#these are still all in pencil so fixes are easy

[vickysaurus-art]

The princesses as Shifty's minis WIP update! Now with added Prisoner, Witch, and Spectre!

[ylangelegy]

blindsided ꩜ wonwoo x reader.

── .✦ 💌 includes: fem!reader, office worker!wonwoo, alternate universe: office, pining, in denial!wonwoo, lewd thoughts, alcohol, making out, hand job, loss of virginity, praise kink, aftercare.

── .✦ 📟 inspired by THE business proposal scene. we all know which one, but gif attached anyway ♡︎ wc: 2,700

── .✦ 🚏 MDNI. 18+ CONTENT.

(Or: The three times Wonwoo keeps his glasses on, and the one time he doesn't.)

Wonwoo knows he's done for the moment that you walk in for your first day.

Despite his bad eyesight, he's not blind. He can tell when somebody is hot, and you fit that bill. Sue him.

Still, he tries to rationalize. There's not a lot of good-looking people in the company's IT department. That's probably it, he thinks to himself, as you smile warmly and introduce yourself to everyone.

Wonwoo has just been deprived of good views. That's it. That's all.

As you go to do rounds, he tries to focus on troubleshooting the network issue that some higher-up has been complaining about. But then you get to him, expecting his name, and Wonwoo suddenly can't bring himself to care about the DNS check he's supposed to be running.

"Jeon Wonwoo," he says in a perfectly level voice. "Welcome to the company."

Your face lights up. "Oh! I think you're the one who's supposed to be training me on the new systems."

Right. His boss had mentioned this. Something about onboarding the newbies. And Wonwoo had said yes, because that was just the type of person he was.

Fan-fucking-tastic, Wonwoo thinks as he gives you a quick once-over.

He manages to look bored as he does it. Almost scrutinizing. Truthfully, Wonwoo is not-so discreetly checking you out. The crisp white blouse, the tight pencil skirt, the black stockings.

So help him, God.

"Hope you can keep up," Wonwoo says for the lack of better thing to say.

The easy smile on your face remains, like you're unperturbed by Wonwoo's infamously cool demeanor. Somehow, that makes things infinitely worse.

He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose as you leave to meet other people. He tries very, very hard not to watch the way your hips move as you walk away.

You're good, he'll give you that.

Wonwoo, once again, tries to make excuses. One had to be good in this field of work, in this company. You're not an exception; you're supposed to be the norm.

Even as the thought crosses his mind, he knows it's not entirely true.

There's one too many nepotism babies and pushovers who barely survive performance evaluations. But you're good. Eager to learn. Sharp in all the right places.

Wonwoo is a little bit jealous.

He doesn't have time to dwell on it, though, in between training you on the company's cloud service models and hammering out the new machine learning workflows.

And so he keeps his head down, and he points out the bugs in your codes, and he chalks up his initial attraction as a moment of weakness.

That is, until the two of you are last to leave the office on an unassuming Tuesday evening.

The two of you had gotten in to some long-winded debate about the future of AI. Wonwoo is only made acutely aware about how much time has passed when the janitor shuts off the lights, assuming everyone has gone home. You giggle; Wonwoo cracks the smallest of smiles.

As you both emerge from the company building, Wonwoo's glasses fog up.

It's a normal enough occurrence that he shouldn't be annoyed but it's also a little bit embarrassing. He's used to going home late, to being alone when he does this little ritual of his.

He's just about to take off his glasses when you do it for him.

There's nothing much he can do or say as you gently tug the glasses off his face, as you use a corner of your blouse to swipe off the condensation on the lenses. You're saying something— something about this being the most annoying thing about wearing glasses, about knowing the struggle— but Wonwoo can't hear it.

His gaze is fixed on your lithe fingers and the careful way they hold his specs. Something sparks in the back of his head. A thought, unbidden. How those fingers would look so much better wrapped around his—

Jesus. Wonwoo swallows hard as you hold out his glasses back to him.

The look on his face must be odd, because you're suddenly apologetic. "I must have overstepped," you say sheepishly.

Overstepped?

Wonwoo is pretty sure he's the one overstepping. He's the one imagining you bent over his desk, after all, where he'd be more than happy to keep two fingers in your mouth to keep you quiet.

Instead, Wonwoo mumbles "you're good" as he puts his glasses back on just a little too forcefully. The nose pad presses in to his skin and leaves the smallest of marks, but he figures he deserves it with how he's being.

Wonwoo decides that maybe he's just repressed.

He's always been too busy to sleep around, to sleep with anyone, so this is just some twisted form of karmic justice. To have someone so desirable within sight but not within reach.

He asks for Mingyu to start setting him up on dates. His best friend is a little too glad to comply.

Wonwoo goes on about four before giving up.

Because it doesn't matter if he ends the night with a heated kiss or a mouth around his cock. Every single time, with each girl, he can only picture his company's drab cubicles, fingers flying across a keyboard, clicks of heels on a floor. (You, you, you.)

Things only go from bad to worse when the company celebrates its annual Christmas party at some swanky speakeasy. The alcohol is free-flowing, and God knows that Wonwoo needs it— because you're certainly not doing him any favors.

Your dress is a touch too short, and your smile is pretty, and Wonwoo really needs to get his head out of the goddamn gutter. He cannot, should not be fantasizing about what it would be like to drag you in to the alleyway outside, to hitch up your leg around his waist, to finally feel his aching hardness slide in to your—

"Wonwoo?"

He starts. It's a good thing he downed his drink earlier. Otherwise, he might've spilled his cuba libre all over the front of your purple dress.

You're squinting at him, a playful sort of grin on your face. For a moment, he terrified you've read his mind, but then you're slurring out, "Your glass is empty."

"That it is," Wonwoo says dryly. He lets you lead him over to the bar.

As the two of you wait for his drink to be made, you pull the rug out from underneath Wonwoo once again.

It happens so fast. One moment, you're discussing go-to karaoke songs; the next, you're grabbing his spectacles and trying them on for yourself.

They're ill-fitting on you and the frames don't match your face shape. Wonwoo nearly winces when you awkwardly try to adjust them by the temples.

"Your eyesight is a lot worse than I thought," you whine— a whine, my God. Wonwoo wants to die then and there.

When his whiskey sour is served, Wonwoo shoots it back and promptly orders another one.

"How do I look?" you prompt, tilting your head to one side.

For a moment, Wonwoo contemplates telling the truth.

You look like sin, he could say. You look like you'd make the prettiest sounds if your back was up against the door of the bar bathroom, if his hands were feeling you up over your dress, if his mouth was leaving open-mouthed kisses along your throat.

Wonwoo shakes his head. He's definitely not drunk enough to be saying all that.

"Fine," he grumbles. "You look fine."

Once you've had your fun, once his glasses are back on his face and you're off to charm whoever the hell else, he'll wish he could have been a little more truthful.

Here's the thing: For all of Wonwoo's intelligence as the company's go-to IT guy, he's still pretty oblivious where it matters.

He doesn't realize that you don't really give two shits about AI, that you're only staying so late at work for him. He doesn't pick up that your party dress had been purple because he had offhandedly mentioned once that it was his favorite color.

All of those little things only hit him when he finds you standing outside his apartment, looking mildly miffed. "How much longer do I have to flirt with you, Jeon Wonwoo?" you demand.

Oh. Oh.

"Not another day more," Wonwoo promises as he wraps his fingers around your wrist and pulls you in to his flat. He thanks all the higher powers in the universe that Mingyu has decided to buzz off for the night.

Wonwoo's mouth is on yours the moment the door shuts behind you. It's messy, all clashing teeth and warring tongues. The sudden force of it has you reeling back a step.

His fingers find purchase at your hips, right over the very skirt of his wildest fantasies. You tilt your head like you're trying to deepen the kiss— only to have your forehead bump against his glasses.

You make a sound of protest against his mouth and he swears he sees stars.

Without missing a beat, Wonwoo lifts one of his hands just long enough to pull his glasses off. He casts them aside unceremoniously. He'll buy a new pair if he has to.

He's back to kissing you before you can even open your eyes.

By some miracle, the two of you make it to his bedroom.

It's only then that Wonwoo manages to tear himself away from your mouth, looking slightly panicked.

You're pinned underneath him, the top buttons of your blouse already undone. And you're a vision— your hair splayed out underneath you, your chest rising and falling with every heavy breath. Wonwoo has to resist the physical urge to keep making out with you.

"I—" he chokes out. "I haven't—"

Thank God you're smarter than him, because you immediately get what he's trying to say. You prop yourself up by your elbows to look at him. "We don't have to," you say carefully, your fingers curling around his bicep.

"That's the thing." He doesn't even bother to hide how desperate he sounds. "I kind of really fucking want to."

The smile you give him then makes his heart stutter. He resolves to unpack that later.

Right now, he focuses on the way you pull off his slacks, the way you spit in to your palm, the way you dip your hand past his boxers and—

"Holy shit," he exhales, because this is definitely leagues better than his imagination.

You're watching his every reaction as you slide the curve of your palm against him, as your fingers close and squeeze and tug, and it takes absolutely everything in Wonwoo not to flip your positions.

He prays for patience; he prays for grace. He prays that he doesn't finish just from a goddamn handjob.

Once you've deemed him sufficiently hard, the two of you do switch positions. Wonwoo reaches in to his bedside drawer for the condom that's been sitting there for months. (Mingyu, the cheeky bastard, had left it there as a gift. Wonwoo has never been more grateful for his best friend.)

Wonwoo snaps it on with a lot less finesse than he would've wanted. Soon enough, he's hovering over you, his fingers curled in to a white-knuckled grip around his sheets.

"I should probably stretch you out a bit," he whispers, his voice strained with the effort it's taking to keep himself together

But you shake your head, your hands catching in his dark locks as you practically drag him down. "Wonwoo, I swear," you whine. "If you don't fuck me this instant—"

It's not the hands in his hair that does it. Not the bluntness of your words.

It's that stupid, stupid whine.

Wonwoo thrusts in to you without preamble, and the scream catches in your throat as he fills you up.

"Fucking take it, then," he hisses.

Wonwoo was a bit worried that his inexperience would get in the way, but there's one thing he seems to have in common with you: He can be a pretty quick learner, too.

His thrusts are a bit clumsy and erratic, but he figures out what you like based on the sounds that you make, the way that you move.

You arch your hips up whenever he bottoms out. You whimper whenever his balls slap in to the cleft of your ass. And when his fingers finally find your bundles of nerves, you say his name so beautifully.

"Just like that, Wonu," you gasp, rendered incapable of saying his full name. He likes the way it sounds, so he rewards you with another sharp thrust. You babble on, "Fuck, yeah. That's good. You're so fucking good."

Something inside him burns, then. Enough to have him picking up the pace, to have him pressing the calloused pads of his fingers in to every inch of bare skin that he can reach.

You seem to notice his renewed vigor, and the minx that you are— despite the fact you're being fucked stupid— you give him more.

You moan that he's perfect and doing so well and so fucking hot, and his cock only bullies in to you harder with every pretty word.

"I'm not going to last—" Wonwoo warns through gritted teeth, his grip bruising on your hip. "I'm not going to last much longer if you keep talking to me like that."

His fingers are already fumbling; his pace, stuttering. He's not sure how much more praise he can take, but then you have to go and whimper about how badly you've wanted him, just like this—

Wonwoo manages to bottom out just one more time before coming undone.

The feeling of him twitching inside you, of him panting against the side of your neck, has you following not long after. It's absolutely torturous, the way you clamp down on him like you're squeezing him dry.

Wonwoo gathers his bearings enough to pull out. He heaves out a sigh and falls back on to his bed beside you, his own thighs still shaking a bit from all the effort he's exerted.

A beat. Neither of you speak; you're both too busy catching your breath, coming down from your respective highs.

But then you're sitting up, moving, and Wonwoo physically feels his heart drop.

"Where are you going?" he stammers. He can't even bring himself to sound cool about the prospect of this just being a one-time thing.

You put him out of his misery rather swiftly. At the foot of his bed, you pause, take one look at his face, and then soften significantly. Your gentle pat to his ankle is a welcome reprieve.

"We should clean up," you tell him, somehow managing to reassure his unspoken fears. "Where's your bathroom?"

"Ah— first door down the hall."

You don't pull on any of your clothes as you go, so Wonwoo doesn't bother to hide the way he watches you leave.

Once you're out his bedroom door, Wonwoo suddenly feels boneless. He sinks further in to his bed and contemplates how the hell he's going to go about this— whatever this is.

Wonwoo's overthinking is cut short when you bound back in to his room, your hands behind your back. He barely has any time to speak before your lips are on his.

It's a sweet kiss, one that catches him off-guard. He's frozen for only a millisecond before his eyes flutter close and he melts right in to you, his hand resting at the side of your face.

It's not quite the answer that he's looking for, but it's a close thing.

When you peel away, his head rises from his pillow, desperately chasing your mouth. You let out a tinkling sort of laugh before pulling your hands out from behind you— and placing his glasses on for him.

Wonwoo blinks confusedly underneath his lenses.

"Just need to make sure that you can see what you're getting in to," you tease as you push his hair out of his forehead.

He just looks at you for a second. And oh, is he done for.

"Yeah," he breathes. "I see you."

[irndad]

She favorites recipes on Instagram. 

It’s a little embarrassing how Carmen knows- that when she’s at his place watching him sketch dishes she can’t taste, he’s also paying attention to what’s on her phone. And it’s usually kistchy things- dresses and outfits with legwarmers, pop-culture breakdowns he doesn’t have time to understand, and yes, occassionally, recipes. 

Carmen adores her company. It’s a private truth, one that they boht know and yet he can’t admit under her gaze. She’s a friend of Richie’s which is endlessly fucking confusing. Both because of how incredible she is, and because it is truly insane to imagine Richie with friends. 

Carmen supposes they’re friends too, now. It doesn’t feel quite right, the way she scribbles notes for him in the mornings and has slept over quite often. She’s busy, has her own life and her own career and he’s lucky for the time he spends with her. He doesn’t really have time to date her the way he’d like to, with dinner dates and late night drives down Lake Shore, watching the sunrise over the lake on mornings where time feels like no object. 

He’s clearly given this some thought. 

Anyhow, it doesn’t matter now. Now, she’s slept over. He’s got a full-size, which felt like a good enough excuse to share the bed, even though every time they do he still ends wrapped around her like a vice, like roots of a tree, raveled in a way that seems inpenetrable. 

She’s sipping on an energy drink- he’s offered her the coffee that he’s imported, and prepared with care, but she’d obviously thought it was too bitter. And now he keeps energy drinks in the house when she stays over. She’s popped in one of her wired earbuds, and the light washes over her like a halo. She’s got a bonafide glow while she sits on his counter, scrolling through recipes. 

“That looks good,” he hears himself say, a little outside of himself, as she stops scrolling. It’s a pasta dish, and she’s favorited it. It looks more complex than it is, really, but he’s not sure he’s a good source.

“Hmm? Oh yeah, I had it once when I was in Paris. It was fucking insane, Carmen, it’s so good. I’m always looking for a place to get it. I don’t really think there’s a place in Chicago where you can get it, actually.”

“It was seasonal actually,” he says back, her eyes fixed to his now, “Ever used to make it every fall. Easier to source the pine nuts.”

She looks so, so fond of him that Carmen could entertain the idea of leaning over the counter and kissing her. It’s incredibly tempting, the hint of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth, endeared by his knowledge. He feels guilty, how he plays with the pencil, knowing she’s stared appreciatively at his hands. He enjoys being pretty to her, leaning into the fantasy that he could be more than her weird fuck-up friend of a friend that’s too chicken-shit to ask her out. How odd is it, that he knows what it’s like to wake up to the smell of her shampoo, but has no idea how she likes to be kissed?

He’s so bad at this he’s failed before he’s even started. 

He can cook, though. 

Cooking is methodical, and so he does it. it’s an easy love language, for him. he dices the parsely and the other fresh herbs, sautes them wirh precision, uses some of the nice butter from work- it’s a marvel, at the end of it, fragrant and warm, waiting for her arrival. 

When she does make her arrival, just on time for him, he plates the dish before she comes in. 

“Oooh,” she preens, raking her eyes up and down him. He feels perciebed, but in a way that he’d like to be. Look at me, he thinks. What a pleasure to be seen by her. “Is this all for me?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he stammers out, “Thought I’d thank you for all your help. Late nights you’ve been staying up with me, talking through the menu and all- thought I could make you something.”

When she tastes it, it’s careful and adoring, and he’s good at this. 

“Yes chef,” she says teasingly, “Oh my god, Carmen, this is so sweet. You didn’t have to do that. I like being here.”

He wants to kiss her again, doesn’t know why he’s not letting himself. She meets him halfway, though, kissing the corner of his mouth that only a fool would imply has plausible platonic deniability.  

“Thanks, Carm.”

“Anytime.”

He’ll kiss her properly next time.

[mydearlybeloathed]

── 𝐁𝐄𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐎𝐀𝐓𝐒𝐖𝐀𝐈𝐍

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: without a major, eye catching skill, you attempt to make up for it by doing everything for everyone all at once--the crew only notices when it all comes crashing down.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: strawhats x sanjissister!reader, minor zoro x reader

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 4.6k

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭: reader is sanji's sister, reader is bad at emotions (same), first fic of college! woo!, injuries, stitches, blood, angst and comfort, requested

𝐎𝐏 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | 𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐉𝐈'𝐒 𝐒𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐀𝐆𝐀

Being the Strawhat Boatswain was no easy task, but you held it with determination and pride. Even when your crew made the job more than difficult.

You took in a deep breath and let it out slowly; Someone had messed with your inventory. 

Again.

You stood in the storage room, wondering who had the gall to come and move things around. The cannonballs were no longer in the crate by the window, but behind many other crates of lantern oil. The box once full of toothbrushes and toothpaste was down to its last bottle when it should still be half full. And to top it all off, the medical supplies shelf was out of order. The bandages were at the bottom and the disinfectant was next to the gauze!

It was enough to make your skin crawl.

Taking another deep breath, you shook out your shoulders, went through five stages of grief, and accepted the mess at hand, swiping a roll of bandages from the shelf and leaving the room to deal with some other day. 

Inventory was a job you liked. You took your role seriously, always on top of what was needed or wanted, ensuring it was acquired. Day in and day out you thought of everyone else, desperate to be useful.

You took this responsibility so seriously that your own self-care had gotten lost in the mix of Luffy’s food requests, Nami’s financial ledgers, and the weekly task of inventory. You’d lost sleep and skipped meals in the name of keeping order. 

Because if you didn’t, who would?

It didn’t matter anyway. You loved taking care of everyone. It made you feel useful. And as someone not as skilled with a sword or as knowledgeable with maps, that was worth a million hours of (much needed) sleep.

So you yawned and pushed open the door to your and Nami’s shared room, finding her hunched over her makeshift crate desk, squinting through the lamplight. Her forearm was still bleeding, splotches of red seeping through the first bandage. 

“I’ll handle this,” you startled her. “You fix that.”

Nami hadn’t seemed to notice the condition of her injury, chuckling dismissively as she worked at redressing the wound. “Thanks. My eyes needed a rest.”

Your own eyes longed to rest as she said it, straining under stress and overwork to finish doing the math of how many pounds of sugar, flour, and grain you’d need for the next stretch at sea. You picked up the sheet and made to your own desk, plopping down.

You underlined the last calculation as Nami tied off her bandage. Leaning back in your chair, you threw down your pencil and rested your eyes, knowing there was more work to be done despite the dark hour. As if on cue, the potter pattering of small hooves led up to your door, followed by a soft knocking. A smile spread on your face instantly. “Come in, Doc.”

The reindeer peeked his antlers and eyes in first, stepping inside when all was clear. “Is it a bad time?”

Nami swiveled to straddle the back of her desk chair. “Never. What’s up?”

His eyes blinked up at you first. “It’s time for your physical. Do you want to do it now?”

Immediate sirens went off in your head. “Physical?”

“We’ve all had one,” Nami piped in. “It’s just to make sure we’re all healthy. Your turn.”

“Good one,” you chuckled dryly. “I don’t do check ups, Doc. Sorry.”

Chopper’s little brows met instantly, his hooves falling to his sides. You shifted around to avoid his narrowed gaze. “Y/N, it’s important. I need to know where your health is so I can plan for the future.”

“My health is perfeclty fine and if anything changes,” you laughed, “I’ll let you know, Chop. I’m fine.”

But Nami wasn’t giving you a grin when you turned to her for support, her lips downturned. “I dunno. If Chopper thinks he should check you out then—”

“I said I’m good,” you snapped more sharply, going on in a concerningly peppy tone, “If I need help, I’ll ask for it.”

The way Chopper defleated nearly had you taking it all back, but you stood your ground, trying to make him feel better with a smile. His ears only drooped further until Nami said, “Can you help me, actually? I need to redo this bandage.”

She raised a brow over Chopper’s shoulder, silently asking a question you didn’t catch, so you grinned and shrugged it off. Standing, you caled over your shoulder, “I’m seeing if anyone needs anything.”

