” she laughs a little at your expense and Logan lets out a short chuckle. You can be a pretty sloppy drunk if they let you go too far. He figures it was one of those girl’s nights he wants nothing to do with. You’d probably let the tight reigns you keep on yourself slip for once. 

“She goes red every time she sees me. I don’t know what else that could mean other than she hates me.” Logan isn’t surprised that you’re not taken with him like he is with you. He’s used to the rejection, but it hurts just a bit more coming from you. You’re so welcoming to the others. 

You embrace every new member of the school with open arms. Yet, with him, you get angry whenever you see him. You see through his walls, see the rot lurking underneath them. And, rightfully, want nothing to do with him. He understands your reasoning. 

Most days he barely wants anything to do with himself. He’s made a lot of bad choices in his life, half of which he can’t remember. But he’d hoped, for one minute, that you might give him a second chance. As much as Jean insists otherwise, he can see the truth of how you feel about him every time you run away. 

“Red doesn’t always mean anger,” Jean tells him elusively. It’s the same thing you’d said to him on the jet. It makes his brows furrow in confusion and he glares at her. 

“What else could it mean?” He demands sharply, sick of her teasing him with the possibility you might feel the same way. 

She bites her lip, looking suddenly sheepish. “I can’t say-”

“Jean,” Logan snaps. He stops her from walking any further, keeping her planted in one spot with him. “Tell me,” he’s sick of the games you’re both playing with him. He just wants some straight fucking answers. How hard is that?

She sighs and looks away from him. “I promised her I wouldn’t tell.”

“And I’m sure you promised you also wouldn’t tell me how she feels about me,” he points out. There’s a sharp tone to his voice, it’s rude but he can’t bother feeling guilty about it. 

She can’t meet his eye, a smirk fighting at the corner of her lips. He waits impatiently for her answer, irritation broiling quickly in his gut. He’s about to snap at her again when she finally meets his eyes. 

She speaks through a laugh, like what she’s about to say is so ridiculous she can’t hold it in. “She wants,” she cuts herself off with another laugh and Logan groans in frustration. He begins to walk away from her when she yells, “She wants to fuck you!” At his back. 

His eyes widen in surprise before he turns back to her with a displeased look. “Are you fuckin’ with me?” He demands, narrowing his eyes at her suspiciously. 

She shakes her head and brushes past him. “You didn’t hear it from me,” she warns, tone grave as she leaves the room. 

Logan is left standing in the same spot, stunned at the revelation. He’s not sure how much of that he believes. But he doesn’t understand why Jean would possibly lie to him about this. She gains nothing by setting him up for failure. As much as he doubts the honesty behind her words, he’s got no other choice but to trust them. 

He heads to the most likely place you’re hiding out. Charles has a private library that’s blocked off from the kids. There are too many first editions in there, he can’t risk any of them accidentally blowing them up. You like to head there when you’re trying to avoid people. 

He tries to stay quiet as he walks in, not wanting you to run off again. It’s hard to confront someone who goes invisible whenever she feels like it. He sees light blue hair draped over the back of an armchair. He feels like a creep as he stalks towards you, sneaking and pouncing on you so you can’t run away. 

He can’t imagine how Jean ever thought him approaching you would be a good idea. He whispers your name, trying not to startle you. It doesn’t take a genius to see how much you hate when the others scare you. They might not mean anything bad by it, but they have to be blind not to see how much it pisses you off. 

You still jump, glancing up at him with a surprised look. He looks to your hair for any tells of how you feel. Some pink weaves its way through the stands but it otherwise stays relatively blue. His brows furrow in confusion, he can’t tell if it’s a good or bad sign that there’s no red. 

“How are ya, kid? Ran off pretty quick earlier.” 

“Don’t call me that,” you mutter, giving him a brief glare before staring absently down at the book in your hands. Logan kneels beside your armchair, covering the pages with his hand. You huff, giving him an expectant look. “Yes, Logan?” You demand, tone short.

Logan tilts his head, examining you and your body language. You seem relatively closed off, irritated at him or something else. He doesn’t know what to say. He’s never been good with words or trying to express how he feels. He’s more comfortable showing how much he cares for those around him. 

Throwing caution to the wind, he lets his hand drift to your wrist and tugs you forward. Your eyes widen as he drags you toward him. The kiss is short, he doesn’t want to push you too much. But it takes everything in him to stop himself from deepening it. All he wants is to pull you into his arms and devour you. 

He holds back, parting from you with a low exhale. Your eyes flutter open and he grins when he sees the bright red your hair has turned. “What,” you sputter and stumble over your words. You shove him back and leap to your feet. “What the hell was that?” You demand, voice higher than he’s ever heard of it. “What was that?” You ask him shrilly, again. 

You almost seem to be stuck in a loop, blinking rapidly and asking the same thing. Logan chuckles and gets to his feet, he gives you a knowing look and you narrow your eyes at him in disbelief. 

“Jean told me.”

Your brows furrow and you shake your head. Realization dawns on your face and you gasp, looking up at him with something like horror on your expression. “No,” you tell him lowly. “She didn’t,” it almost sounds like you’re begging him to tell you otherwise. 