Chopper heaved a sigh as the door shut behind you. Nami pat his head gently, lips pursed. “She’ll warm up to it. Give ‘er time.”

“I know,” Chopper sighed. “I’m just… getting worried, I guess.”

“What do you mean?”

Chopper thought back to the past few months he’d been on the crew. Overall, you didn’t exhibit any alarming behavior. You worked hard and cared deeply, that was all. But… Chopper couldn’t place it, but he wanted to make sure everything was really all right. “It’s nothing.”

Hopefully, you warmed up to check ups quickly, at least for his own sake.

જ ⁀ ➴

You'd been careless—that’s what you blamed it on, at least.

The opposing pirate crew hadn't exactly caught the Straw Hats off guard. Nami was on watch that early morning, and she had a great record of raising the alarm. So when the enemy ship sidled up to the going merry and the dozen or so pirates jumped aboard, most of the crew was ready.

But you hadn't been at your best for days, maybe even weeks if you really admitted it. Sleep was so far away and your hunger was on this odd anxiety–induced strike. You barely felt real anymore, simply wandering through the ship doing various tasks that presented themselves, but never really taking time to breathe. 

You weren't entirely surprised when a pirate caught you off guard, coming at you from behind and getting a nick at your side—not a nick, actually. His sword had marked a pretty deep gash at your waist, and even when you thought the flow of bleeding was done, you somehow had more to give.

In the aftermath of the fight, as much as you attempted to brush off the concerns of the others, your heaving breath and greenish complexion were giving away everything. Besides, Sanji had known something was up since the first time you'd told him you "weren't hungry enough for dinner."

So as the sun rose above the horizon and the cleaning of the Merry's deck was completed, there was no escaping your fate. The haze of night no longer concealed your wounds.

Usopp was the first to notice. His gaze caught your stuttering breaths and the very obvious grimace you gave when trying to haul a dead pirate over the railing. He took the weight of the body in seconds, tossing it over.

"You don't look too hot," he observed, to which you scoffed and flicked your hands in nonchalance.

"It's nothing I can't fix." But you hadn't realized just how much blood was soaking in the fabric of your shirt, and one turn of your body displayed the vast crimson to him. Usopp's sharp inhale caught your attention, and with a grunted snarl you griped, "What?"

By now, nami had walked past, her own eyes catching your shirt. You glanced down and cursed at the sight. "I'm fine, okay? It's not that bad—"

But Nami already called out, "Sanji!" 

You rolled your eyes, gut bubbling anxiously. "Relax, would you? It's just a scratch. Honestly, we should use supplies for worse wounds—"

The breathy gasp behind you was unmistakably your brother's, and you swiveled to find him staring at your abdomen. "Pip…”

"What?" you snapped, self-conscious as your crossed your arms.

Luffy and Zoro had joined the show as well, causing anxiety to burn a hole in your good sense.

Sanji couldn't move, couldn't say a word. As you fumed up at him, all he saw was his baby sister, her face growing paler by the second, the flutter of your eyes weak, the red staining your clothes growing larger—

And then it hit him: The battle had occurred several hours ago. His eyes snapped to meet yours. "How long have you been bleeding out?"

"Sanji—"

"Stop," he said, and you did, your jaw snapping back up. His eyes skimmed you over with a hundred different thoughts, before he broke the contact and gently approached you. “Let's get this cleaned up, yeah?"

He sounded so soft, so much like how he used to when you were just young enough to still get by not knowing how shit the world was. It made you flinch away from him, not at all fond of the warm feeling of vulnerability welling up inside. "Shove off, Sanji. You're shit at dressing wounds."

"I'll do it then," said Chopper, stepping forward. In the little reindeer’s eyes was far too much concern. It left your skin crawling.

"No." You backed away from them till your back hit the ship's side and tried to ignore how featherlight your head felt. "Don't waste good supplies on me. It's not worth it."

Sanji gaped. "... What?"

You sighed, frustrated, and made to storm back to your cabin to sulk away the pain seeping through your limbs, raising your head to snap at them again.

Immediately, you found Luffy's eyes locked on you, all your words falling flat. He had never been scary—he was Luffy—but right then, well, you were frightened by the look in his eyes; it was something like confusion mulled with frustration.

"Not worth it?" He echoed.

Glancing around for help and finding none, you shrugged.

Luffy blinked, and you felt like apologizing, but he spoke before you could. "It's not waste if it's used on you, Y/N."

"I..."

Sanji sighed like he was suddenly out of breath, catching your eye again. His eyes were shining, and not in the charming way. It was a heartbroken kind of look, and it ate away at your insides. "You didn't tell anyone... because you thought it wasn't worth it?"

"Well," you stammered. "I mean—it's not as bad as it looks."

You felt their stares—how each of them was looking at you with such pity it made you sick—and you cracked, sputtering. "Just back off! It's a little blood and I'll heal. Zoro did!"

The swordsman in question stiffened as you thrust a hand at him, his ever-deathly gaze boring into you. “Yeah, ‘cause I wasn't being a stubborn bitch about it."

You were in the middle of an eye roll when the headache started. Honestly, why did they care? It was you keeping up with their asses half the time. You didn't need the same treatment. You had your own shit handled.

You tried walking away, and you thought you'd had it handled, but then the world started spinning, and your side really did ache, and suddenly you were in sanji's arms as he gritted out your name.

You were tired, very tired, so you blinked up at him, and fell asleep.

As one can assume, the entire crew lost their shit.

જ ⁀ ➴

In the eight hours you were unconscious, nobody sat still. Someone was always pacing, arguing, tapping something—agitation just sat over the whole ship. 

Sanji would say those eight hours were the longest hours of his life. He would say it rivaled the eighty-five days on that damn rock. It rivaled everything, because it was you. His sister. 

He couldn’t bring himself to debrief all that you’d said and what it meant… but him mind brought him there anyway. Sanji beat himself up over and over. If only he’d noticed something was wrong—he should have noticed… which made him realize he hadn’t a clue what was wrong.

He was in the middle of cooking your favorite meal for when you woke up when the image of you fainting in a graceful arc crossed his mind, and how he’d lunged to catch you. Maybe it was just being in the kitchen, but it somewhat reminded him of when you were kids.

You, so much younger and frailer, were prancing atop the counteertops of the Baratie, playing the part of Red Leg Zeff with your boots covered in marinara. The real Zeff, not so Red Legged, battled you with a wooden spoon as he simultaneously fought of his growing fondness. You tripped over your own slimy boot laces and, ever the dramatic, used the opportunity to swan dive to the floor.

Yet you hadn’t made it to the floor, not even close. Sanji had you safe in his arms the second your foot slipped off the counter. When he scolded you for being reckless, you grinned and chirped, “I knew you’d catch me!”

Sanji had caught you again, but not fast enough this time. Lately, he was never fast enough to keep up with your ever-growing mind. Each day you got quicker on your feet, jumping to accomplish task after task after task—Sanji paused as he prepared the food. When was the last time he saw you take a break?

When you woke up, your head was anywhere but in your body, the sensations of the room around you slowly drifting back to you.

Groggy, you shuffled in the sheets, skin sticky with sweat. Your eyes adjusted to the brightness, fluttering open. You sat up groaning, blinking fully awake, only to pause. Sat on the stool across from your bed was Zoro, solemn as ever. He looked half asleep, but the sound of your rustling startled him awake, eyes lazily widening to take you in. 

He made to ask something, but you beat him to it, woozily wondering about the odd tick in his brow. "What's up with your face?"

His brows screwed together, but that look never left his eyes; you couldn't place what it was. "What d’you mean?"

"You look..." Your eyes flickered all over him, and you thought maybe, he looked relieved. "Nothing. Sorry. I feel weird."

“I’ll bet.” He leaned forward to glance you over, and you settled on yes, Zoro was definitely concerned. He'd never looked that way before, and the oddity had you leaning closer subconsciously. Zoro jerked back instantly, blinking quickly. "You feel better, though, right?”

You did a quick check of your body, sensing your limbs and tapping at the bandage covering your abdomen. “I think so.” 

Zoro nodded stiffly, eyes flickering all over the floor. “Want me to get Twirly? I mean—Sanji?"

Typically, you weren’t the transparent type, but your head wasn't where it should be, so all your thoughts suddenly came out as words. "Is he mad? He usually gets mad when I get hurt."

Zoro moved to kneel at your bedside when you started to prop yourself up, eyes glued to your lap. He watched you carefully. "I don't think he's mad at you."

"But I got hurt," you exasperated. "I wasn't watching my back and got—got skewered! He hates it when I get... skewered." You rubbed at your temples and let out a weak laugh, brain fog fading. "Am I making sense?"

You raised your gaze to find a hint of amusement on Zoro’s face, his lips tipped upward. "Barely, but I follow."

You felt at your side, wincing at the pricking pain of the wound and the bruise forming around it. Chopper had done a good job with the bandage, though it was about time to change it.

"Hey," he said, dragging your wandering attention back to him.

"Yeah?"

Zoro's face grew cold. "Don't ever pull that shit again. You get hurt, you tell someone. Even if you think it's a waste."

You averted your eyes. "Yeah. Cross my heart and shit."

He wasn't satisfied, but he leaned back and raked a hand through his hair, leaving it alone for now. That was when the door opened, and you felt his presence before you ever turned your face.

"Oh, God," Sanji gasped. He rushed to your side, falling to his knees and setting a hand on your shoulder, just staring at you like you weren't even real. He passed a hand over your hair and sighed like he had the weight of Atlas on him.

"You're okay," he said, not so much a question, more of a reassurance. Neither of you noticed when Zoro slipped out of the room, nor when he knocked into the doorframe as he went.

"I'm okay," you said.

Sanji's hugs had always been lethal, always too tight for comfort but too sweet to turn away—and this was no different. His arms were careful to avoid your side as he pulled you to him, your head finding a nook against his chest as his chin rested on your head, and he squeezed you tightly.

Silently, you let him hold you, remaining still against him. You felt his tears, but never heard them. You felt his grip on you like a brand, that same old discomfort crawling through your gut the longer the intimacy went on. But you withstood it, an odd kind of burn creeping up your throat.

You choked on a cough—no, you weren't coughing. You couldn't fool yourself into believing such a lie, not when your eyes slammed shut and forced streams of tears down your cheeks. Your hands clawed at his sleeves as a warbled cry claws its way from your lips. 

"You're worth everything," he whispered into your hair. "Oh, God. I really thought..."

"But I didn't." you calmed your ragged breaths. "I'm fine."

He nearly laughed. "Fine? Pipsqueak, you were out half the day!"

You pulled back with a grin. "Eh. Just a scratch."

Sanji shook his head, smiling, before it fell instantaneously. He held you by your shoulders, shaking you slightly. "Why would you... was it something I did? I would never—"

"No! No, it was nothing you did."

"Then why in hell would you try to walk off a wound that needed sixteen stitches!"

"I don't know!" you looked away. "I just... there was too much to do. Everyone would need things done after a battle like that. I wanted to be, I dunno, ready and able."

Sanji still didn't understand. "What things?"

"You know," you started. "Things." He gave you a look. You sighed. "Like... sometimes Zoro lets me polish his swords, and in exchange he'll clean the little nicks he claims won't give him infections. And I think Luffy's hat needed fixing. Usopp never organizes the canon balls right and it makes me nervous, so I always go back and redo it… And on top of all that someone went through my inventory."

He took you in for a moment, and you felt very, very transparent all of a sudden. "None of that is your responsibility alone."

"Yeah, but, who else is gonna do them? Everyone’s so busy doing their things. I don't have a thing, so I do everything, I guess."

Sanji tilted his head, brows knit. "You do too have a thing."

"I really don't, Sanji. I don't cook or kick people like you. I'm not amazing with swords or a slingshot. I can't navigate for shit or heal wounds... so I help. If I don't, I'm pretty much deadweight." In the following silence, you mumbled something you never thought you’d have the courage to say. “Face it. Luffy only invited me because I’m your sister.”

Perhaps you should go back to the Baratie, as much as the thought sickened you. Zeff would never turn you away, and he’d even be happy to have you back. 

“Not true.” You looked up, heart dropping at the sight of luffy in the doorway, the rest of the crew behind him. You shot Zoro an accusatory glare, wiping furiously at your face. Perfect. A waiting audience.

You rasped, “What?”

Luffy moved into the room, face sullen, his hat and curls shadowing his face. “I didn’t invite you because of Sanji.” Luffy ducked down to be eye level with you on the bed. “Honestly, I didn’t know you were related till a few days after you joined.”

“Oh.” Sniffling, you ducked your eyes. “Then why? I… I don’t contribute much of anything, and when I try I wind up passed out for half a day.”

Nami scoffed, “That wasn’t your fault.”

You scoffed right back. “I shouldn’t have left my back unguarded.”

“You shouldn’t have been skipping sleep,” Zoro rebuttled, eyes steely. “And meals.”

Swiping at your cheek again, “Screw you.” You picked at your nails and refused to look up at all costs. It was difficult with Luffy right in your face.

The captain had his brows screwed together. His eyes bore into you till he grew tired of your avoidance and lightly pushed at your shoulder. Your gaze flicked up to meet his, quick to glance at the wall over his shoulder. 

“Y/N,” he muttered, “We care about you. And you worried us.”

And just like that, all your work to keep the tears in crumbled; one rebellious tear escaped, leading a dangerous path down to your chin. “Yeah. I know.”

That got a whisper of a smile back on Luffy’s face, and his hand came to plop down on you shoulder. “You’re part of this crew because we need you.”

“For what?” you dared to scoff. Instantly, Luffy’s eyes narrowed further than you thought possible. 

He echoed your words back to you like they felt weird on his tongue, and gave no further reply, simply staring right through you. You had already shirvled into yourself by the time Sanji stepped in.

“I can never keep track of how much food we go through,” he said, nudging your shoulder, “but somehow you always know exactly what we need and how much. As a chef, you inventory is vital to me.”

“I’m convinced you’re a mind reader,” Usopp added on. “Still no clue how you knew I wanted marshmallows last week.”

You chuckled dryly, gaze still heavy, obviously hesitant to take them serious. Nami sighed deeply.

“Listen,” she started, moving to kneel in front of you. It was times like this Nami felt much older, when her eyes peered into yours and it felt like home (a home so distant you ached to remember it). “It doesn’t matter what you believe. You contribute so much to this crew, more than you need to most days.”

Chopper bobbed up beside her. “Yeah! You do everything and then you never let me look after you!” It was hard to focus on what he said when he was so cute, but somehow when he narrowed his eyes all angry like, he held your rapt attention. “Let me do my job, so you’re able to do yours!”

“On the topic,” Zoro grunted, “quit overworking yourself. When Usopp fucks up the canonballs let him fix it himself.”

“Hey!”

You barely withheld a smile. “But… there’s still so much I can’t do—”

Zoro rolled his eyes. “You wanna learn how to fight? I’ll teach you. Just—quit being stupid and sleep, dammit.” His cheeks dusted pink and his eyes darted to the wall, unable to catch your tentative expression.

Luffy squeezed your shoulder. “You’re our boatswain. Just like Nami is our navigator and Sanji is our cook. The only one questioning your position is you.”

You sniffled, looking right in his eyes, and something in what he said finally broke through. You couldn’t cook or fight or navigate—but you had a damn good memory, you kept the ship organized, you made sure no one ever wanted for anything. You were the Strawhat Boatswain. Surely that held some weight.

“Okay, yeah, I get it,” you muttered, palms pressing against your cheeks as you cleared your throat. Glancing around at them all, you shoved down the creeping feeling in your chest and grinned cheekily. “But whoever’s been screwing with the storage room better knock it off, or I’ll be up all night fixing their mess.”

Silence enveloped you as everyone glanced around for suspicion, when Chopper burst forth with watery eyes. “I’m sorry! Really sorry! I didn’t realize I messed it up, I—I—”

“Slow down,” you smiled. You caught Chopper’s hooves in your hands and squeezed them tight. “It’s okay. I’m not really upset.”

If it was anyone else, maybe the story would be different, but all you felt was warm affection staring down at Chopper. He nodded swiftly. “I’ll help you fix it! Don’t worry.”

“I’ll help too,” offered Nami, none too subtle as she jabbed her elbow in the crook of Luffy’s side. 

“Ow! What—Quit that!” Luffy nursed the sting in his side, brows screwed together. “Me too, I guess…”

“We all will,” Nami declared, eyes scanning the room in search of an objection. She found none, a pleased smile gracing her lips. “See? You don’t even need to ask. We want to help you. Remember that next time you feel like everything is on you.”

“All right,” you conceded warmly. That familiar affection tugged on your heartstrings. You slid your legs off the bed and made to stand when a hand clamped down on your shoulder and nearly knocked you down. “Sanji, let go.”

Your brother’s jaw was set and gaze resolved, scaring the stubbornness right out of you. “You need rest. We can fix the storage room tomorrow, Pipsqueak.”

“But—”

“You’re actively bleeding through your stitches,” he cut you off, grinning when you pouted. “Tomorrow. Your inventory isn’t going anywhere.”

You were left gaping at him, eyes scanning for someone on your side. Nami raised a brow. Zoro’s expression was blank. Usopp avoided your eye. Chopper looked so sure of himself that you didn’t even try. So instead, you puffed out a breath and readjusted yourself on the bed. 

“I expect everyone’s attendance tomorrow morning,” you grumbled.

Usopp gawked at you. “Morning?”

One glare was all it took and his jaw snapped back up. Your temples began to throb fiercely, the gradual increase in pressure suddenly erupting into a full ache. The base of your neck was sore too and your lash line weighed down in gentle flutters. Sanji’s hand on your shoulder kept you from floating away into the delirium, your gaze searching as it swept over all your friends.

That tight tendril of awkward affection curled around your heart, as it often did, and it felt as undesirable as always. But no one pressed for any outward expression of it; your friends simply stood in your midst, wearing there hearts on sleeves of various vulnerability, not a hint of expectation anywhere on their faces. 

Times like this, you thought maybe you could bare to ditch your fears. Then again, maybe not, but you dismissed the hope fondly. 

“All right,” Chopper grunted, cheeks puffed. “Everyone out. She needs lots of rest—starting now!”

You chuckled dryly as the little doctor shooed everyone away. Nami shot you a quick little wave and disapeared into the hall, Sanji squeezed your hand, and Usopp gave a brief thumbs up. Zoro was left holding the door, solemn as ever, and paused int he act of closing the door. He appeared between the door and the frame, not quite in yet not quite out either.

“I was serious,” he said lowly.

You tilted your head. “About overowkring myself?”

“Well, yeah, that,” he stammered. “I mean about learning to fight. I’ll teach you.”

You’re sure your eyes glimmered, heart thrumming unexpectedly. “Really?” He nodded, crossing his arms. “Sanji won’t like it.”

“He doesn’t like a lot of things.”

“Primarily you.”

A scant smirk, one born of mischief and misdeed, crept up his face. “Primarily me, yeah.”

You shook your head and fought back a smile. “I don’t have a sword.”

He paused long enough for you to notice. “I’ve got three.”

“I couldn’t,” you said instantly, jaw falling open. “Those’re important.”

Zoro rolled a shoulder and combed at his hair. “I trust you.”

He was gone before you’d finished gasping, eyes wide as the door swung shut in his wake, and unsure when a sudden heatwave had flooded the room.

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @100520s @murnsondock @kryscent

[starleska]

If you're still taking writing requests, could you do possessive Wally headcanons?

*cracks knuckles* oh anon, i most certainly can 😈 yandere!Wally fans (me too 😳), this one's for you! (this is less headcanons and more a oneshot... kinda wanna write the whole thing 🙈)

content warnings for possessive behaviour, manipulation, threats, arson, entrapment and kidnapping!

Possessive/Yandere!Wally Darling x Reader headcanons

👁 it all started so well. Wally was a Darling both in name and behaviour, and you fell hard and fast. such an attentive sweetheart, from the moment you moved into the neighbourhood it was as if he were always at your side. anywhere else, you may have been unnerved, but Wally's simple warmth and easy smile dispelled all of your doubts. while you tried to spread your time equally between your kind new neighbours, you somehow always found yourself in Wally's presence, talking to him for hours.

👁 in time, you found yourself becoming bolder. you start returning Wally's curious glances, and soon allow your eyes to linger a touch longer than they should. curiously (and with a little bit of a thrill), you notice that Wally seems incapable of breaking eye contact - no matter how long you stare, he'll always stare right back, unperturbed.

👁 one day, you find yourself closer to Wally than usual. you're half-pressed against one another on your sofa, Wally's cheek nestled in the crook of your shoulder. he's drawing something in his sketchbook: an indistinct, wobbly shape that you can't make heads or tails of. while Wally's right hand scribbles furiously with his pencil, the fingers of his unoccupied left hand spill at your side, reflexively clenching every now and again with the automatic motions of his drawing.

👁 the closeness imbues you with a newfound confidence. you take a breath, steady yourself...and reach across, brushing your fingers lightly across Wally's own. Wally's eyes snap towards you. for a moment, his pupils blow so wide you think they might just swallow you.

👁 the next day, your house catches fire. such an incident is unheard of in this neighbourhood, and all your neighbours are horrified for you. however, Wally is strangely calm. "I'm sorry you lost so much," he says, still smiling. "Would you like to live with me?"

👁 you're shaken - but accept Wally's offer. the shock of the fire takes a few days to wear off, but nothing could be more unsettling than living in close quarters with Wally Darling. existing within the living, breathing (creaking? squeaking) walls of his Home has an atypical effect on the puppet. Wally's voice is lower, and he moves with more purpose, as if he and Home are one and the same: symbiotic entities which exist in tandem with one another.

👁 to add to your creeping sense of dread, Wally flips the script on your personal space. now he is the one letting his fingers slip easily around your waist, and fixing you with uncomfortable, impossible-to-ignore stares. you try to laugh off his behaviour, questioning him openly if he enjoys having you as a guest so much. for once, Wally doesn't smile when he replies, "I love you living with me."

👁 it isn't until a week has passed that you learn all the doors are locked, and Wally never gave you a key. you try wrestling with the door handle, but it doesn't budge. then you try the windows, but they're sealed shut. 'I'm not trapped!' you think to yourself. 'Wally is just being a good neighbour - he wants to keep me safe.' but that still doesn't stop you from panicking, scouring the house for the heaviest thing you can find and trying to smash the window. the glass does not break. Home suddenly groans with the sound of a thousand old floorboards and overloaded pipes - a dreadful, ear-rending noise - causing the glass in the window to triple in height and thickness right before your eyes.

👁 terrified, you scramble backwards to run out of the kitchen - only to run smack into Wally. you collapse to the floor and gaze up at Wally, standing in the doorway with his hands tucked behind his back, that cat's smile of his holds some private amusement.

👁 "did you try to leave Home?" Wally asks. "Silly, silly." he takes a step towards you, and then another - slow and loping steps, his cute puppet form now moving in a way equal parts unnatural and sinister. he crouches next to you, those eyes now whirlpools of void which obscure all but the slight white rim of his scleras. "Try again," Wally whispers. "I'd like that very much."

[lucid-loves]

Personally His

Imagine: Simon Riley rewarding the 141’s personal assistant for doing a good job with putting up with him.

CW: MDNI, Smut, Office Sex, Slow and Deep, Praise Kink, Edging

You on his desk, your back arching against the smooth oak as he runs his hands over your hips. Simon Riley loves looking down at you, blouse buttons open, pencil skirt hiked up, new tights ripped to reveal your dripping cunt. Every now and then, his hands will squeeze your thighs hard, making you gasp and quiver before he massages the pleasurable pain away. 

“You’ve been such a good assistant, love~” He praises in his deep, husky voice that never fails to give you shivers. While you were everyone’s personal assistant within the 141 team, Simon was quick to make you his with rewards. This is one of them.

“I’ve never seen my desk so organized. You must’ve spent a long time fixing it for me. Such a good girl~” He continues, spreading your legs further apart to get a better look at you. You whimper, pussy clenching in anticipation for his cock. 

Everyone except Simon had been easy to take care of. He’s been messy, neglectful, and always busy. He’s snapped at you and been curt with you a few times too when you invaded his space. It wasn’t until you saved him from attending court for an unpaid parking ticket that he let you really help him out. 

After that, you’ve been rewarded for your work with flowers for your own desk, lunches on him, and now a good fuck over your hard work.

“S-Simon. . .” You sigh, senses on fire as you feel his tip press against your entrance. You are eager, but also nervous. You glance towards the closed and locked door, your heart shuttering. 

He takes your chin to redirect your attention onto him. His eyes behind the mask gaze at you hungrily. “Don’t worry, love. They won’t be back for a while. You’re all mine.”

His cock plunged into you before you can respond, bottoming out within a second. His hand covers your mouth, muting your near scream as you feel yourself stretch to accommodate his length. Plunging into a sudden orgasm, your body trembles and you struggle to catch your breath. Your hands go over his, gripping hard to try to regain some semblance of control. All you can see are stars.

He feels your pussy tighten around him, soaking him already in more nectar than before. You knew he's smirking under that dark mask. “You cum already, love? Someone must’ve been looking forward to this. Such a good girl~”

Electricity runs up your spine as he calls you the name you’ve been wanting to hear since your first day here. You were his good girl. His good little assistant.

He slowly rocks his hips, forcing you to feel every single inch of him. Forcing you to take him as deep as you can. It takes everything in you not to moan as loud as you want. To scream his name like he's equally yours. The team may have gone to a meeting, but it didn’t mean that passerbyers wouldn’t be able to hear the hot sex behind the door. 

Simon presses his hand against your lower stomach, making sure that you can feel all of him. “That’s it. That’s a good girl. Look at you, taking me so well.”

Your toes curl within your heels as he continues to thrust slow and deep. Biting your lip helps control the desperate whimpers that hung in that back of your throat. Suddenly, Simon thrusts hard, making you release that pretty voice that he has grown to like. Even when you were nagging him to take better care of himself, he wouldn’t want to hear it from anyone else. 

“Sorry for being difficult at the start. Promise to make it up to you, but I wanna hear your moans too.” He admits teasingly, pulling and pushing his hips hard to properly fuck you on his desk. The wet sound of your cunt reverberates throughout the office, making you blush.

You can barely take it anymore. He's fucking you hard, but still slow. You want more. He knows you want more by the way his exposed eyes crinkle with a hidden, devious smile. You had to beg for what you wanted. “P-Please, Simon, more!”

Your begging was only slightly rewarded. He settles your legs on his shoulders and presses your soft thighs down against the polished wood. Gloved fingers dig into your skin, only making you more aroused from his man-handling. But his movements are still only slow, deep, and hard. It keeps you away from another orgasm that you crave so badly. Edging you. While you do want more, you are enjoying feeling all of him please your pussy. 

He enjoys your heat pulling him in as well. Though, he can be a little more patient than you. He wants to make sure that your next orgasm will rock your world. That and he wants to enjoy his time with you before he had to share your attention with his team again. 

“Not yet, love. Be a good girl and be patient while I savor this some more.”

[p0ssym1lker]

Some civilians were kidnapped by Mr. Freeze and the bats were trying to figure out how to get them out

Suddenly one of the hostages spoke up

"Dude! Your wife is is just ectocontaminated, easy fix."

Mr. Freeze turns to the girl who looks at him like he's stupid

"Don't look so surprised, I'm contaminated myself but your wife just doesn't have the right stuff to cleanse it. There's a charm on my bag and if you put it on her - clothes not skin - she'll start cleansing... No, no the pink bag, yes, don't fucking rip it off you hooligan"

Mr. Freeze was still mistrustful but every chance is important so the hostage was brought to him

"If you lie-"

"What would I get out of it? Now take of the chunky ghost necklace and put it on her as well to speed it up."

...he did so

The bats were watching with bated breath as Mr freeze took it off and flinched

"Yeah feels kinda weird to normal ppl but trust, it feels great when you got some ecto in ya. If you really wanna speed it up I can fall in a favor but I will need a sheet of paper and a pencil for that."

After watching his wife's vitals change for the better, Mr freeze immediately got them for her. She then started painting a weird circle and chanting in a language no one understood.

Then a white haired guy in a hazmat suit appeared.

"Yo phantom, can ya help out his wife... On the condition he let's all the hostages go and..."

The hostages were freed pretty much immediately and nightwing decided to charade to them it was supposed to say "he stays peaceful" but it was not easy to understand

"...yeah well...help his wife" she ended up saying, much to nightwings dismay

"So while he does his thing, your wifes vitals might change and your gonna think it's worse but they work with the ecto, you can check mine, we should get similar ones, you can keep my cleanse stuff, she should keep one around at all times and-"

The...hostage? Helper?... The girl rambled on while Mr. Freeze checked her vitals

"Yeah no, blood isn't gonna show up differently, I don't think this universe has the stuff to see it yet"

Wait what-

[deliciousangelfestival]

Nothing Has Changed - 10

Summary: Returning home for peace, you're faced with your tormentor, Bucky Barnes, who is now involved in your family's business.

Character: Bucky Barnes

Warning: Angst, Tragedy.

Author Note: So... I wrote the story outline until the ending. I didn't expect the story to turn dark. Prepare yourself.

Nothing Has Changed - Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist || support: Ko-fi

Thank you to anyone who gave a like, reblog, and left a comment. It motivated me to write more. 💖💖💖

Bucky awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck, searching for the right words. “Well, my mom is quite… eccentric.”

Even her own son admitted that Lydia was quite eccentric. She certainly acted like a woman from a wealthy family. She had also caused quite an uproar in town when people saw the wedding invitation that stated her husband would take her last name instead of the other way around.

In a small town, that decision was unique and controversial. Many husbands had their opinions, but no one dared to say it directly to Lydia. Everyone was somewhat afraid of her.

There was a rumor that the marriage wouldn't last long because it was one-sided love. But it's an old rumor.

“If her stares could kill, I’d be dead by now. I don't know what I did to make her hate me,” you muttered.

Bucky hesitated before speaking. “It's…”

“You know the reason?” You raised your eyebrows in surprise.

He walked closer to you, making you step back a bit. “If we become besties, I’ll tell you.”

'Best friends with you? Hell no!' You gave him a fake smile. “No, thank you.” Then you turned and left, determined to keep your distance from him.

“I knew you’d say that.” He pointed at you while chuckling. Then he whispered, “But why does it still hurt?”

🎨

While you were shopping at the grocery store, minding your own business in the sauce section, you heard a familiar voice, “I'm sorry.”

You pushed your shopping cart and saw a man kneeling down, picking up cans of beer from the ground. It looked like he had knocked over a beer display. From his hair and the pencil behind his ear, it was easy to figure out that it was Steve.

He looked as awkward as he had back in high school. Nobody helped him. You could have chosen to ignore him, but damn, your heart was getting soft.

Steve quickly picked up the beers, sensing someone was beside him. He assumed it was a store employee. “Sorry, I made more work for you.”

“You need to pay for all of this beer,” you said.

Steve realized it was you and looked up, surprised. “Could you pay it for me? I don’t have the money,” he said jokingly.

You rolled your eyes and picked up the last can of beer, fixing the display.

“Phew… I couldn’t have done it without you,” Steve said, relieved.

“Hmm,” you replied. Then you noticed the amount of beer in his shopping cart. “Having a house party?”

He looked back at his shopping cart. “Nah, just for me.”

“All of that…?” you murmured. Then you looked at his face. He tried to smile, but he looked sad, like you could see a dark cloud and rain pouring over him.

Steve sighed. “Hey, do you have some spare time?”

“Sure,” you replied.

Both of you finished shopping and then found a nearby café, settling into a quiet corner. Steve fidgeted with his phone, avoiding eye contact.

“The art school already replied,” he said, his voice tinged with disappointment. “They told me my portfolio doesn’t fit their criteria.” He looked dejected, his shoulders slumping as he spoke.

“Let me see the portfolio,” you said, reaching out your hand.

Steve hesitated for a moment before pulling out his phone and showing you the pictures of his artwork. You took the phone, studying each piece carefully. As you scrolled through his work, you noticed the intricate details and the passion evident in every stroke.

Steve watched your face anxiously, trying to read your expression. His hands fidgeted on the table, betraying his nervousness.

“This is impressive,” you said, looking up at him with genuine admiration. “Coming from someone who frequently visits modern art museums, I can tell you these pieces are outstanding.”

Steve’s eyes lit up slightly, a flicker of hope returning. “Really? You think so?”

“That art school must be insane to reject this kind of art,” you affirmed.

You picked up your phone and called an art gallery owner who was one of your clients. After a brief conversation, the owner expressed interest in Steve’s work and wanted to meet him.

Steve looked astonished. “That was quick.”

“When you have status and connections, you can achieve a lot,” you said, putting your phone back in your pocket.

“Noted. Thanks,” Steve replied, his gratitude evident.

“In just a brief meeting, you’ve changed my life. You’re more thoughtful than anyone else I’ve ever met,” Steve said, his voice sincere.

You gave a small nod, internally wondering why you had helped him. Was it an act of charity?

Not really. Perhaps deep down, you felt that Steve reminded you of your old self. If you had never met Ransom, who opened your mind, you wouldn’t have known the real world outside of this town.

You weren’t close with Steve, but you had some similarities with him. Both of you were raised by single fathers. However, the difference was Steve’s father loved him, while your father, Tom, was an absent father.

Steve’s father loved him too much, not wanting to be separated from him. Mr. Rogers became paranoid after his wife died.

To summarize, Steve lived pretty much in a cage.

“It’s not free, though. I’ll charge you later after you sell your artwork,” you said, half-smiling.

Steve smirked. “I agree.”

🏎️

A few days later, on the weekend, you decided to drive around and find an automobile repair shop. The air conditioning in your dad's car wasn't working, and although Tom didn't seem bothered by it, you were. So, you took it upon yourself to get it fixed.

After driving around town, you finally found a repair shop. You got out of the car and went to the front desk, where a woman appeared to be engrossed in her phone and clearly bothered by the presence of a customer.

You knocked on the table to get her attention.

“I need to change the air filter for my air con,” you said.

“Wait in line,” she replied without looking up.

You looked around and saw there was no one else there. Was this really how they treated their customers?

You sighed inwardly. “Just give me the air con filter.”

Her eyes remained locked on her phone as she reached out and grabbed a box, handing it to you.

You clicked your tongue and handed her the money. “Keep the change.”

“Thanks,” she mumbled.

Just as you were about to leave, the back door opened, and someone tall and imposing walked in. Instantly, your instincts kicked in, making you feel on guard.

Unexpectedly, you came face to face with one of Bucky's group, the biggest of them all. Thor. Like his namesake, he stood tall like a Greek god.

The cashier, who had previously ignored you, quickly brushed her hair and looked at Thor with puppy eyes.

Thor didn't even glance at her; his attention was on you. “No kidding. You’re back,” he said.

You gave a small nod. Back then, both of you were not friends. Thor was the loudest to laugh when you were made fun of. Standing tall like a tower, he was always the first to tell Bucky and their group when you were near.

He was known around town as a future NASCAR driver. Although you weren’t interested in car racing, a small part of you was curious whether Thor had made it to NASCAR or not. Maybe you’d ask Steve later.

“Something wrong with your old man’s car?” Thor asked with a smile.

You showed him the box you bought. “Just needed some spares.”

Thor stepped closer, his presence looming. “Need any help with that?”

You hesitated, feeling the awkward tension in the air. “I think I can manage.”

He chuckled, an awkward sound that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You always were stubborn.”

You gave a tight-lipped smile. “And you were always…persistent.”

The cashier was still eyeing Thor, trying to catch his attention, but he seemed oblivious to her attempts. The silence grew uncomfortable, the memories of high school taunts and laughs hanging between you.

“Well, if you change your mind,” Thor said, gesturing to the repair bay, “I’m around.”

You nodded, wanting to end the conversation as quickly as possible. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

As you walked back to the car, you couldn’t help but feel a mix of discomfort and nostalgia. Thor’s presence brought back memories you’d rather forget, but it also reminded you of how far you’d come.

You got into the car, placed the filter on the passenger seat, and drove off, the encounter replaying in your mind. Some things never change, but you have. And that was enough.

🚗

You drove home quickly, feeling a wave of relief wash over you as you pulled into the driveway. Finally safe at home, you were drenched in sweat from the broken air conditioning. “Shit. This damn air-con,” you muttered, frustrated. Why hadn’t your dad used the money you sent to buy a new car?

Determined to fix it yourself, you looked up a YouTube tutorial on how to change the air filter in a car. Despite the step-by-step guide, you were still confused, struggling to follow along.

You heard a familiar voice behind you as you fumbled with the instructions. “What 'cha doing?”

You didn’t have to look to know who it was. “Changing the air filter,” you replied, exasperated.

He heard the voice from the YouTube video. “Do you know how to do it?” Bucky asked.

“...No,” you admitted reluctantly.

“Let me help you. It’s really easy,” he said confidently.

“If you say so,” you sighed, stepping aside to let him work.

Bucky changed the air filter quickly and efficiently, his movements smooth and practiced.

"So, you went to Thor's shop?" Bucky asked while fixing it.

"How did you know?" you asked, raising an eyebrow. You also found out that shop belongs to Thor.

"From the filter box," Bucky said with a grin. "Nah… just kidding. He called me."

"Yeah, I went there," you admitted.

"Did he make you uncomfortable?" Bucky's tone grew more serious.

"The same as our first meeting," you said bluntly, not sugarcoating your words.

"Ouch," Bucky said, pretending to be hurt, clutching his chest dramatically.

"Well… it's done," he said, stepping back and wiping his hands.

You looked at the air filter, noting how easily Bucky had changed it. He was right—it was simple once you knew what to do. You turned on the car and felt the welcome rush of cold air. It was a relief after driving around in the heat.

"Thanks," you said, genuinely appreciative.

"That's what friends are for," Bucky replied with a teasing smile.

Giving him a fake smile, you shook your head, your expression firm. "We. Will. Never. Be. Friends."

Bucky shrugged his shoulders, a hint of a smile still playing on his lips. "We'll see about that," he said, walking away to help your father like usual.

You watched him go, shaking your head in disbelief. What made him think you would ever want to be friends after everything that had happened?

Author Note: I imagine this is the fake smile she gives Bucky whenever she talks to him. 😂

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Author Note: Hey friends,

If you've been enjoying the content, I've set up a Ko-fi account.

Your support through tips would mean the world and help me keep creating.

Only if you feel like it!

Here's the link: Ko-fi

Thanks a bunch for being fabulous followers!

[papiliotao]

꒰ 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒖𝒏𝒔𝒆𝒕 𝒖𝒑𝒐𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒆𝒚𝒆𝒔 ✩࿐

pairing: scaramouche x gn!reader

content: fluff, fluff, and more fluff, scaramouche is referred to as kunikuzushi, established relationship, makeup

summary: after noticing that your boyfriend’s eye makeup is more or less flawless, you ask him to test his skills on you.

a/n: this is what happens when you let me brainrot with @ilyuu for too long hehe... the scara brainworm has worked its way into my head. this is a cry for help.

“Hold still,” Kunikuzushi mumbles under his breath as he leans in towards you. With steady hands, he brings an eyeshadow brush up to your face, carefully placing the end of it against one of your eyelids. You have to stop yourself from flinching as the sensation of the bristles touching your face sends shivers down your spine.

“You’re moving an awful lot,” he reprimands you. A frown spreads across your boyfriend’s features. “Don’t blame me if you end up looking like an absolute idiot.”

Upon hearing his words, you have to force yourself to stifle a giggle. Kunikuzushi has a rather sharp tongue, but at times, even his irritated guise isn’t enough to conceal his love for you. Every single one of his emotions is displayed on his face for you to see, appearing as clear as a cerulean sky on sunny summer days. An entire rainbow array of sentiments is painted across his features.

Your proximity to him makes it easy for you to discern each feeling — after all, you’re so close to him that you can practically count all his eyelashes — so instead of focusing on the feeling of Kuni doing your makeup, you try to focus on him.

Porcelain skin tinted a very subtle shade of bubblegum pink at his cheeks; eyes that are filled with oceans of allure, adoration, and enchantment, containing a glint that speaks of the most mystifying secrets of the universe; and messy strands of hair reminiscent of the night sky framing his face make your pulse race erratically. The feeling of his breath tickling your skin only adds to the elation that threatens to make your heart burst.

It’s undeniable that Kunikuzushi is pretty — no, absolutely breathtaking — from any distance. After all, you had spent what felt like eons admiring him from afar before you could muster the courage to talk to him. However, up close, he is ethereal. Every single one of his features entices you, causing an entire sea of affections to flood your heart, overrunning it with feelings of unadulterated bliss.

As you stare at him in a daze, your gaze gravitates towards his lips. Although it’s difficult for you to look down due to the eyeliner pencil he just picked up tickling the edges of your eyes, you still manage to see them in the margins of your vision. His lips look so soft and plush, coloured a coral hue in stark contrast to his snowy complexion. They look so tempting. You feel a strong urge to kiss them — an urge that only intensifies as he subconsciously chews on his bottom lip as he concentrates hard on perfecting your makeup.

Your actions go entirely unnoticed by your boyfriend, or at least, you think they go unnoticed. He’s too focused on doing your eyeliner, quietly muttering a string of swears under his breath as his hand shakes. It seems like he’s nervous for once. You assume it’s because this is probably the first time he’s doing makeup for someone other than himself.

No matter how indifferent he acts on the outside, Kunikuzushi cares about you enough to become a mess on the inside when he’s doing something for you. It’s endearing in a strange sense.

With one final stroke, Kuni pulls back in order to admire his work. A small smirk adorns his features as he fixes his gaze upon you. Even though your boyfriend has moved, your eyes are still glued to his lips.