He laughs again and your face falls. You start going clear, he can see the bookshelf through your stomach and he sighs. He grabs your hand, holding onto you before you can run again. You don’t even seem to be aware that you’re slowly disappearing from view. 

“She’s, uh,” he struggles to figure out what to say to make you feel better. “She’s been coaching me,” he admits shamefully. “Trying to help me talk to you.”

You glance up at him but he can barely see your expression. The only thing reassuring him you’re here is his grip on you and your voice. “What? But I thought that-” You cut yourself off quickly and Logan glares down at where he thinks your face is. 

“Thought what?”

You take a long pause and exhale deeply. “I thought,” you mutter, “you liked her.”

“She’s with Scott,” he points out bluntly. He can practically hear you roll your eyes, even if he can’t see it. 

“Yeah, I know. But you guys are always whispering to each other and making googly eyes.”

“Googly eyes?” He interrupts, disgust clear in his tone. 

“I was wrong,” you continue, ignoring him. “I see that now, but I thought you didn’t care about me.”

Logan huffs, he hates that you thought that. He should have just been open with you from the start. He’s faced rejection his whole life, he shouldn’t have been so petrified of it just because it could come from you. If he’d just manned up and told you earlier, it would have saved you both a lot of time and hurt. 

“Kid,” he hopes he’s making eye contact with you and not just staring at some random book. It’s really hard to tell when you go invisible like this. “You’re the only person I care about in here.”

You’re quiet for a long while and he worries you’ve somehow slipped away without him realizing. But, ever so slowly, you start coming back into view. Logan awkwardly averts his eyes from your breasts, he’d been hoping he was making eye contact with you, clearly, he was wrong. 

“You mean that?” You ask, and he hates the trepidation in your voice. He’s never been good with words, he doesn’t know how to tell you how much you mean to him. But he can show you. 

His hand drifts up your arm, wrapping around the back of your neck and tugging you towards him. You trip over your feet, hands landing on his chest to stabilize yourself. He leans down, hovering over your lips for a moment. He waits until your eyes drift shut and your lips purse impatiently before he finally kisses you again. 

He doesn’t hold himself back this time. He pours every racing thought he’s ever had about you, every one of his wanted-to-tell-you-how-he-feels-and-hasn’t moments into the kiss. Your hands slowly curl up into his shirt, wrinkling it and tugging him further into you. 

To his surprise, you deepen the kiss, mouth moving over his like you want to devour him whole. He’s sure if he opened his eyes your hair would be a bright roaring red. He smirks against your lips, happy that, for once, he actually listened to Jean. If it gets him results like this, he might have to do it more often. 

end. — I do not own the characters or the comics/movies Wolverine/X-Men, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2024. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

General Taglist: @evasmlp ♡ 

Logan Taglist:  @nonamevenus @smexy-bucky-waifu @wh1sp @peony-always @corvusmorte  

@mrs-ephemeral @wolviesgirl @allllium @insomniachox @izbelross  ♡ 

[anxiouslypretty5]

ALL of MY VOID success stories

before i get to anything, no im not giving you proof, (not because im lying. but because i simply don’t have too) and 2 don’t even ask🫶🏽

1st void state success story (2022/2023 idk)

i used the lullaby method idk who the original creator is but i’ll just tell you what i manifested.

revising my age + my birth year

getting rid of odd genetic traits (sicknesses)

removing my eczema

a 360 appearance change (BE QUIET AND STOP COMMENTING THE SAME THING I KNOW ITS 180 BUT I WANTED TO PUT 360)

becoming more hyperfeminine

getting rid of stereotypes

becoming very smart in school

a new phone

better vocal cords

my mom owning a successful flower shop

2nd void state success story (2023)

a few college recommendations

once in a lifetime opportunities

a necklace that allows me to shift to any universe i desire to be in

removing my shyness + ed

a violin

my desired wardrobe

weighing 35KG forever (I DO NOT SEE MY BONES, DONT take it out of context)

curvy waist

3rd void state success story (2024)

concert tickets

fun exciting life

bug repellent (i hate bugs)

better immune system + my body naturally restoring healthy cells every day (safely)

changed my eating habits

reversing/fixing my mental health

getting rid of all generational curses

everyone in my family knowing how to talk to each other maturely

revising a death that was the root cause of my family breakage

healthy teeth + immune to getting any type of cavity or mouth infection/disease

exceeding the beauty standards (goes for like every country)

hairless body (except for my eyelashes, eyebrows and my hair ofc)

being good at every game i play

a few trips to brazil, jamaica, qatar, japan and france

made school more fun and also making the teachers teach me useful information

homework not existing anymore

all my desired perfumes

walking in heels is always comfortable and my feet never hurt after so many hours

4th void state success story (2025)

basically anything i even think of instantly comes to me

knowing how to do hair

a great cook and knowing how to make the cutest pastries

being able to lucid dream every night + waking up in the void every morning

use my ideas as inspiration idc (wisely) 😭 i’m barely on this app because look at my LIFE. have fun manifesting though guys🫶🏽