“Not bad,” he says. The galaxies of indigo swirling within his irises seem to glow brighter the longer he stares at you. It’s obvious he’s undeniably enamoured. He adores every aspect of your being. Kunikuzushi loves you down to every last detail, and right now, he’s especially enchanted by your eyes.

Slowly, Kuni’s face inches toward your own. His stare remains fixated on the corners of your eyes, which are tinted with dusk red eyeshadow reminiscent of his own makeup.

Before you know it, his lips softly press against your face, just barely grazing one of the areas he had just finished applying makeup to. Although no words are exchanged, you know what he’s trying to say.

You look absolutely divine.

When he finishes, he moves in once again. However, this time, he goes for your lips. Kuni slowly closes the distance between the two of you, narrowing the gap that separates you from him until you can feel his warm breath fanning your skin. He stops right before you kiss to gently caresses your cheek.

“Don’t think I didn’t notice you staring earlier,” Kuni whispers slightly breathlessly, although in the moment, that phrase sounds slightly hypocritical. His gaze is locked on your lips, almost as if he doesn’t dare to look away.

Little by little, the final inch of space between you diminishes, and you are met with the sensation of a pair of warm lips against your own.

The kiss is magical. It feels like something out of a fairytale. Butterflies run rampant in the pit of your stomach as you relish in the softness of his skin against yours, and for a second, you picture yourself in a dream. A dream where the rest of the world is forgotten, and all that exists is you and your lover.

thank you for reading! please consider reblogging/commenting if you enjoyed this!

[roosterbruiser]

Ohmygod i love the blurb you wrote for mafia bobby 😭 you did so well with it!

Still on anon for now, a bit shy about requesting on my main but -

Would you do a Jake x Kazansky reader where he's jealous/infuriated/*cough* horny *cough* because the reader (who's also an aviator) is always being praised by their superiors?

Enemies to friends with benefits to lovers?

If he's a teeny bit mean to the reader (calls her a nepotism baby or something) i would love that 🥺

Thank you so much, everything you've written so far is brilliant!

𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐘𝐨𝐮

𝐚 𝐉𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐧 𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

You can feel his eyes on you. Those bright green things that somehow feel like flames licking your skin. They're burning your cheek, the one you have turned towards him. If you didn't loathe him entirely, maybe you'd admit that his eyes were actually a shade of green you were fond of. If you liked him more, maybe you'd say that his eyes are the color of eucalyptus or clover. But since you don't like him, since he really doesn't like you, you privately imagine his eyes to be the same shade as pond scum.

Both of you tend to gravitate towards the front of the classroom, which means that when you're late--like you were today, only by a minute or two--you have to sit in the empty seat beside him. Which means that you had to move his feet from the chair where they were resting--the only seat left in the front row. You knew he certainly wasn't going to move them, especially when he smirked up at you and settled into his seat further.

So you swiftly gripped his ankles and let his feet drop unceremoniously to the concrete floor.

He started to make a sound of protest, started to laugh dryly and without humor, but you already settled into your seat and fixed him with a wonderful view of your middle finger as you "itched" your temple.

He's pissed now. You know that. Honestly, you knew he was going to be pissed before you even did it. But you did it, anyway.

You can't stand his entitlement, the way he takes up all the space around him like he owns it and smiles through it all. And you can't stand sitting anywhere except the front of the classroom--it's where you focus the best.

Maverick is droning through another training and you're being your usual studious self, taking notes with your fine-point pens and chewing on your bottom lip.

"Take a fucking picture already," you finally mutter to Jake, not peeling your eyes away from the screen Maverick stands before.

Jake snorts softly, scoffing at you.

"Don't flatter yourself," he spits back, finally turning away from you as he incessantly taps his pencil against the desk.

You try and ignore it--really, you do. But you're certain after a few minutes that he's doing it just to annoy you. That stupid repetitive clanking--tap, tap, tap, tap, tap--it's starting to drive you fucking crazy.

You're right--Jake is trying to annoy you. He doesn't like it when you sit next to him anymore than you like sitting next to him. And he didn't like that little stunt you pulled by scooping his feet out of the seat they were resting in. He won't admit it to himself or you, but he wouldn't have moved if you asked. Really, you moving his feet were the only way you would be able to sit in that chair.

But he's still pissed at you; he's always pissed at you.

You're a Kazansky, which means everyone treads lightly around you. And if Jake hates one thing--it's people who get a free ride. And you with your pretty fucking face and your sweet-smelling hair and your stupid fucking eyelashes and the ferocious way you bite your lip--you have it easy as far as he's concerned. He decided that the first time he ever met you at the Academy, as soon as you introduced yourself. Your call-sign is Wisteria, born from your unsuspecting appearance and lethal temper. But Jake doesn't like to call you that--he really doesn't like to call you anything.

Growling, you turn and stare at his pencil. He just smirks. It makes your face hot with annoyance.

"You're insufferable," you hiss at him quietly, taking a grab at his pencil.

He's faster than you, just by a fraction of a second. He moves to tapping his pencil incessantly on the other side of the desk where you can't reach him.

"You're fuckin' annoyin'," he bites back in a whispered tone. "You can sit anywhere and you choose here?"

You roll your eyes.

"Newsflash, you fucking dick--you don't own the front row," you mumble, blood rising to the tips of your ears.

"You know I always sit in the front row," he tries to reason, glaring at you, his mouth pulled into a grimace.

"So do I," you whisper back incredulously, finally peeling your eyes away from Maverick to return his wide-eyed look. "So just suck it up and shut the fuck up. Can you do that, Bagman? Pretty please?"

"Well, since you asked so nicely," he grins menacingly.

You groan softly, squeezing your eyes shut. He's going to be the death of you.

"If I ask you pretty please to fuck off, will you do that, too?"

Across the room, Rooster and Payback watch your exchange slyly. Rooster is shaking his head, smiling softly. Payback's lips are slightly parted and his eyebrows are raised.

"How long until they just fuck already?" Rooster whispers to Payback.

Payback shakes his head, shrugging.

"Could be hours. Could be days. Could be weeks. Who knows? God works in mysterious ways," Payback whispers back.

Rooster eyes you--your cheeks are flushed and your lip is nearly bloody from your incessant chewing. Jake is tapping his pencil again, smirking as he glances at you from the corner of his eye.

Oh yeah. You two are definitely burning for each other--Rooster can practically smell it from here.

"I give it two days," Rooster says to Payback.

Payback snorts softly, then sighs.

"I give it two hours," he mumbles back.

The two shake hands slyly under their shared desk.

"I don't know--why don't you try?" Hangman hisses at you.

You square your jaw, breathing through your nose. Lord, grant you some patience for this big hunk of blonde muscle beside you.

You softly smile at him, eyebrows blanched.

"Will you please fuck off?" You ask sweetly, even batting your eyelashes.

Hangman wants to say something. Really, he does. But Maverick is clearing his throat and looking at the two of you. So you slump into your seat, mumbling an apology as you flush. And Jake just nods at Maverick--except he stops tapping his pencil. But he knows that he's going to get you back.

And get you back he does. It's when you're both in the air, cutting through the cornflower sky, teamed up for a dogfight. You're a good pilot--maybe even one of the best. You're vigilant and calculated. You do everything by the books, which is why you've been asked to be Team Captain on more than one occasion.

Of course from Jake's perspective, it's only because of the legacy you hail from. In his opinion, you lack gumption and the kind of recklessness fighter pilots sometimes have to embody.

Needless to say--neither of you like flying with each other. So of course, Maverick pairs the two of you up.

Hangman can be calculated when he wants to be. And today, there's a special fire that's been lit under his ass--and you're the one that's been stoking it all day. So he plays by your rules, obeying you, even using your Lieutenant title--which he makes a point to never use.

But it's at that crucial moment, when you need him to cover you, when you need your wingman--that he dips. He hangs you out to dry, lets you get shot out. Hell, he practically lines up the shot for Maverick. The two of you were close to getting Maverick--so close that Jake could've gotten tone before Maverick even got close to you.

But then your tone is ringing out in your aircraft and you're dead. And Jake is grinning at you as soon as your jet touches down on the tarmac.

"What's got your panties in a twist?" He asks you, smirking as he wipes some beads of sweat from his forehead.

You're thoroughly pissed off. Like red in the cheeks, blood boiling, boulder-sitting-on-your-chest kind of pissed off. You're so pissed off that Bob is crossing the tarmac as soon as he sees that unhinged anger in your eyes, the one that usually prefaces some sort of discipline from the higher-ups.

"You son of a bitch!" You spit at Jake, pointing at him accusingly, throwing your helmet on the tarmac. "You gave Maverick the shot! Fuck, you basically lined it up for him!"

Jake is standing beneath the golden sun, his eyes narrowed as he squints at you under the bright sky. He likes seeing you like this--angry. Like, really, really angry.

"Me?" He asks dumbly, pointing to himself.

You have half a mind to scratch those green eyes out of his pretty face. You stomp towards him, hastily wiping the sweat off your face with your sleeve.

"You!" You shout, puffing your chest out as you square up to him. "You fucking--you-you-!"

"C'mon," Jake taunts, smirking down at you as your furrow your brows deeply. "Spit it out, nepotism baby."

Just as you're about to wallop Jake in his pretty fucking face, just as you're literally about to sink your teeth into his jugular, Bob steps between the two of you.

"Wisty, he wants you to hit him," Bob reasons, his sweet eyes pouring into yours. Jesus, you look feral right now--your teeth are bared, your eyes are glassy, your cheeks are red, you're damp with perspiration. "Do you really wanna give Seresin what he wants?"

Jake isn't surprised that someone jumped in to save your precious reputation. Typical behavior. Everyone always rushing to your aid like the big fucking baby you are.

"Maybe she does," Jake tells Bob, clapping him on the shoulder. "C'mon. Give it to me, baby."

Bob has to put his hands on your shoulders and hold you to the tarmac. He's certain that if he let you go, you'd be impossible to get ahold of again. And Jake would have to run for the hills if he wanted to avoid any major surgeries in the facial region.

"You're a fucking asshole!" You accuse Jake, little bits of saliva flinging at the skin of his face.

Jake comes closer to you--like a toddler taunting an animal at the zoo through the glass--and puckers his lips, making a lewd kissing noise.

He just fucking blew you a kiss.

Bob fights the overwhelming urge to let you loose. Fucking dick.

Jake swiftly turns on his heel, grinning, finally feeling like he has the upper-hand. But he is stopped only a few paces later when Cyclone bellows his official title.

Cyclone, who listened to the comms for once during your training exercise and witnessed the entire tarmac ordeal, has a few words for Jake.

Jake's stomach sinks. Fuck.

And he knows without even turning around that you're grinning now. Of course someone comes in the save the day again. If not Bob or Phoenix or Bradley or Maverick, then fucking Cyclone.

"Karma," you mutter to Bob, sighing deeply.

Bob nods, pushing his glasses back up his nose. He takes a look at your slumped shoulders and your slacked features and decides that he's probably okay to let you go.

"You know he just wants to get under your skin," Bob tells you warily, bumping you with a friendly elbow. "He's threatened by you."

You nod, scoffing.

"Good. I'm better than him."

Bob laughs and it makes something in your chest melt. You suddenly don't feel so angry anymore. You even smile a little bit.

"That you are, Wisty. Now, go take a shower. You stink."

You're in the middle of a much needed shower when the locker-room door suddenly rips open. You're startled enough to jump as you lather your body, straining on your tip-toes to look over the curtain at who just barged into the room.

The rooms are uni-sex, much to your dismay, and you're almost certain that everyone's in the air right now or has already showered after training. You cycle through the squadron in your head, furrowing your brows as you let the hot water boil the anger off your skin.

"Rooster?" You try, your voice echoing out on the tiles in the showers.

There's heavy footsteps--ones that are moving quick. Lug-sole boots, for sure. And if it really were Rooster, you're certain he would've come in humming or whistling or singing some dumb 80s song. And he would've called back at once.

No, this is someone else. Someone who's rapidly approaching, someone who's pissed off. They're stomping in your direction.

"I'm grounded for two fuckin' weeks."

Jake's voice is just outside your shower cubicle. All that separates your naked body from him and his rage is a flimsy shower curtain, one that is very nearly translucent.

You swallow thickly, suddenly feeling very vulnerable. You're naked for crying out loud--and he's trying to do this now? Here?

"Can this wait?" You ask, almost sounding timid.

Jake scoffs.

"No."

You roll your eyes, tipping your head back so the hot water washes over your face and hair again.

"How's it my problem that you're grounded?" You ask, your voice echoing in the vast empty room.

Jake is certain that the shower curtain is about to be set ablaze by his heated gaze. He wants to rip that shower curtain open and shake you silly for getting him in trouble the way you did. He can't see much of you besides your vague silhouette behind the curtain--that and your feet on the tile. Your toes are painted the color of a blueberry--on any other girl, Jake would think it's cute. But it's you, so he thinks it's juvenile.

"Because you just had to make a scene in front of everyone, didn't you? I bet you fuckin' knew Cyclone was watching!"

You scoff so loud that it makes your throat hurt.

"Bullshit, Seresin! I'm not some fucking cartoon villain! You fucked me up there and you know it. You knew I'd be pissed when we landed. I didn't know Cyclone was there."

Jake rakes his hand through his sweaty locks and groans loudly, starting to pace the damp tile outside your cubicle. He knows how threatening his boots against the tile must sound, how stuck you must feel right now. And a tiny part of him takes a strange sort of joy in that--of his presence being so big and looming that it holds you still.

"Yeah, well I guess life just has a way of going your way, huh, Kazansky?"

Your blood is beginning to boil again. Just the way he says your name, with all that venom and malice, it makes your nails dig into your palms.

"What's that mean, Bagman?"

He scoffs now--it's loud enough for you to hear above the blood rushing past your ears.

"It means that you have it easy! You've always had it easy! Your dad is fucking Tom Kazansky! Your daddy was a fighter pilot so he let you be a fighter pilot, too."

You're almost vibrating with anger now, hastily washing the conditioner out of your hair so you can rip the shower curtain and deliver a swift smack to his cheek.

It's one thing for him to say something about you--but it's a whole other thing entirely to bring up your father. You love your father--he's always been your real-life superhero. To hear Jake just say his name like that, just to hear him spit out Tom Kazansky like it means nothing makes you want to make his pretty eyes black.

"Oh, fuck you, Jake! Rooster's dad went to Top Gun, too, but I don't see you bringing that up every chance you get!"

"Rooster's dad is fucking dead!" Jake calls back, sighing in exasperation. "Doubt he helped him climb any ladders from six-feet under!"

Stomach gurgling, chest flushed, heart racing, you act before you even think. You rip open the shower curtain, your ears ringing, and stare at Jake. You want to hit him; you want to hit him more than you've ever wanted to hit anyone in your life. But you know that's probably what he wants.

So you just stand there, your naked body glistening with suds and heaving with every breath you huff out.

Jake stops his pacing, mouth falling open as he stares at all the skin that is suddenly on display. You look fucking pissed--your eyes are rimmed with red, your fists are clenched, your skin is quivering, your mouth is a tight line. But fuck if you don't look sexy right now; your nipples are pert and pink, all the hills and valleys of your body are slick, and that blueberry color on your toes looks mildly endearing as you stomp closer to him.

"You think I've got it easy?"

Your voice is laced with absolute malice.

Jake is backing away from you, his lips parted, his eyes wide.

"Yeah, I do," he says, but he sounds less sure now.

You point up at him, narrowing your eyes.

"Yeah, because women notoriously have it easy in the military. Right, Jake? I've never had to work hard for anything because my dad is an Admiral, right? And all the other people in this program that had parents go through it aren't nepotism babies if their parents are dead, right?"

You're getting closer and closer to him with every word that spews out of your mouth, pressing your finger into his chest, glowering.

Before Jake can answer--which he's having a hard time doing since all the blood in his brain is suddenly draining down, down, down--you get on your tip-toes to get all the more closer to his face.

Something is bubbling up in you, something that's been coming on for months. You're good at hiding your emotions, especially around your family, especially around your dad. You know how upset he gets when you're upset--even as a little girl, you did your best to conceal any sort of crying or whining around him--so you bottle all those tears and that rage and that grief inside your chest cavity. And now that you're naked and pissed and so close to Jake, it's all coming out in hot breaths.

"So, in a few months, when my dad is dead--you're gonna stop calling me a nepotism baby? Is that how this works? Or am I grandfathered in?"

There it is--sitting out in all the steamy air between the two of you. Your dad is dying. You know it, you've known it for a while now, and you're trying to come to terms with it. You haven't been able to tell anyone on base, therapy is too expensive, and you can't cry in front of your dad. So Jake gets to hear it all right now as you stand before him, soaking wet, trembling with rage.

And Jake suddenly feels like a fucking asshole. He hates to feel guilty--which is why he usually actively tries to steel himself against people's reactions to what he says--but he can feel the rusty anchor of it dragging across his chest heavily. He knows that his eyes have softened, that his shoulders are drooping. He knows it because you suddenly soften too.

"Wisteria," he says quietly, trying hard to keep looking at your face and not your breasts or your belly or your legs or your legs. "I'm so..."

And you feel like you're going to cry now--which is great. That's just fucking great. That's all you need right now is to cry in front of Jake fucking Seresin, who will probably internalize all of it to tease you about it for the next ten years.

With a sudden wave of goosebumps, you realize it. You're butt naked right now in front of Jake. Like, properly naked. And you're soaking wet. So, while you still have the slightest bit of dignity intact, you spin on your heel and start to hurry back to your cubicle. A deep blush is covering your chest and throat, climbing up onto your cheeks.

"Hey," Jake says, his voice softer than before. He reaches out before he even realizes what he's doing, wrapping his hand around your bicep.

You whip around quicker than he's expecting, your wet hair smacking his sweaty cheeks. His eyes are wide when you press your nose against his. And even though he knows you're angry at him, angry at the situation and at him and at the world, he knows that you're sad, too. You're sad in a way he doesn't quite understand but that he wants to help--really, he just wants this guilt sitting on his chest to fade.

"Fuck you," you hiss, jabbing his chest. Your voice breaks and he squeezes your arm tighter.

Jake is staring at you. His eyes are wide and his pupils are blown. His mouth is twisted and his cheeks are red and his hair is messy. He's something between pissed and elated, but you don't know what.

"Fuck you," he whispers back, except his voice holds no malice at all. It's soft, soft as the little breaths of his that are fanning over your face.

And he moves closer to you, just barely, just enough so that you can feel his hard cock against your naked hip.

Oh--you recognize that look now. It's lust. He wants you. He wants to fuck you.

Your heart is racing and when his hand moves to tenderly move wet hair off your shoulder, you shudder. Heat is beginning to pool between your legs now, the same heat that is making your lips swell with want.

You're still upset, your emotions are running high. But maybe this would make you feel better--actually, you know it would make you feel better. Between your busy schedule and all the family you're constantly entertaining, you don't have much of a dating life.

"That what you want?" You whisper finally, not moving away from him.

He nods once, swallowing hard.

Fuck.

"That gonna make you shut the fuck up?" You whisper to him, lips just barely grazing his.

And fuck if just the feeling of his lips on yours isn't already making a coil tighten in your belly.

He moans softly, pressing into you just a bit harder. You're steady on your feet, swallowing his sound with a hunger that you've never had for anyone else before.

You're slightly shocked that he's letting you take the lead, letting you talk to him that way. You're also shocked that you're about to kiss Jake Seresin in the locker room at your place of employment. But here you are, your tongue licking a hot stripe across his bottom lip until he opens his mouth for you.

But, like he knew exactly what you were thinking, he wraps your hair tightly around his hand and tugs harshly until your lips disconnect. There is a string of spit connecting the two of you, which makes something very warm grow in your belly.

"You're a bitch," he tells you, panting.

You nod blindly, desperate to press your mouth against his again.

"You're a dick," you tell him.

He moans again--a glutton for punishment. It makes you wet just thinking about all the mean things you can spew at him, all the frustration he would happily let you take out on him and his abs.

You're fumbling with his uniform and he's feverishly pressing kisses to your wet shoulders and neck, both of you moving quickly so you don't change your mind or get some sense knocked into you.

"Princess," he mumbles against your skin, sucking harshly over your collarbone.

"Entitled prick," you moan back, pushing his shirt on the floor and eagerly working on his belt buckle.

Jake can't believe this is happening. He never thought he wanted to fuck you--honestly, the thought had never crossed his mind. But now that you're here in front of him, naked and wet and ready for him, he can't believe he hasn't indulged in this fantasy before. You're so fucking hot that he's already straining against his service khakis, his mind spinning, his chest heaving. He's only ever strictly--and honestly, begrudgingly--noticed your beauty. It's hard for him to not notice beautiful people so it's usually your face that he lands on.

"C'mon," he hisses at you, dragging his calloused hands down to your breasts. "Faster."

He pinches hard enough to make you cry out, enough to make your toes curl. White-hot pleasure is raining over you, licking your heels, scorching you.

"Fuck you," you moans again, finally undoing his belt and getting rid of his pants and underwear in one swift movement.

"Plannin' on it," he whispers to you, delivering a few more sharp pinches to your nipples as he kneads the soft tissue of your breast in his rough hands.

His cock is freely pressing into your skin now, hard and hot and leaking pearlescent beads of pre-cum. He's big--he's really fucking big. You can feel all the veins around his cock pulsing, can feel how badly he wants you. If you weren't as wet as you are right now, you'd make fun of him.

"Shower," he commands, already pressing you against the wall of your cubicle.

The water is still running, clouding the room with steam, and after only a few moments both of you are sopping wet again. He's kissing you like he's trying to devour you, relentless in his harsh movements on your chest. The pleasure is almost paralyzing you, almost rendering you motionless.

But after only a few moments of his harsh movements, you finally move down and wrap your fingers around his cock. You give a few tugs, slipping your thumb over the his slit.

Jake Seresin, Jake fucking Seresin, moans into your mouth. It's a deep and throaty thing, something that shoots you straight in the core. And then he presses himself against you, holding you up with one of his arms as his other one slips between you. In one swift movement, his fingers are spreading you open and circling your clit furiously. There's no easing into it, not with him. It's hot and desperate and needy.

You're moaning, too, throwing your head back against the slick tiles, squeezing your eyes shut. And Jake is kissing feverishly across your neck, nibbling your collarbones, trying not to outwardly moan at how silky and good you feel on his fingers.

That coil is tightening in your belly, pushing you closer and closer to an edge you weren't even near when you started to shower a short while ago. But his fingers are so rough, so calloused, and they feel so fucking good against this delicate part of you.

"Make me cum," you desperately whisper, the water pouring down over the two of you deliciously.

He's still moaning at your swift movements over his cock, at the way you are giving special attention to the head of his cock the exact way he likes.

"You're such a fuckin' princess," he whispers into your mouth, biting down hard on your lower lip as you mewl desperately. "Always gotta be taken care of, huh?"

Nonetheless, he's picking up his pace, rubbing your clit in hard and fast circles. He can tell your close by the crinkle between your brows, by the way you're bucking into his hand, by those desperate little breaths that are puffing into his face. You're soaking wet, too, which makes him so hard that he thinks he might combust.

"Oh, Jake," you moan, trying to match his pace with your hips.

He keens at the sound of his name falling off your lips. And when you tangle your fingers in his hair and tug, it only encourages him to move faster.

If you weren't so close to cumming, if he his cock wasn't dripping in your hands, then you would laugh at him. Jake Seresin has a degradation and a praise kink. Typical.

"Beg for it," he mutters to you, swallowing hard.

You don't even think twice.

"Please," you whisper pathetically, mouth parted in utter ecstasy. "Please, please, please, Jake. God, give it to me, Jake. Please let me cum."

Jake's sounds are sacrilegious. He's pressing his lips agains yours harshly, his tongue folding across yours, pressing down just right until he's thrown you off the edge of a cliff and directly into the vortex of an orgasm. You convulse in his arms, shaking and nearly crying, and he swallows every single sound your pretty mouth makes.

"That's it," he coaxes, uncharacteristically soft as he works you through it. "Good girl."

Your fingernails embed themselves in the skin of his scalp.

And if he wasn't planning on fucking you just as soon as you can stand on your own two feet again, he'd endlessly tease you about the way you like to be teased. Typical.

And just as soon as you've come down, just as soon as your vision isn't whited out, you're turning yourself so your chest is against the shower wall. Jake almost moans just from the sight of your supple ass raising just slightly in the air--a signal that you're ready for him.

But he takes not a moment of hesitation. He smooths his hand down your spine, holding the meat of your cheeks in his hands, silently thanking God for his bad attitude earlier.

And you're panting, still recovering, so turned on still that you can't even speak. You know that if you did speak, you would sound downright dumb. You'll be damned before you let Jake Seresin know that his fingers alone have made you totally stupid.

"Ready for me?"

You just nod, stifling an eye roll.

He braces himself against you, a firm hold on your hips. And you brace yourself against the wall, pressing your hot cheek against the cool tile.

And just as he lines the head of his weeping cock up to your sopping entrance, just as he's about to practically rip you in two, he leans forward. You want to whine, really you do, but then he's very tenderly moving all the wet hair out of your face so he can see your pink cheek and your swollen lips and half-lidded eyes.

"You want this?" He asks, voice steady but desperate.

You glance back at him, brows furrowed slightly. He's being totally earnest right now--you can tell from the flat line of his lips and the way his eyebrows are just barely knit.

"Yes," you whisper after a moment, nodding.

He smiles, nodding.

"Good," he whispers, pressing himself into you all at once, rendering you speechless and breathless. "Cause I fuckin' want it, too."

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐓𝐰𝐨: 𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐌𝐞

horny!mean!Hangman rise

this has been extended to a series!! you can find all the parts on my masterlist!!

if you liked this, consider checking out my Jake x You story!

here is my tag list!!

[amphiptere-art]

Welcome to Fall fest!

↓Happy rambling about this art piece↓

Now first of all I don't think this is finished. Lots of lighting and making is an actual poster to happen. I just know it's going to take me some time to get the motivation again, So I'm sharing it now.

But other than the fact this isn't really finished. I'm starting to really love this watercolor brush. I don't think I've really dedicated myself to a close-up drawing like this in a long time. Although I will point out that it's hilarious that the only times I can think of that I have. Are all of Jack. Man do I love this guy. Anyways. Close-ups are usually reverted to sketches. It's not exactly a normal thing that I color them. Takes too much time in my opinion.

But I was able to do this in one day. Sure there's a lot of extra pieces. Most importantly the lighting and a more proper background. But I was able to complete this sketch and color it in relatively easily. Sure I already had the sketch planned. But it's kind of interesting to see how far I've gotten with quickness.

But anyways. I am starting to get so engaged with this watercolor brush. I started using it in backgrounds. I enjoyed the texture and the way how stuff naturally blended without me having to go through a whole bunch of other loops. It was just a nice brush and it made for some nice out of focus backgrounds. But I hadn't used it as my main still because.. well. It blended too good. Colors are often lost. There's technically some colors lost here too. A lot of things got darker. But it's not as much as before.

I finally decided to mess with the brushes settings. I usually don't mess with them unless it's the scatter option. Which I use for easy stardust. But I finally decided to test some of the brushes. Most importantly the watercolor since I was enjoying it so much. I only really had one problem. I just had to figure out how to make it not blend as well. Turns out it was an easy solution. Just one little setting dragged to be a little lesser. And all my previous problems were practically fixed. Sure I still have to paint over a couple times and make sure the blend is seamless. But it is so much easier now.

I'm going to hopefully use this piece to test some lighting. Again with that watercolor brush. But I also have unique ways of doing my lightings. Mostly in the fact that I shade with pencil and light with color. So I guess we will see. But I really enjoy this piece. The pose is simple enough. Just Jack leaning slightly forward holding a pumpkin. Boy did I struggle with those hands. But it's technically built to be an animated poster at some point. His hands are supposed to float away from the pumpkin. Along with maybe a head tilt and ray retraction. But that's something definitely going to happen later. Otherwise it's a pretty great still poster. Even if I still got to put up the poster label.

[sturnzyolo]

Shadows

Matt Sturniolo x fem reader

Warnings: fluff, swearing, a little eerie scenery, crying, stress, bullying mention, comfort, anxiety, and slight obsession (anything else will be added in later parts)

slight summary/teaser: reader feels a significant connection to a particular classmate of hers, her teacher's favorite student. One day, when on her way home, she hears something.

⚠️ my first ever fic so don't hate if it's absolute shit although I take honors english + I will NOT be writing any smut, (sorry u horndoggaroonies) bc I believe my digital footprint is terrible as is, so. let's not add onto it!

(This part is mainly created on my computer so if anything's fucked up ill fix it on my phone)

PART 1

3rd person POV?

Matt didn't understand why he was so favored in his calculus class, he wasn't a nerd, although he seemed like one with his glasses and button-ups. It wasn't like he got every answer right, no not at all. He barely even paid attention in class, his mind wanders instead.

Mr. Robinson has always been overly kind to Matt, he would have him stay after class or during passing period just to talk about how Matt was doing. Matt would constantly get a run down about Mr. Robinson's son having terrible anxiety. Maybe that's why he was so easy on Matt and favorited him, he most likely just reminded his teacher of his son, which seems more like pity. Matt usually would find this behavior odd, most teachers didn't even know Matt was in their class til he asked to go to the nurse, bathroom, office, or if there was any group project, he'd always be picked last by some group who didn't have enough members.

He noticed y/n looking at him in class, only from time to time of course, he found it weird how someone could be paying attention to him, then again he just thought she was making fun of him in her head.

Bullying wasn't like it was in the movies, for Matt, it was just whispers and stares. Kids would laugh as he passed, most called him the teacher's pet if they shared calculus with him. He mainly stuck to himself, somedays he didn't even show up, if it was just staying at home to do work online or going to an early therapy session.

Y/N POV

May 13th, 2024

(let's pretend their 18, in their senior year in 2024)

A dreadful Monday morning, Matt was wearing a collared white and blue striped button up with dark tan cargo pants. I watched him walk up to his seat in calculus class, nobody spoke to him except Mr. Robinson, giving an overly cheerful, "Goodmorning Matthew" as he headed in. Matt only muttered a tired "morning" as he threw his backpack next to his desk and leaned into his chair while he sat.

Class went as normal throughout his lecture. Honestly, I could've fallen asleep, for once I understood the material, so I found paying attention quite useless.

"Matthew what's the answer to page 347 question 9?" Mr. Robinson said abruptly

I practically jumped out of my seat, he never called on Matt, and I was shocked he finally did. I looked over to see Matt, knocked completely out of his daze, I guess he didn't expect the sudden call out either.

Matt fiddled with his pencil nervously as Mr. Robinson waited for an answer, yet he was only met with "Um's" and "Uh's" out of Matt.

I kicked Matt's ankle gently, I covered my mouth loosely as I whispered the answer, which I had to quickly figure out. I felt awkward in the moment just watching it, so I couldn't bare it lasting any longer.

Matt nervously repeated my words with stumbles, which I was even shocked that it was correct. Mr. Robinson seemed proud with a nod and a slight smile "Correct, amazing work Matthew"

Even with the praise he still seemed nervous, he was still anxious from the awkward occurance that had all the eyes laid onto him.

He turned back to me slightly, whispering a soft "thank you" before he sat up and tried to compose himself

"No problem" I said back quietly, although my voice was practically a loud speaker to Mr. Robinson, who almost instantly snapped his cold gaze towards me

"Ms. Y/L/N stop the talking back there or you're going to the office" he demanded in a very threatening tone

I never left it alone whenever I was unfairly called out, Mr. Robinson knew this, and I swear he did it to get a rise out of me.

"Sir I wasn't even talking!" I called out

"Well you are now so zip it or you're out." He argued

I scoffed "You always target me, I barely even opened my mouth sir, besides you shouldn't talk to a student that way if you're always pushing us to respect you when you don't even return it!" I don't know why I argued, it's pointless and I knew that

"I can talk to you however I like, get out of my class!" He yelled. I sighed and packed my things before throwing my bookbag over my shoulder and walked straight out of class. I gave Mr. Robinson a glare but he wasn't even looking, I dont know what I did for him to hate me but love Matt.

I stepped out into the hallway and slumped down the wall midway to the office, I didn't want to go. Besides nobody would even notice or care. I heard the classroom swing open, I quickly stood up thinking it was Mr. Robinson. But it wasn't.

Matt came out instead, "why's he out here" I thought, I decided it was a perfect chance to finally speak to him

"Shit you scared me, I thought you were the teacher" I said as I looked at him with a slight smile

"Oh sorry I didn't mean to scare you, uhm but thank you again for helping me back there with the question." Matt said lowly in somewhat of a nervous mumble

"No worries, I could tell you looked a bit lost. So why does Mr. Robinson favor you so much out of everybody, I was just curious." I finally was ready to hear the answer, I always thought they maybe were related somehow but then again it didn't seem like it and the school would separate them anyway.

"Uh well I think it's cause I remind him of his son, I barely even know the answer to that. I find it just as weird as everybody else does, people think I'm a teachers pet because of it." He admitted as he nervously tugged as his clothes, which I noticed.

"Oh, well I should probably go to the office since Mr. Robinson's most likely going to call them and ask if I showed up, bye matt, I'll see you in class" I said

"Bye y/n, im sorry for getting you in trouble" the last half of what he said barely was audible to me with the quiet tone he used as I walked away to the office

I already have an idea of where this story is leading & I'm guessing it'll only take at most 4 parts to get there, I just feel bad stuffing one part with so much. Also if the writing & dialogue suck it's bc I rushed this SORRY 😔

THIS PART IS RLLY BORING I PROMISE THE NEXT IS SM BETTER‼️

PART 3 OUT NOW

[hwajin]

✞ 「 .✶۪ .° ✞ : 𝐇 𝐈 — 𝐋 𝐈 𝐓 𝐄 !! : a series

☆ — chapter two ; Cold Metal

✞ 「 .✶۪ : see series masterlist and warnings here

✞ 「 .✶۪ : chapter word count: 18.1k

✞ 「 .✶۪ : chapter warnings: suggestive tension, lotsss of angst, mentions of cheating!!!!

author's note: one of my weaker chapters tbh but i hope you still enjoy!!! i'm sooo so excited to post ch3 already ngl 🤭🤭🤭

The number of times your hand carded through your dyed black hair this class was abnormal, five times too much than it would seem natural, but you couldn’t quite care about it. It was soothing, your long nails massaging your scalp in the process calmed your nerves. You looked at Mr. Bahng, you looked at Mr. Bahng looking at you – and your hands were in your hair again, fixing it, or making it worse, you weren’t quite sure. You wore dark lipstick – the shade of red was close enough to be black though it wasn’t upon further inspection – which matched the colour around your eyes, dark and smoky, long, fake lashes making your irises pop. Your outfit was just appropriate enough for college, though you were almost uncomfortable about how revealing it was – lowcut dark tank top with a bedazzled star right on your chest, low-rise jeans which teasingly sat on the curve of your hips, revealing the subtle waistband of the dark red tanga you had decided to wear, with the only purpose for Mr. Bahng to see it. Your black boots made you taller by an inch, which made you carry yourself with the confidence you deemed to need today.

For the past week you had slept over your plan to seduce your teacher; now, a week later, the affair sounded far sillier than when you had first come up with it, when you had gotten over the initial shock of seeing the man, who, seemingly had rocked your pre-graduate mind. Though, now, a whole week later and after a lot of plotting and thinking, it felt far more realistic, too, something you could achieve if you acted smartly. Sure, it was still dumb and immature, and yes, you could get in trouble for it – you had thoroughly thought of Han’s words, and gathered that he, in fact, hadn’t been as wrong as you had thought – though trouble and problems would occur only if someone caught you, and only if you let the whole thing go on for too long, or got too involved in the process. You were simply supposed to keep your plan on the down-low, telling not a soul about it – that Han knew you didn’t deem as a risk; he was your second half, his secret was as much yours as yours was his – and you ought to end the instigation the moment Mr. Bahng left to let Professor Hwang teach again. That was, if Mr. Bahng would fall for you, in the first place. This factor wasn’t at all yet carved in stone, and it was the most important rule in the game you created; so, you’d decided to view your chances realistically. Surely, you had it all planned out, you had read through the entirety of the package insert and the risks that came with the plan – you were prepared, and said plan was nothing but manageable, if you only let the charm spark you believed you had. Everything after would be history.

Mr. Bahng had eyed you when you had entered the classroom this morning, for only a short moment, barely a second even, though you couldn’t have not noticed. His eyes had scanned you up and down before he had converted them to his pencils and notebooks on his desk, and his ears had painted red; you remembered having seen him flustered a week back, and the blush around his face was far more adorable now that it had been due to you, seemingly. He didn’t much pay you attention throughout the rest of the lesson; in contrary, Mr. Bahng seemed to be avoiding your piercing eyes altogether, seemed to only skim over you and your figure – your chest, too, which you put on display on full purpose – while holding the gazes of other students. Were you already crawling under his skin? Was one outfit and flirty eyes enough to weaken the teacher? You doubted it to be so very easy; though then his eyes scanned over you again for only a second, and his ears painted pink. Maybe it could be easy.

A cold can of Coca Cola stood before you, the freezing condensation of it having left a wet spot on the rough, old wood of the desk you were sitting at; you and Han had grabbed a drink before classes, though you’d lie saying it had felt like always. Ever since you had fought a week ago, Han had been acting strange, tense. You had realised that he was pretending to act normal, that he was trying to joke around as always and not let his eyes linger on you for too long, or tell you about his songwriting without growing flustered, or grab a drink with you without forcefully searching for possible subjects to talk about. He really was trying to be his usual self; but the endless years of friendship made you look right through him. There hadn’t been a day the past seven days when you hadn’t not noticed his clamminess around you, or how he suddenly started stuttering after every other sentence when talking to the others the moment you entered the studio, or his staring during practice or brainstorming or simply hanging, when he thought you weren’t looking. You never not noticed – and that was the worst of them all – Han’s inability to look into your eyes properly when you were talking to him, about anything. You hated the tension he created, you hated that the usual light-heartedness you felt in his presence, the utter and numbing familiarity usually around him had been so hard to achieve in the past week.

Above all, it angered you that you couldn’t understand the reason for his behaviour, nor were mature enough, apparently – or maybe too stubborn, simply – to talk of it, to try and resolve it. In retrospect, looking back at this very weekend years later, when you’d fondly remember your college years and your undeniable silliness, you would understand that you’d been scared, and therefore stayed quiet. You didn’t know why you were scared, exactly; but you knew Han’s reason of clamminess and seeming jealousy wouldn’t be an explanation you could possibly handle, nor wanted to hear, so as to not accept the reality of it. You hadn’t mentioned Mr. Bahng anymore to him, not after your fight. You had mustered up a plan all by yourself – you had, one fateful night, remembered that the teacher had been giving vocal lessons to students back when you went to high school, and you knew it was the perfect opportunity to get closer to him – but you hadn’t told your best friend anything of your excitement. Which was strange, keeping a secret from him, but you figured the tension didn’t need any more sensitivity, and you continued playing along with Han’s game of pretending, wordless and silent. Though you were doing a far better job at it, surely.

You had never apologized, either. Maybe that was part of the reason things were strange between the two of you. Though, if Han wanted an apology in the first place, then he wasn’t acting like it. He didn’t sulk around you, he didn’t give you the cold shoulder – he was strange, yes, but he didn’t seem to be upset, not anymore. Neither you nor he were people to hide anger, even if it was directed at the other; you could talk, had always been able to. Uncomfortable talks, sometimes, talks which bordered on fights, talks after fights; you weren’t afraid of any of them, and yet now, Han simply tried to sweep the entire thing under the rug. Sometimes this past week, though you didn’t know if your eyes fooled you – and you hoped they did – he seemed scared when looking at you, when talking to you. Not scared of you, you didn’t believe so, at least. He seemed scared of himself, almost; of the next words he’d speak to you, of his own clamminess, of his own stuttering.

Han also didn’t make a scene to apologize about the fight – now that a week had passed, you weren’t at all sure anymore if he was in the position to apologize, even; by now, you believed he wasn’t as much in the wrong as you had initially believed him to be – so you swept it under the rug with him, pretended as though the feisty conversation had never occurred in the first place. Not healthy, nor was it mature, and the sight effects were tangible, infuriating; though you forgot all about it when the class you were sitting in was nearing to an end, and Mr. Bahng was dismissing the students. He wore the same white button-down today, sleeves rolled up, though his pants were a dark navy this time around, and a loose tie adorned the thickness of his neck – it was far more attractive than last week’s outfit, you thought, and it got you giddy to go up and talk to him. You were nervous, though – you were painfully aware that your little plan resembled the plot of a bad romance movie, so you knew that the chances of your teacher falling for you were close to null. Mr. Bahng was a responsible adult, one who wore a gold band around his left ring finger, one who was a teacher – it didn’t get more responsible than that, and you knew your dark red tanga you wore specifically for him would probably be of little help when it came to seducing him. For all you knew, you were a mere student in his head, barely eighteen as he remembered you. Maybe you should fetch your best friend, and apologize to him, after all; it was obvious your stupidity and hormones had gotten the better of you.

With these thoughts on your mind, you waited for student after student to disappear while keeping the teacher pinned down with your gaze, despite your doubts; a plan was a plan, and you wanted your fun, you wanted to get laid; you would do what you needed to achieve it. This time around, different than a week ago, you were not pretending to be taking your time, nor were you making a scene of looking for something in your bag while waiting to be in lonesome with the teacher – you sat confidently, legs crossed beneath the table and arms beneath your chest, eye-fucking Mr. Bahng until the last, far too slow-paced person had finally abandoned the hot classroom, until you and him were the only two people left in it. He looked at you, shortly, his face unreadable – he did gift you a subtle smile, though, and only after he turned his attention back to his desk you started moving. Nervous, a tiny storm brewing in the pit of your stomach. The legs of your chair scratched uncomfortably against the linoleum floor as you pushed yourself off it, shooting goosebumps up your back, and your bag – a dark red handbag matching your nails and make-up, and a big contrast to your usual black, worn-out rucksack – rattling as you threw it over your shoulder, and made your way to your teachers’ desk.

You started walking, trying to appear as calm as humanly possible. You didn’t allow your hand to reach for your hair, or to your top to fix it, or to the hem of your jean to fiddle with it. You simply walked, slow, making use of your hips; and with every step you took, Han’s voice from a week ago increased in volume in your head, his words materializing as a cloud of uncertainty; ‘Are you insane? He’s your teacher. What’s in there for him, except the loss of his job?’. You shivered at that, despite the hot weather, despite the sweat that was forming in the back of your neck, beneath your waving hair. Were you so nervous because you knew Han was right, and the whole thing utterly wrong? Or was it Mr. Bahng who wouldn’t allow you to think straight, who got to you more than it was comfortable to admit? You walked, your thoughts and mind a mess, until you reached Mr. Bahng’s desk, until you stood hovering over him, until his eyes met you from below, until your knees grew wobbly, and your panties wet. Embarrassing.

“Hey.”

Your voice cool, airy. You were nervous, though you wouldn’t let it ruin your plan for you. You put on your best face, calm and collected, eyes hooded and lazy – the entire opposite from when you had first talked to him, or from the storm raging within you, your chest, the pit of your stomach, your core between your legs.

And Mr. Bahng looked like he’d noticed it, too. The change in demeanour within you; the change in attire. You saw how his eyes flinched to your chest, for only a second, how his head fell to his side barely noticeably, in curiosity. How his ears turned pink again; you loved seeing his ears turn pink, loved seeing him shy and flustered because of you.

“Y/N, hey. Do you… need help with something this week? Or… do you just- wanna talk again?”, he chuckled, softly, and it was your turn to blush now, to grow bashful. The sound of his giggles sent shivers down your back, and you granted him a smile. Nonchalant.

Han’s voice in your head again, louder than before; ‘He’s not gonna fuck you. You’re just a student.’ You inhaled once, deeply, exhaled in one blow, quickly.

“I do have a question, sort of… it’s probably stupid, though.” Blinking twice as much as usual, and you looked at him from beneath your lashes, upper arms pushing out your breasts subtly – you were twenty-two years old, and you were embarrassing yourself. And you were less shameful about it as you thought you would be. It’s been ages since someone has gotten you this wet, and you were merely allowed to look at him, yet; you couldn’t imagine your own bodily reactions when you would fuck him, eventually.

Mr. Bahng coughed at your words, adjusted in his seat; was he getting nervous? Maybe he would be easier to crack as you thought, initially. Maybe he was as attracted to you as you were to him. Or maybe he was highly uncomfortable. In that case you would simply and frankly skip music class, until Professor Hwang returned again.

“Oh, no, ask ahead. There’s no such a thing as a stupid question.” Such a teacher thing to say, and you would have chuckled if you didn’t commit so much to your act. So, you only smiled, eyes losing his, looking down where his hands lay on his desk, folded together professionally, before you looked up at him again, seductively, you hoped. Was it too much? Was he looking through you? He didn’t look like it; his eyes were curious, and his cheeks red. He didn’t look uncomfortable, either. Maybe it was working.

You hummed as though in thought before answering, took your time with it, let his words melt into your brain; letting two seconds pass, then another two, until Mr. Bahng furrowed his brows in most subtle manner, and his head cocked further to the side. You quirked his interest, and you shot your question. Your chance. Han’s words were playing in your head.

“I was thinking about you the past week…”, leaving a deliberate pause, not breaking the contact with his deep eyes you trembled under, watching him redden further upon your words, “and I remembered that you were giving vocal lessons, back when I was still in school.” Another pause in which you looked at him, expectantly, as though he was supposed to understand where your question was going. The pause stretched itself, and Mr. Bahng’s blush had travelled to his neck at this point; he leaned forward, white dress-shirt stretching over his muscles, hugging his body tightly. He cleared his throat with a low rasp, inhaled slowly. You needed him. So very badly.

“Uh, yeah, I was. I- I am. I’m still giving vocal lessons.” His voice wasn’t nervous, per se. It was professional, too much almost, for your liking; though it sounded forced, and you heard a shake in it, barely noticeable, but you were hyper-aware when it came to him. “Why do you ask?” Almost trembling, and you would have smiled to yourself under different circumstances. Han occupied your thoughts again.

‘He’s not gonna fuck you. You’re just a student.’

“You see…”, deliberate pause, and you wondered if he was getting sick of you, or if he was a fish caught on your hook by now, “the band I told you about… you remember, right?” You bashed your lashes at him, waited until he gave you an affirmative hum before you continued. The hum was followed by the clearing of his voice. You couldn’t read him. You couldn’t tell if it was nervousness, you didn’t know if the next words would be your downfall. “I’m the vocalist in that band, and… I could use some professional classes. I’m self-taught, you know… so I’m not really confident in my skills yet.” You dragged out your words, and you almost pouted at the man if you hadn’t found your senses early enough; you might be a little too deep into your own bit.

One moment passed, and another, without an answer from the teacher.

‘He’s not gonna fuck you. You’re just a student.’

He would say no, Han was right. He had no reason to agree to you, after all, had no reason to give you private lessons, no less because he would be gone in a matter of weeks. There was not one thing in the situation working to his advantage, so he would decline –

“Oh, you’re asking me for lessons?”, he looked at you, though not questioningly. He looked at you with certainty. Too much certainty; he would decline, and you would simply die of embarrassment, on the spot. What the hell were you doing, standing in front of him? What the hell were you doing not apologizing to your best friend of years, not having seen your own stupidity far earlier?  

“Sure, why not.”

Your heart sank a million oceans deep. A sentence only, merely three words, and your entire world seemed to have flipped upside down. Han had been wrong, and whether or not he wanted to speak about the entire subject, disregarding his – in your eyes, inappropriate discomfort – you would brag about this later. You didn’t care, you were selfish, and you were right. And you were one step closer to having the teacher the way you wanted him. You were sure Mr. Bahng could read your victory on your face, so you tried to keep composure, did your best in pretending to be entirely calm – though you were the opposite, the storms of doubts from before having cleared, instead allowing space for deafening and bright fireworks.

“Oh, yeah? I wouldn’t have expected you to agree… I thought you were really busy, you know, with your family.” Compassion; check. A path to trust; check. Showing clear interest; check. You were multiple steps further in your plan, and you were sure Han would be sensitive later, though you would gush about it all the same. There was no way you would keep this a secret. And maybe you wanted to rub it into his face.

Your teacher huffed out in feigned amusement, though his eyes stayed cold, humourless, the laugh not reaching that far. “Yeah, well… I’ll do anything to get out of the house for a bit, if I can be so honest.”

Your heart leaped, jumped left and right and down and up against its’ confines at the almost guilty confession he confronted you with. You were a sadist, after all. Or maybe heartless. Or maybe your underwear was so wet by now at the sheer sight of your teacher that any other coherent thought except his dick inside of you vanished entirely, forever. Whatever the reason was, you didn’t care. You needed him, and the stars stood in your luck. The chances weren’t only good; they were perfect, basically. You wouldn’t be shocked if by the same time next week you would stand pressed against this very desk, with Mr. Bahng’s hands groping at your body to his liking, with his face nuzzled in your neck and nibbling marks onto it for the others to tease about later.

“Oh… is it that bad? I’m sorry.” Puppy eyes, a bit more blinking; his ears were burning, his eyes searching for something other than you to look at. He cleared his throat for the third time today, before he stood suddenly, exhaling in an awkward chuckle, readjusting his shoulder, fixing his tie. You could jump at him now, eat him whole.

“Nah, don’t worry. I just… need distraction.”, his eyes flashed to your chest again before he locked eyes with you, bashfully; he would fuck you next week, guaranteed. You probably wouldn’t even need to work too hard for it.

“I’m ending class earlier next week anyways, actually – you can just stay right after, say for… half an hour? One hour? If you have some time.”

‘If you have some time.’ – what a silly thing to say. As if you wouldn’t make time, specifically for him, even if you were busy. Mr. Bahng looked at you expectantly, throwing his briefcase over his shoulder. You took your time with the answer; you hummed, as though trying to remember your non-existent schedule, thinking exaggeratedly. It was only seconds later before you answered.

“No, yeah, one hour should work. I’ll see you next week then, Mr. Bahng.”

At the sound of his own name the man tensed, the fist around the band of his briefcase tightening. He was easy prey, after all. It was almost adorable. Almost too easy.

“Yeah. See you next week.”

☆.☆.☆

15:09     meet me at the vending machine?

15:10     after class

You read Han’s text after you exited Mr. Bahng’s classroom – you leaned against the wall after having watched the teacher walk to his next lesson, and the cold of the tiles felt relaxing against your back; your skin was flushed, your cheeks burning, your entire body aflame. A smile has engraved itself onto your lips, one you couldn’t seem to get rid of, as stupid as you looked and as much as your jaw pained from it; you’d gotten so many steps further, far more than you had initially even dared to aspire, and you didn’t think you would survive the wait all until next week – you would cease to exist quite frankly, from excitement and anticipation and sheer impatience. You weren’t sure if your happiness was out of place, inappropriate; you remembered just what you were excited about, remembered Mr. Bahng’s wife, remembered Han’s negative stance towards the entirety of the affair – you didn’t ought to be so giddy. But then you remembered Mr. Bahng, in the classroom just ten minutes ago; the way he had looked at you, the way he had blushed. You remembered his tight dress-shirt, his dark blue tie, his strong arms laying exposed and heavy on his desk. You imagined those very hands on you, all over your, all over your body, discarding your clothes in the very classroom you’d just left one by one. You imagined to have him the way you had craved to for so long, to have his lips explore the entirety of your skin or devour your mouth in starving hunger, to card your fingers through his dark hair and let him push you against the upfront desk, to have him whisper sweet nothings into your ear before he’d bite down on –

Your phone buzzed again in your hand, and you jerked, having forgotten Han’s previous text entirely. You checked the new message while you tried to calm down; Han had sent you an image of two beverages – your Coke and his Root Beer – which he held in his hands, the old bench and the older weeping willow grazing the picture in the background. He had attached a short ‘my treat’ to it. You put a cool hand to your burning cheek, took three deep breaths before reacting to his message with a heart and made your way to the vending machine with knees wobblier than you would have liked to admit.

Han really did try. You almost felt bad about having to break whatever bubble the two of you found yourself in – one, that much was clear, that felt far too fragile, daring to burst if you as much as grazed it with a finger. The feeling was still strange; you couldn’t remember a single time where awkwardness like the current one has ebbed itself so deeply into your friendship. And to think it was because of a single, stupid argument – it hurt you, made you question just how strong your bond really was. It made you question, too, if there was an ulterior motive behind it; in fact, you were almost entirely sure that it could never be only the disagreement which had torn the crack in between you. Han had been acting far too strange for there to not be a buried reason, and you almost didn’t want to tell him any of the news about your teacher, the process you had made; almost didn’t want to rub your success under his nose after all, even though you’ve been so excited to before, especially after his words from a week ago, his accusations and doubts. Worries, even.

It did sound like he had been worried about you last week. Worried, and jealous, and almost unreasonably emotional. You didn’t want to hurt him. A big part of you didn’t want to hurt him. You would if you told him all about what happened just moments ago, remembering the feeling of his discomfort, his clamminess, and his giddiness around you, and it burned like poison in your veins. You despised it. You despised the fact that a smaller part of you, far smaller though it was there, did want to convince him of your victory; did want to hurt him, after all. You despised that you couldn’t despise yourself for not wanting to solve the argument, to resign after the fight, to get over the peril you had suddenly found yourself in – out of fear, you thought. You couldn’t know the reason for his jealousy. You knew there had to be one, a reason, why the small bickering had turned into something way too big. And maybe – and it scared you immensely – you knew all about it already; maybe you wouldn’t be able to bare the confirmation, simply. Han’s reason for his strange behaviour over the past week would maybe be the last poke against the bubble which your friendship still kept concealed before it burst open to let the both of you fall onto the ground of reality.

You made your way over to the vending machine; whatever it was, the reason for the sudden cleft between you, and no matter how long it would take to sew it back together, you decided to keep your mouth shut about Mr. Bahng, after all. It would be like gasoline to the fire the two of you had set, only a small flame now, but waiting to be ignited. You hadn’t found any water yet to put it out fully; so you’d be a fool if you didn’t choose silence.

The afternoon sun was scorching onto your skin, making it hotter than it was already, and little beads of sweat collected in the back of your neck. You should have taken a hair tie with you – your hair against your nape and down your shoulders drove you near crazy in the heat. The distance between the music building and the vending machine wasn’t all too big, so you could catch a glimpse of Han the moment you turned the corner and were walking right towards his seated figure beneath the big tree. His eyes were busy with his phone, mindlessly scrolling, as it seemed. His teeth constantly picked at his piercing – it wasn’t new, though he had never grown out of the habit, and you wondered how much longer he could keep it up before his teeth took serious damage. One of his legs moved in rhythm to the music that you imagined to be blasting in the earphones you saw dangling from his phone to somewhere behind his ashy hair – he needed a retouch, you just noticed. His roots had grown out quite a lot. You wondered when he’d ask you to help dye it – he never trusted himself with his hair.

When you were close enough Han’s body jerked, and his eyes found your figure; whether he heard you or saw your shadow hovering above him you weren’t sure, but you greeted him all the same.

“Oh, hey. You’re later than I thought.”

You sat down opposite from him, discarding your bag next to you. The rough wood of the bench beneath you was hot under your figure, though you basked in the shadow the weeping willow gifted. You couldn’t help catching the tone in Han’s voice as you looked at him with a greeting smile – cautious, though feigning carelessness. For some reason, you couldn’t stand him this moment. Couldn’t he just be calm around you? The way he’s always been; your best friend?

“Yeah, someone kept me. Notes… and stuff.”

You took the Coke Han slid over to you as silence fawned over you both, and you opened the can momentarily, mostly to be doing something, partially because you were dying of thirst – you had finished your first drink earlier, in Mr. Bahng’s class, though it was impossible to stay constantly refreshed in the heat – maybe you should simply switch to water. The sizzling of the fuzzy drink spilled over as it opened with a loud hiss, and it was satisfaction to your ears, anticipation to your dry mouth. You looked at Han, didn’t say a word anymore. You put the tinned can to your mouth, sipped away the spill before making your first gulp; refreshing as you had expected it, though you weren’t truly satisfied – for some reason, you couldn’t stand yourself this moment. You couldn’t stand not being able to talk to your friend; couldn’t stand that you were unable, even, to thank him for the drink – you couldn’t stand not knowing the reason behind your anger for his recent behaviour, and your cowardness of speaking about it. But you only continued drinking, nonchalantly, as though you bore no ill thought altogether. As though you and Han had always behaved this way around the other; sitting in uncomfortable silence, grasping at topics of conversation just to end the nerve wreck.

Han hummed at your words, far too late, but he did. As though he had expected further explanation; you could tell he didn’t believe you, but you didn’t care. You wouldn’t tell him anything. You couldn’t tell him about Mr. Bahng if you wanted this awkwardness to dissipate. And you were too stubborn, too scared to try and dissolve the weirdness; so you let it be, altogether. And it was torture – Han was the only person who knew you inside out, who was aware of all the thoughts you bore. Silence was equal to a dagger to the heart when it was with him.

You clicked your tongue, took another big gulp of your Coke. You would win the game of pretending. You could fake it, get over the feeling of utter coldishness until everything between you was back to normal. It had to work, you thought – if you pretended for long enough, if you kept shut about Mr. Bahng and anything regarding him, the argument from a week ago and Han’s strange motive of worry – and potential jealousy – would drive into the back of your minds, would dissipate itself… right? And it’s not like it was all bad; the problem occurred simply when you were in lonesome, anywhere else but the studio with the others. Only then it seemed like you two barely knew each other, only then uneasiness occupied your body almost to paralysis, sheer because it was so very unknown with him. You wouldn’t let it go as far as to rot away your friendship; that would be stupid. One fight against years of friendship; things just didn’t end like that.  

“So… did you finish the song?”

You leaned back against the backrest of the bench, legs crossed, relaxed; you could never go wrong talking about music, and you were relieved when you saw Han’s face light up at your question. Ever since Han had first told you about the new song he had planned to write for the band a week ago – the one he still claimed to be suited especially for you, the one he grew so shy about when he had first brought it up – he hadn’t stopped gushing over it. He had asked you to try singing melodies he experimented with, had asked your opinion on lyrics or the instrumental, had wanted your help in naming the song; Cold Metal is what you had settled on after you heard the finished text, and saying both of you were excited to practice the song with the band was an understatement. You’d argue it to be Han’s best work as of now, and you knew the others would love it.

You had been grateful for the song for the past week. It had worked as the only subject Han had talked to you about with no hesitation, no remorse; it was purified passion whenever he had proposed a name or decided to change up the chords or asked you to sing for him. You had been grateful that one thing had stayed the same, and bore hope that it always would – that with him, no matter the situation, music would stay unchanged, would always be the connector between your hearts, the invisible red string between you.

“I am done, actually, I was just finishing up last stuff before – we could show the others today, and start practicing it like, instantly. …if they like it, even.”

You snapped your eyes open – you had been sunbathing while you listened to him talk, had enjoyed the warmth on your skin, the faint sun on your face, hidden slightly behind the long, crying branches of the tree. Han had always been talented, and was never one to grow insecure about his work. Though he had been over this particular song, and you disliked it, immensely – it baffled you that he couldn’t agree with you on having written his best work as far as you were concerned, and you had made it your goal to convince him of it.

“They will like it – it’s your best song so far, I’m serious.”, you replied in a stern voice, making Han flush in his place. His eyes lost yours, and after a couple of seeming unsure moments, he grabbed his drink and took three big sips from it. When would it end? When would you understand why a simple fight – not even quite, a mere heated discussion, really – changed him so much, so drastically? When would he stop shying away from your gaze and be your best friend again, the one he’d always been?

You sighed, and Han gave you a hum after he placed his Root Beer back on the bench. It was a questioning hum almost, as though words hidden behind it, as though he was preparing to speak though wasn’t sure of what. You gave him time, sipped at your Coke. Han fiddled with his own drink, furrowed his brows; then he looked at you, suddenly, and hesitation was written all over his body. Yet he asked away.

“So… how was it with Mr. Bahng today? Did you talk to him?”

He brought it up. He asked himself – not confidently, and if you were honest the tone in his voice made you shiver. It wasn’t a genuine question, it was forced. He forced himself to be a good friend and ask, though it was obvious he didn’t want to hear the answer. Why didn’t he? And why did he, after all, yet force himself to ask? Because he wouldn’t hurt, you thought. Because he got over the whole thing, surely; he was still strange, though then again, you were still strange, too. None of you were known for your maturity; the awkwardness of the fight, the sudden heat over it a week ago simply hadn’t settled yet. You were people, and you bore emotions like any other, even if you were friends of years. Sometimes arguments simply took time to dissipate – yes, you were convinced. Han was over it. So you were, too. He couldn’t be hurt about news of your true happiness; he was your best friend. He was the closest person you had, he wouldn’t grow jealous anymore – for whatever reason he did in the first place. And maybe, you had misread him entirely. Maybe he was merely worried of the consequences; you couldn’t claim your little scheme of seducing your music teacher to be perfectly safe and without risk, and Han was simply too good of a friend to not be worried. His strangeness over the past week had been guilt, for having started a fight, for not having apologized after; similar to you, so you understood. It wasn’t jealousy, after all. He was worried. He would be excited, now, if you told him about the progress. He had to be excited. You needed him to be excited.

You had promised yourself not to talk about it, but if there was one thing you were worse at than keeping a secret from him, it was lying to Han. You couldn’t possibly; though you deemed him to be ready for your answer – otherwise he wouldn’t have brought it up. He wouldn’t have asked himself.

“He might…”, you started, though you needed to clear your throat before you could continue. You looked at him, and he reciprocated your gaze. His eyes were unreadable, and it made you shiver despite the scorching sun on your skin. You cleared your throat a second time, forced yourself to a grin; play along, play pretend, act as natural as always. “You might not like the news, but you were wrong last week – Mr. Bahng agreed to give me private lessons from next week on.”

You looked at him, and he reciprocated your gaze. His eyes sunk, his brows furrowed in the most subtle way though you couldn’t not have noticed at the way you were staring him down, and his beaten expression was far worse than the unreadable one before – it made your heart beat faster, it started scorching you from within, the sun cold now on your skin. Why did he look so… sad, so hopeless?

“So I made progress. He was eyeing me, too – I guarantee you he wanted to fuck me back there… I bet he will next week.”

You didn’t know why you said that. It wasn’t intended to hurt him, or maybe it was, and Han choked on the drink he had just placed on his lips – his coughs were daggers to your heart, and every further one made you regret your words. What the hell was wrong with you? You hadn’t wanted to tell him altogether, and now you told him too much for his own good – did you want to hurt him, after all? You thought back on the excitement that had found a home within you when Mr. Bahng had mentioned the rough patches with his wife, how utterly happy you were. Cold and heartless, sadistic. This moment, you couldn’t find any more fitting words for yourself.   

You looked at him as he calmed down from the swallowing up. He cleared his throat a couple of times, getting rid of the remaining sting his drink had caused before he looked at you. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes big, glassy; dark. It was his turn to speak, his turn to show enthusiasm, to be happy for you – you knew you were lying to yourself, were holding onto the last straw of meagre hope for the last couple of seconds it was possible before Han would cut it in half altogether. Though he looked clueless. His words were as though stuck in his throat – he was opening and closing his mouth like a fish without water, and no sound came out. The seconds of silence passed in torture; why wasn’t he excited for you? Why did you continue lying to yourself?

“I would have expected that you let go of the whole thing.”

Finally, after he had been quiet for far too long, Han spoke, and your heart sank in the process. It wasn’t his words that hurt you; it was the tone he used, the melody of his voice as he converted his eyes to his fiddling hands again, refusing to look at you, forbidding you to look through him. He was hiding from you. Why was he hiding from you? He had been building a wall the past week, you just realized; a wall intended just for you, a wall around his heart which was just high enough to keep you out of it. The realization was a sip of the strongest venom.

If someone asked you, you weren’t all too sure if you could have described what you’d heard in his timbre, what exactly sent the shiver down your spine in the sound of his voice. Was it the regret you heard, or the despair? It might have been the hopelessness – it could have been the sound of his heart breaking in half.

You wouldn’t provoke him any further. You’d stay silent about Mr. Bahng, until the moment the teacher left, just like you had promised it to yourself – whether you’d make any progress or not. You’d apologize to Han, you’d concentrate on the band, you’d go back to a week ago, before this strange awkwardness had created a gashing crevice between you; you would fix it.

“Why should I let go of the whole thing? Can’t I have some fun without you judging me for it?”

Stupid. How could you be so thoughtless, so immature? You despised yourself; you disgusted yourself. And then Han looked at you, and you could tell he was hurt – and you hated yourself even more.

“I’m not judging you. But you can have fun like, literally anywhere else… I just still don’t think fucking your teacher is the best idea you’ve had.”

He was right, and you hated that you knew that he was. You couldn’t be angry at him, you couldn’t be mad; you weren’t in the position to. The sooner you got over your pride the sooner you could be back to normal. You looked at him; you would simply apologize. You would forget Mr. Bahng, would tell him you couldn’t take private lessons after all, that your schedule was too busy and your band too important; you would fix it.

“Why the fuck are you so sensitive? It’s not like you’re in love with me, so get over it.”

Your words took form in the dampness outside before you realized, settled uncomfortably between your bodies, and the only thing you could do was look at each other. You, fearfully expectant; him, far too nervous for your own liking. Han’s cheeks were suddenly three shades darker, his blinking rapid, his eyes searching for something to focus on; something other than your scrutinizing gaze. His teeth bit into his silver piercing – the sound was uncomfortable, and you almost told him to stop; yet you didn’t tell him anything. You stayed silent, because though you had never despised yourself more than this very moment, when those words had left your mouth, you were far more cautious of his reaction. He wasn’t in love with you, so there was no reason for his sudden nervousness, his clamminess. Why wasn’t he laughing – why wasn’t he denying it? You wished he would deny it; you needed him to deny it.

Your brows furrowed with every passing second. He wasn’t denying it; he wasn’t doing anything, quite frankly. He wasn’t even looking at you, almost as though you hadn’t spoken to him at all. He was back to fiddle with his can of Root Beer, half empty already yet daring to spill with his movements. He placed it on his lips rapidly, the sun throwing golden rays and darker shadows against his face as he threw his head back and took a gulp, only to do something. He continued nibbling on his piercing; the clinking sound was still uncomfortable, cut through the excruciating silence like nails on a wall. The awkwardness was tangible, and it was impossible to bare; you hated it.

“Ji… what the fuck. Get over yourself. It was a joke – you’re not in love with me.”

You spoke, but your voice was trembling. He looked at you; wrong. He forced himself to look at you. There was fear in his eyes, one he tried to overplay with a sudden nervous chuckle. He cleared his throat, grabbed his Root Beer – a little too hard, deforming the tinned can in the process – to finish the drink, throwing back his head again as he let the last droplets run down his throat, and you watched the sun dance on his face again. You saw beats of sweat glistening in the light – you hoped it was due to the heat. You held your breath as you kept looking at him, continued to hold it while he stood, while he threw his rucksack over his shoulder. He was clumsy with it, tripping over his feet somewhat, though he didn’t let it seem as though it was bothering him.

“Hah, of course I’m not, just… I’m just worried about you… whatever. Let’s just go to practice.” You looked at him; you looked right past his feigned carelessness. He was giddy, too smiley all of a sudden. Was he believing his own words? It almost seemed as though his goal wasn’t convincing you, but himself. He looked at you; he tried his best to keep his composure. “The others are probably waiting already.” His voice was thin, though this too, he didn’t seem to let get to him. He was back to pretending, to playing a game that was so obviously gnawing at him; you weren’t all too sure anymore if you wanted to play along, or if you wanted to lay the cards on the table, open and honest.

Though he didn’t give you a chance. Han started to make his way to the studio, not waiting for your answer; not that you had one in mind. Was it possible? Was love the reason he behaved so strangely when it came to Mr. Bahng? The thought alone scared you, and you took hold of your bag quickly before following him; you didn’t want to think about it ever again. It wasn’t possible; it couldn’t be. Han was smarter than that, and your bond far too ancient. There hadn’t been a day in the past decade that you could point to where either you or he had felt more strongly about each other than regular friends did. There had to be a different reason for his strangeness – yet you weren’t sure why it still scared you to ask, to get behind said reason. However; love wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be. You wouldn’t let it be.

When you and Han arrived at the studio – you always five steps behind, not feeling brave enough to walk up to him on one level – Lino and Jeongin just grinded their cigarettes with the heavy soles of their boots, the stoned pavement crunching beneath them; Changbin’s bass was audible in the back already, the sound of his tuning occupying your senses and distracting you from your deafening thoughts, if only for a moment. Jeongin disappeared inside, Lino stayed to pet a stray cat which had been snaking around his legs; when he went into the studio eventually it followed him, and he let it. Han went in before you – he tried to ignore your stare he very much felt on his skin, tried to play it cool. What was wrong with him? He had known beforehand that you wouldn’t have let go of the whole fucking-your-teacher thing; yet he had hoped, nevertheless. He had very much noticed the way you had avoided to talk to him about Mr. Bahng, though he had been prepared for your gushing after music class had ended; why had he still felt as though you had shot him right through his heart, had pulled the last cables that had kept him alive?

You closed the door behind you when you entered the studio last, discarded your bag onto the sofa with a dangle, mindlessly. The room was filled with people, and it was filling with vibrations and tunes, faint melodies; it was Han’s favourite part of the day. Settling in, getting ready; he enjoyed nothing more than preparing to practice new songs. The sound of your humming, the sound of reserved warm-up notes, the sound of chattering getting quieter, because music was getting louder. Han put down his rucksack next to your bag, mindlessly too, listened to the static sounds of everyone plugging in their instruments, the purring of the cat that had followed Lino; felines weren’t forbidden in the studio. Lino had persisted on it when you had first started practicing together.

Jeongin and Changbin were chatting while they were getting ready, not loud, but obnoxious, almost. It seemed like they were continuing a conversation they had started when Han and you had been at the vending machine, but the point of exchange wasn’t hard to guess.

“Wait, I thought her name was like… what was it – ah! Nabi, no?”

Jeongin shook his head at Changbin’s words, putting the aux cable into its’ designated spot on the backside of the piano, and turning it on after. It gave a pleasant sound of feedback, and quiet, experimental chords filled the studio after.

“No, Nabi was the girl from the club; I broke it off with her like, ages ago. I met the other girl in the store; she just came up to me and I thought she needed help, but she asked for my number.”

Jeongin had a history of taking his dating life rather easily; too easily, some might say, but he wasn’t one to care much. Whenever he gave his number to women – or men, for that matter – he never intended to spend too much time on that person; and he always made it fashion to clarify it beforehand, so there hadn’t been many instances where people left with a broken heart. Funny enough, and all of you teased him about it far too much for his liking, the small grocery store right outside his and Changbin’s place he kept a part-time job in was the place most people came up to him – it surely couldn’t be the unflattering uniform he had to wear, so all of you wondered what it was about that particular store that brought in so many of his admirers.

Another thing you teased about was how very graphic he was when he told Changbin about a new person he met. How very… detailed. Not to brag, not even to tickle a reaction out of any of you; sex and intimacy, as you’ve learned, were simply subjects he wasn’t shy to talk about, not in the slightest. It came to him like talking of the weather – much to your and everyone else’s dismay. You weren’t often in the mood to get intricate detail on how exactly a girl had sucked his dick right before he came in to practice.

“Bro, she was insane. I’m so glad you slept at Jae's yesterday; she was so loud, I though she…”

Han tuned out the rest of the conversation, momentarily. He didn’t want to know anything about the girl Jeongin had banged the night before, nor wanted he to hear more about Changbin’s girlfriend he spent the night at. Was he jealous of them? He wasn’t sure. He only knew that their talk of intimacy and relationships and one-night stands reminded him of his own loneliness; and that reminded him of you; he wasn’t certain why, but it did. And that, again, reminded him of your – in his humble opinion, unhealthy – obsession with Mr. Bahng, and his own unhealthy weirdness about it. Or was it healthy? Was it reasonable? He wasn’t at all sure anymore. What he was sure of was that he hated being so weird about it. He wanted to be happy for you… didn’t he? He believed himself that he wanted to be, convinced himself of it. Besides the worry of the consequences you might get yourself into there wasn’t a single factor why Han should be so very against the entire affair – and since he had already expressed his worry, there was nothing more he could do, really. He should start being excited for you, if he thought about. It wasn’t his business to be jealous, now, was it? He didn’t have the right to be.

He looked over at you, watching you watch Jeongin and Changbin, listening to their conversation and pretending to gag occasionally whenever something rather repugnant left their mouths. When your eyes swayed his direction, he converted him to his guitar, continuing to tune it. He feared that if you looked into his eyes for only a second, you would read him, inside and out. And he didn’t want that. He didn’t want it, because he didn’t understand the words written on his heart himself, in the first place. You couldn’t be the one to read them first; he needed to untangle their conundrum before he let anyone else near it; it was exhausting, excruciatingly frustrating.

Lino was sitting behind his plexiglass, silently, not adding anything to the conversation besides the occasional hum; though all of you doubted it was regarded to Jeongin’s new girl-toy, but rather towards the black cat that has found a home on his lap by now and was purring in full contentment. None of you really knew anything about his love life; he didn’t always sleep over at the shared apartment you and Han owned with him, though he had never brought anyone over, not in the three years you’d known him. You didn’t even know if he preferred nights with strangers; for all any of you knew, he could be having a serious relationship that none of you knew about. You didn’t know, either, that the man had been eyeing you the moment you and Han had come back from the vending machine. Lino was quiet, but he was attentive; he had noticed that you and Han hadn’t been talking before entering the studio, that you still weren’t. That Han’s eyes only found themselves on you when you weren’t looking at him; otherwise, they would flee somewhere else, suddenly busy with his guitar, or overly interested in his music stand and the apparently wrong height of it. Interesting.

“Quit the nasty talk – I have a new song I wanted to show you.”

Han’s voice cut through the studio almost uncomfortably; his voice was sterner than he had expected it to be, killing the fun in the room in an instant. All of you had a silent agreement that practice would be always taken seriously, though that has never meant that enjoyment wasn’t allowed. All of you had always been able to joke around plenty before locking in to rehearse with full concentration; so the strictness in Han’s voice was out of place, almost, and everyone else caught onto it; Jeongin and Changbin looked at each other questioningly, you cleared your throat and converted your eyes to Han – of course he wasn’t looking, but you pretended it to leave you cold.

“Sorry, just – let’s start with practice, okay? I have a lot planned, kinda.” Voice thinner now by a lot, and you looked at each other; Changbin and Jeongin on the verge of giggles while Han returned to his backpack to get the song sheets he had printed for everyone.

“Yeah, yeah, sorry – we forgot sex is like, a sensitive topic for you… since you’re not having it, you know.” Changbin’s chuckling voice in the studio, and you almost punched him.

“Yeah, right. Our condolences, for real.”, Jeongin jumped in, just the comedic duo you knew them to be.

Under different circumstances, you would have laughed at the two; but you watched Han’s reaction closely, noticed how he halted in his movements at the sound of his friends’ bickering, how his face sunk into further despair. How his eyes flickered over yours for barely a second before he continued handing out the sheets. How he flinched barely noticeably when his hand brushed your own while he gave you your paper.

“Yeah, whatever. Let’s just start.”

There was a storm brewing within him. A storm when he locked eyes with you, a storm when he touched you; a storm when the two friends made a comment that was all but unusual for them, though for some reason, he was sensitive to it today. If he was honest, Han would have walked right out of the studio; he couldn’t bare the eyes on him, the attention, he couldn’t stand the stuffiness suddenly, he hated Jeongin’s giggles, Changbin’s snickering, Lino’s silence; your presence. He didn’t normally mind any of this – but ever since he had talked with you under the weeping willow his mind has been running marathon after marathon, and he struggled concentrating on anything else. He could barely speak when he started to explain the plans for his new song, the division, the harmonies, details about it. He was stuttering at every other word, losing his thought entirely when he as much as passed you with his eyes; why was he so very incapable of holding his emotions in control? Emotions, feelings he wasn’t even certain of, to make matters worse.

The rest of you eyed him, but you didn’t say a word. You could see that Changbin and Jeongin almost did; they looked at each other with a mischievous flicker in their eyes, with an all-saying grin plastered onto their faces – they weren’t evil, and they were well able to read the room, though both of them were unaware of the rough patch the both of you were going through. Rough patch; what a strange thing. You wouldn’t have ever imagined associating Han with a rough patch. You looked at the two friends again, and your thoughts swept back to them; they would tease the poor boy to death any second if you didn’t save him from his misery.

“Ji…”, you called out, interrupting Han in his all but confident semi-presentation. At the sound of your voice he flinched; though he finally, for the first time since you’d both entered the studio, looked at you, properly. His eyes were deep, dark; you felt as though looking right past him, right into his soul he’d been trying to hide from you for the past week.

“Let’s just play it. I’ll sing.”

Gratefulness in his eyes, and he breathed deeply before he nodded at you. You got ready, snaking your hands around your guitar after prepping your microphone, and you waited for Han to get his own instrument ready. You looked back at him; you shivered at the glint in his eyes. He gave you another nod, and you counted in softly, before the studio filled with the sound of your guitars.

Though, and he was so very embarrassed by it, so deeply ashamed, his fingers suddenly forgot how to play, lost its’ place on his guitar when you started singing. The song was made for your voice, truly; you had never sounded prettier. And Han had never played worse. He could see you looking back at him, though he pretended to not notice it, pretended that his bad playing was somehow part of the song. Pretended to keep his cool; though the sight in his peripheral vision of Changbin’s and Jeongin’s confusion and your eyes on him drove him into a spiral, and the more he tried to gloss over his mistakes, the more he seemed not to bare the power to.

The music stopped, your voice dying out after you heard the insecure sound of Han’s guitar disappearing. Ear-scratching feedback echoed through the room, before that, too, dyed into nothingness, and painful silence filled the room. All of you looked at the guitarist, while he eyed the red burgundy carpet beneath him in all firmness. He was flushed, his cheeks as red as the carpet.

“Uh, sorry. Let’s start again.”

His voice was but a whisper, and all five of you could sense that tension, and Han was trembling under it. He didn’t dare lock gazes with anyone in the studio; it was a death sentence, quite simply. He would cease to exist, merely vanish if he had to see the look in any of his band mates’ eyes. Confusion, amusement, maybe; suspicion or understanding, which would be the worst of them all.

Han heard Changbin huff out in what supposedly should have sounded like amusement, though it didn’t quite; Han jerked internally at it, and the storm that had started brewing prior was now coming down on him in thunder and lighting. They knew… was it possible for them to know something he wasn’t even sure of himself? How could they; it wasn’t possible. He wasn’t confident, even, in his own feelings; how could any of the others know anything about them?

“Damn… didn’t know you were this sensitive to the whole sex thing.” Changbin was tone deaf, and you wished you could punch him. Han was almost relieved; Changbin, at least, did not know anything about the storm within him. Because sex – or the lack thereof – surely wasn’t the reason for it. Yet he almost feared his next words. He suddenly felt humiliated; he wasn’t one to overthink a joke, but today, he couldn’t bare it. “You know…”, the bassist started again after moments of silence as Han nothing but stared holes into the ground. He was about to lose it. He was about to burst into tears, or implode – worst of all, for the first time in many years, he felt like he wasn’t able to search for comfort in you. “I told you already, we can like, set you up with someone if want, no need to be so weird about the whole – “

Changbin didn’t get to finish his sentence. The harsh feedback of Han’s guitar sounded through the room, stinging in your ears as he threw the fabric band over his neck and placed the guitar on his stand, mindlessly, not as much as plugging it off. He was clumsy, tripped over the thick, dusty carpet while scurrying to grab his rucksack, before he disappeared out of the studio so quickly barely any of you noticed, simply leaving the rest of you behind with no explanation.

You looked at the door he had let open for several moments after he left. You had been excited to practice the new song, though he hadn’t given the chance to. You had been ready to play pretend for a little while longer, had prepared to never speak of Mr. Bahng again, not after his reaction under the weeping willow; yet Han seemed to be the first to have grown sick of it. He hadn’t been good at his own game the previous week, and it must have gotten to him now – what you feared, now, was the truth. You still weren’t quite sure what that was, in the first place. But you knew it was enough to tear Han up, to toy with your friendship, to make him behave like an entirely different person, almost. And it made you despise yourself. It made you a different person, too; a worse one, and you hadn’t been a saint to begin with. Would he talk in all honesty to you, now? Would he sleep over today and seek out a conversation with you, like two mature friends would? You hoped he would; and simultaneously, you feared it. The truth about his antics and behaviour, you thought, had doomed on you a week ago already; you simply didn’t want to confess it to yourself, you thought. So, you had avoided it, had continued hurting him instead of hurting yourself.

You had decided to shoot Han a text before you and the others wrapped up the rehearsal – not that you had played anything in the first place, it wasn’t of much use if a member was missing. You weren’t talking, not about Han, nor otherwise. You were deep in thought, zoning out Changbin’s and Jeongin’s conversation, not noticing Lino’s eyes on you. You kept checking your phone; your own words – hey, everything good? let’s talk when i’m home? – staring back at you mockingly, without a reply beneath it. You would talk to him. You would listen to the truth, whatever he was hiding whenever he avoided your eyes – but you feared it, with every fibre of your body.

☆.☆.☆

Your steps the next day were not as light as you had hoped them to be. You were on the way to class, to Mr. Bahng’s – you ought to be excited, you ought to be flying more than walking, yet your feet weighted heavily on the ground beneath you, and you couldn’t help but sink into your own body. The faint feeling of frenzy when you remembered Mr. Bahng’s class after waking this morning was not enough to conceal the misery over the text Han had yet not answered, or the fact he had been asleep – or, had pretended to be – when you’d reached home. You had left the prior day linger on you without redemption, and now it was pressing down on you with all its’ strength; it had gnawed into your brain, words you said and words you didn’t say, Han’s frustration, Changbin’s teasing, Lino’s silence, your silence, Han’s final outburst, his silence. It was all that occupied your mind, your thoughts, your sleepless night. That, and Mr. Bahng. And not in a negative way, either; you had been excited ever since you had set the date for private lessons. Were you that bad of a friend? Or had Mr. Bahng enamoured you so much that you clearly struggled to think straight? It baffled you how you could possibly stay eager, giddy, even – though admittedly, surely not as much as you would have been if the events of the prior day had never occurred – about something your best friend was so adamantly against, that was so very obviously the reason for the current coldness settling between you?

Maybe it was your stubbornness. It has always been one of your greater weaknesses, one of many reasons of miscommunication with your parents, or friends, or Han. Your stubbornness, and your defiance, a mixture of characteristics prone to immaturities. What everyone else hated you loved out of spite, what everyone else advised you against you were more excited over only for the sake of it; it was but a curse, brewing within you and out of your control. As though the crush on Mr. Bahng increased in volume with every objecting word Han spoke, as though your body was physically powerless to rationalize, slave to be left doing the very opposite of the righteous. Was it to piss people off, to mess with them? Or laid the problem deeper, someplace locked within you? A fear, maybe, of rejection and disappointment so you induced it yourself before others could. Fear of judgement, so you acted purposefully irrational to feign carelessness; were you maybe deeper damaged than you cared to admit? Or did you know Han’s secret, after all, and so were adamant to do everything in your power to stop him from ever admitting it?

The more you thought about it the more your head felt as though bursting. It was hurting, and the scorching sun in your eyes wasn’t much help to get rid of the headache, despite the dark sunglasses you were wearing. You couldn’t wait for summer to pass, for it to make room for colder temperatures and a cozier atmosphere. Fall had always been your favourite season, though, as you made your way over the sizzling, black asphalt, it seemed so very far away still. You sighed at the thought of it, hummed, then, when you finally entered the main hall of the music department. An artificial chill welcomed you, granted by stone and concrete, engulfing you in a familiar scent and a silence so sacred you almost grew embarrassed of your own footwear echoing through the building. You took off your shades, placed them on the top of your head to imitate a hair band, creating a wanted mess of your bangs, some falling in frames around your face, some tucked behind by your sunglasses. You passed classrooms, few people who greeted you politely, professors who you were familiar with from previous semesters; before you stood before Mr. Bahng’s classrooms. Professor Hwang’s classroom, to be precise – though you haven’t given latter man a thought in the past weeks altogether. Now that you remembered him again, you hoped he was fine, and on his way to well-being; then again you hoped he’d stay absent for a little while longer, for Mr. Bahng would vanish if he didn’t. Cruel, sick, and you couldn’t decide between being disgusted or confused with yourself. You chose both, before you knocked on the heavy wood of the entrance door, and entered Mr. Bahng’s classroom without waiting for an answer.

The plan had initially been a different one. You were supposed to meet next week, right after a shortened music class. Just before yesterday’s rehearsal you had wondered how you could possibly wait a whole week for private classes with the teacher you so badly wanted to fuck, had wanted to for the past five years; until said teacher had shot you an E-Mail that night, when you had reached home after the unsuccessful practice, proposing to meet the next day if you could make time, due to a busy schedule the entirety of the next two weeks. You had tried to dismiss the fact that the Mail had rolled in a little past midnight, had tried to dismiss the causality of its’ tone. Yet you had grown giddy, and had answered the very moment; you hadn’t cared to play hard to get. Your time with Mr. Bahng was limited, and you would use every second that was granted to you. You had texted that you could squeeze in an hour between your Uni classes and afternoon rehearsals, and Mr. Bahng had answered – momentarily – that he looked forward to tomorrow. He had attached a smiley face at the end of the sentence, and you had been a lost cause.

Now you stood before him, a day later, an hour from rehearsal, an hour away from seeing Han again, from speaking to him, from hopefully finding back normalcy. You stood before Mr. Bahng, clammy hand fisted around the strap of your dark handbag, the other forced to casually hang by the side of your body. Your bejewelled wrist clanked against the chains you had added onto your dark jeans, matching the silver around your neck. Your top – short, little, exposing far too much skin though it didn’t necessarily raise a question in the hot weather – was dark and simple, as though you hadn’t much thought about your outfit altogether, and had thrown together the first thing in your closet. As though you weren’t trying too hard. No one needed to know you had spent over an hour getting ready in the morning, for this moment alone.

“Hi, Yn.”

Every coherent thought you had formed up until this very moment, up until his greeting had been wiped with as little as two words, with the singsong of his voice. You feared to flush, to turn a dark shade of red at the sight of your teacher, feared to sweat profusely – lose, white dress-shirt, black pants. A watch adorning his right wrist, silver, matching the dainty necklace dangling on his chest. His chest, that he wore exposed, only enough, with two buttons of his dress-shirt kept open; what was it about him that made you revert to a hormonal teenage girl, needy for a man’s attention, giddy when he granted it? What was it about Mr. Bahng that made you lose all sense of moral, everything you stood for – what was it about him that made you lose yourself, entirely?

“Hi, Mr. Bahng.”

Your voice was stronger, more secure than you had expected – you feigned confidence while your body ran hot and cold all at once, while your knees dared to give out if you as much as moved an inch. But Mr. Bahng bought it, didn’t sense your nervosity; he gave you a smile, kind, welcoming, while he waited patiently for you to set down your things and take a seat by a table right in front of his own. You felt his eyes on you with every move you made, while you bend down to drop off your bag under the table, while you sat down and ran a hand through your hair. You felt his eyes on you even when you pretended to fix your attire, picking at your top and jeans – was it normal to look that much? Was he staring? You were surely reading too much into it.

And then you saw his eyes on you, when you finally, after having let him wait for a while, reciprocated his gaze; maybe it was normal to look that much, but you could swear to have seen Mr. Bahng’s cheeks redden only a taint when you locked his gaze with your own, from beneath your lashes, dark make-up sure to accentuate your piercing eyes. You weren’t seductive, you’d argue, not yet – though you were teasing. On the brink of seduction, though not quite there yet; letting him quiver, making him wait and wonder if he was the one reading too much into it. Into you.

The teacher cleared his throat, gave you another kind smile. “Alright, should we start?” A nod from you, and Mr. Bahng stepped from behind his desk to lean on it before you. You looked up at him, barely two meters away from him, face levelled with his core, his crotch, and a quiver made its’ presence in the pit of your stomach. Your thighs squeezed a little, and you wondered anew what it was exactly about him that made you lose all control over yourself.

“Tell me about your singing first. When did you start, where did you learn and so on.”, his voice was serious, just the teacher. Kind, but disciplined. “Oh, and… just call me Chris. We’re both adults, and I’m not your official teacher anymore. No need for formalities.” A smile, a grin almost, if you read too much into it, and it was then your entire world seemed to start spinning.

Tell me about your singing first. When did you start. – you could not, for the life of you, remember. Anything. About your singing, about the band, about Han. All memories wiped away in Mr. Bahng’s – in Chris’s – presence. In how casually he treated you. In how easy, you suddenly realized, it would be to wrap him around your finger. He wasn’t the unattainable man from five years ago anymore. He was here and present, having suggested dropping formalities, showing interest in you, spending time with you solely by his own wish, uncoerced. He was far realer now – and the realization hit you like a truck.

It was about twenty minutes later when you and him stood before a music stand, warm-up sheets presented before you. Talking with Chris had been easy, fun. He was a good teacher, a good listener. A good explainer. A good talker. A terrible flirt, though. You couldn’t possibly be any bolder, you thought. The fleeting touches all upon him – never inappropriate, but always surprising, once seemingly coincidentally passing his arm, or purposefully swatting his shoulder in light manner at a stupid joke he told, or standing so near to him it wasn’t all that necessary, but also not enough for him to back away – seemed to make him nervous, but you weren’t sure if he picked up the signs. He was flushing, ears red and glowing, the coughs stuck in his throat never seeming to end. It was adoring, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t yet what you wanted, wasn’t yet close to meeting your goal – though that was given. A married man wouldn’t jump at the first opportunity presented to him, if he bore even the faintest presence of a moral compass. It would take you far longer than a simple one-hour lesson to get the teacher exactly where you wanted him.

“Hm… I’m not feeling it… is this right?”

Chris stood in front of you, inches away, watching your hand hovering on your throat. He had told you to sing and to feel what exactly your vocal cords were doing – you weren’t even much sure what you should be feeling, what your vocal cords really should be doing while you sang the practice melodies on the sheet in front of you. Not that you weren’t listening to your teacher – techniques, as sorry as you felt for Chris, were of secondary importance to you today, though. You bashed your eyes at him, fluttering lashes, brows furrowed as though genuinely confused, fingers caressing your neck – you hoped you looked somewhat seductive instead of making a fool of yourself.

What you didn’t know, what you were blissfully unaware of – Chris was running laps in his mind, was sweating profusely. His dress pants, normally perfectly fitted to his body, had started to feel far too tight over the span of the last forty-five minutes. The lesson was coming to an end – and the teacher was almost thankful for it. You were a good student, adapting anything he explained quite quickly; though you always asked for a second explanation, one that, not seldom, required physicality. A hand on your jaw, or your shoulders to put you in a proper posture, or on your chest, to check your breathing. Touches and brushes of skin against skin not necessarily unusual for vocal lessons – but with you they felt too intimate, too close. But maybe Chris was reading far too much into it. You had been his student once; if not for long, and half a decade ago, and though he only barely remembered you – you had been his student. Should he feel disgust towards himself, at the feeling of his tightening pants rubbing against his core, with every further touch you granted upon his body? He couldn’t really be blamed though, he thought – you had grown into a woman, and he couldn’t as much as recall you as a teenager. He had barely recognized you, when he had spotted you in the universities’ classroom a week ago – he had spotted you and his body had gone up in flames, his limbs running hot at the sight of you; and only then he had noticed you had looked familiar. Only then he had been able to attach your face to the name he first read five years ago. And only then, only after initial attraction, after followed revelation, only after both embarrassment and bashfulness, but also a wave of desire had filled his every fibre he had remembered his wife, his kids; he had felt a horrible husband, are far more horrible father.

And now it wasn’t any different. The thought of his wife, his family, flashed through his mind only shortly, and only after having worried about every other possible thing – about whether it was wrong or not to feel the attraction he felt towards you, about whether the half-boner in his pants was at all appropriate or not, about whether his nervousness was your doing, even, your goal, or if it was his very own hunger for intimacy, his thirst for physicality which blinded him, lead him wrongly. If your flirting wasn’t flirting at all, only your persona, your nature. If he was the problem. Only then he thought about his wife, when Chris’s hand lay on your throat, to check for proper technique, on your warm, sweat-laced throat, bobbing with each gulp you swallowed, with each word your spoke, your piercing eyes through his own, your slow blinking, your slower licking of your lips, your hand then on his own, why he couldn’t quite make out, that he thought about his marriage. When his face was inches from your own, when you had stopped singing already, when your voice, strong and sure and rich, wasn’t echoing in his mind anymore, when it needed only a wrong move for your lips to meet, with his fingers still wrapped around your throat – that’s when he thought about his family. Only when it was almost too late. He thought about his wife, not having seen her in over a week, to get space, to clear both your minds’, and he thought he couldn’t really be blamed for his attraction to you – he hadn’t seen his wife in over a week. You were attractive, you were flirting, profusely so; and he suddenly felt a horrible husband again.

So, he didn’t act on it. He thought about his wife, Chris felt your breath on his skin, on his face, he remembered how he hadn’t been this close to his own wife in ages, how he hadn’t seen her in over a week; and he took a step back. His hand fell to his side, left your throat cold and empty – left you cold and empty. Left you with your hopes up, left you falling against concrete made of bitter rejection. He had been so close to you, so near – you had felt his breath against you, his tightening grip around your throat; and with the blink of an eye, it had been gone. A memory, a thought flashing past him and there was distance between you again; which was given. He was a married man, one carrying a moral compass – it would need you longer than this. More effort than this.

Chris cleared his throat – you lost count how often he had done this throughout the hour of your lesson. The room was hot, the sun scorching the old, dark wood. You could see dust particles dancing in the rays of light as Chris stepped behind his desk again, heaving his bag on top of it. you weren’t sure if you imagined the bulge in his pants, or if it was really there, but either way you grinned at it, internally. It needed several moments before Chris granted you a look, after checking the time on his wrist-watch – the hour was over, though you had hoped he wouldn’t have noticed.

“So… that was good for the beginning. You’re a good singer…”, he packed his bag, scattered stuff all around the desk which he stuffed hurriedly, though feigning calmness. You did the same, though much calmer than him, no need to fake it – you had gotten him nervous, you had gotten his exposed chest to be flush, even now, minutes after he had created physical space between your bodies. “We just need to work on details, stylistic choices, techniques. It’s obvious you’re self-taught, we’re gonna work on that-“, his bag was packed, and you stood with your own thrown over your shoulder, in front of him, calm as can be, satisfied, smirking. He looked at you, questioningly, “…same time next week?”

When you had stepped outside the classroom, bidding Chris goodbye and watching him set off to the exit, granting you one look back, bashful when he’d noticed your staring and shy over his own antics, you checked your phone – Han had answered your text from last night. Finally. An hour ago, when your classes with Chris had begun, asking if you’d be up to grab a drink. He couldn’t know of your classes with Chris – he had been asleep, or, at least in his darkened bedroom – when you had come home, and he had been out the door before you’d been awake that morning; you had never gotten the chance to tell him, though you wouldn’t have done so anyways, under different circumstances. You would have kept quiet about Chris, because Han’s sensitivity towards the matter still got to your head; though now, looking at his text, at the followed question mark fifteen minutes after the first message, you didn’t want to lie to him. You didn’t want to lie, and you didn’t want to hurt him, or upset him, or do whatever he thought you were doing any time Chris was the object of your conversation; you didn’t want any of it, didn’t want him strange and quiet and unknown to you, almost. Didn’t want him different. So you went with a half-truth as you made your way to the studio, shooting back a text that you were busy with lessons – it wouldn’t work on him. Han knew your schedule, and you knew his. The half-lie was only uttered to save time, to not leave him waiting on an answer any longer, to not shoot yourself into a position deserving of his condemnation once again, in a matter of seconds. The distance between you was enough as it was; the lack of shared dinner last night was nagging on you, the absence of a sweet Coke on your tastebuds suddenly strange. It wasn’t like you, the silence, the distance. And not even the high from ten minutes ago was vibrant enough to lull out the worry.

☆.☆.☆

Han sat on the shabby, sheeling sofa in the stuffy studio, staring at his phone, staring at your message. He wasn’t sure if you thought him dumb, or if your respect for him was finally reduced to null.

16:44     sorry, was busy with lessons. let’s grab a drink after practice ^^

Han wasn’t stupid. He was aware your schedule was supposed to be free now – he was aware your lessons had been probably private, and probably in presence of Mr. Bahng. He hated the guy. He hated you for liking him, for having this teenage crush on him that didn’t seem to leave you alone. And he wasn’t sure why. Han wasn’t sure about the reason his body seemed to set aflame whenever Mr. Bahng’s name occupied your mouth, the sound of it so repulsive it shivered within the boy, despite the flames set inside him. He wasn’t sure just why now, in the silence of the room, in its’ loneliness, only instruments and the faint, static sound of electrics granting him company, he couldn’t be at ease with the thought of you spending time alone with a teacher he despised – for seemingly no good reason. Why now, as he watched dust particles dance in the heat of the room, illuminated by the sun only for seconds before they grew invisible to human eye, only shortly shining in golden rays before they vanished, why his heart bled, had started bleeding when you had first told him of Mr. Bahng. Why since then, it hadn’t stopped bleeding. Why since then, whenever he looked at you, whenever his eyes met yours, or only your face, your figure, he saw someone else now; still you, but changed. Not the girl he grew up with, not the girl he taught the guitar, the girl he had spent endless nights laughing with, about nothing, careful to not wake parents. Suddenly, he wasn’t seeing that girl anymore, not a girl – he was seeing a woman. A woman who desired a man he didn’t like; was it brotherly protection? Was that the reason his heart was beating faster whenever you entered the room, any room, whenever you laid your eyes on him, soft, known, familiar? He never felt like a brother to you, though; closer than a best friend, though never a brother, not quite. Something in between, something linguists haven’t found a name for, yet. Something linguists couldn’t name, maybe, because it only existed between the two of you. Or something only he believed existed, and you were entirely unaware about.

Maybe his heart bled not because you desired a man altogether, but because you desired him. Mr. Bahng, who he simply couldn’t stand. Must there be a reason for his hatred, he thought? No one can like everyone – his ill feelings towards the teacher could be entirely unsolicited, random at their core. It wouldn’t make it more right, but it was possible. Han wasn’t obligated to like him, nor did he need a reason – though it only felt like an excuse, nowhere near the answer he was looking for.

The answer he was looking for – what, exactly, was he looking for? He stood from the sofa, turning off his phone and throwing it onto the cushions where it bounced two, three times before coming to a halt, denting into the old, brown leather. The others would arrive soon – he made his way over to his guitar, busying himself with tuning it, warming up. He would use the time he had working, instead of thinking – he had enough of the insides of his head, the very depths of his brain. Seemingly, it was useless to think, altogether; it’s not like he was aware of the purpose behind all the thinking, anyways. He knew only three things, and none of them were of much help: he hated the teacher you so much adored; he didn’t know where this hatred came from, didn’t know why his heart yearned, suddenly, for something he couldn’t name; and that he saw you in a different light, though you had never changed. He saw you as someone who desired, who loved. Who wasn’t only a best friend to him, the singer of his band, his entire childhood. He was aware, now, that both you and him had changed. That you could, but did not, did never, desire him, desire Han; someone between a best friend and a brother, someone unnameable, something previously unknown to Han.

The door to the studio opened, and you tore Han from his spiralling thoughts. Thankfully so, or not, he wasn’t sure. But you stood in the little college studio now, skin glistening from the sweat the summer sun had drowned you in, eyes careful, searching. For him, for a sign in him – what sign neither of you quite knew, but you doubted you found it, now as you looked at your friend. Your friend you barely recognized – when had he turned so different? When had he turned away from you? Was it when you had first mentioned Chris? If so, it was stupid – it didn’t make sense.

Han’s eyes weren’t flickering in excitement as you stepped closer to him, his mouth was silent, no words gushing out to tell you of mundanity which always meant the world if it was the two of you. He stood and looked at you, for a moment too long, only looking, before he went back to his guitar. His teeth fiddled with the ring around his lip, the silver chains around his neck sounding against each other as ever, his grown-out roots dark in contrast to his bleached, dry hair. He looked as always; yet he didn’t look the same.

It was you who needed to break the silence – you were scared that otherwise, if no one uttered a word, it would stay silent forever. That silence would swallow you forever. And you weren’t sure why. You didn’t know why this moment felt so fatal, so deadly if you as much as breathed the wrong way. That if you did, everything around you would crumble – you didn’t know why, within the four walls of the small studio, time seemed to be frozen, waiting for either the right or the wrong, before everything would shatter, or go back to normal.

“Hi.”

Your voice was hopeful, almost. Desperate, one might say. Desperate for normality, for Han to look at you, to return to himself. He halted in his movements of tuning his guitar at the sound of your voice. He did look at you, granted you a smile, not quite awkward, but something close to it. A smile you would greet a good friend with, or a class acquaintance you met outside of class for the first time – not a friend of decades. And all desperateness was gone, all hope. Every bad feeling brewing in the pit of your stomach vanished to give room for sudden anger. You looked at him, ever tuning his guitar, the sun only inches away from blinding him but instead choosing to illuminate his hands, to find home there, to make the red on his instrument shimmer, and he looked so peaceful in his uneasiness. Who was he to feel peaceful? While you were worrying about him, choosing the right words say and the right actions to do – lost for, of course, the wish to sleep with Mr. Bahng –, actually trying? Who was he to smile at you, almost awkwardly, without a word before going back to his fucking guitar? Anger in every fibre of your body, behind your lids, flames in the tips of your fingers.

“Why are you being weird.”

 The question wasn’t asked as a question at all, said like a statement instead. With a voice so stern it made Han face you momentarily. You hated your temper, you hated your stubbornness. You hated him. You hated yourself. He blinked, once, twice. He played a couple chords on his guitar, as though he hadn’t heard you at all – you hated his fucking guitar.

“I’m not being weird.” The tone in his voice undetectable, unsure what it meant.

“Yeah, you are.”

“I’m no-“

“You are. Why aren’t you talking to me.”

Han looked at you again. You haven’t moved from your spot beside the door ever since you walked in, bag still thrown over your shoulder, your chest heaving in heavy breaths. Han trembled under your gaze. He trembled, and every thought he had been gnawing on before you had entered was suddenly forgotten about. He only saw you, your questioning eyes, awaiting eyes, as though desperate, clinging onto something he wasn’t aware of. He saw you, your frustration – and if it hadn’t been directed at him, this frustration, this anger, he would have found you beautiful. The revelation came like a tidal wave and almost drowned him entirely. You stood before him, and he felt as though unable to breath, looking at you. Actually, truly looking at you – he wasn’t sure if he ever has before. He had never believed you to be beautiful – he had never believed you to be ugly, but he had never paid enough attention to your exterior to have believed you to be either. The thought scared him, intimated him; you intimidated him, the way you were standing there, looking at him, expectantly, having taken only one step towards him. And he was quick to free himself from the waters that were you – was quick to join your anger, because it seemed to be the only thing holding the both of you afloat.

“You’re the one who was too busy fucking your teacher to answer my text, so…”

You knew he regretted his words the moment he uttered them. You weren’t sure why you knew, but you did – be it the years of friendship, be it intuition, be it whatever you wanted to call it. You looked at him, his eyes feigning steadiness yet laced with regret, and you fumed. Though not at him; at yourself. Because he was right, because you couldn’t blame him, not really.

You sighed, making your way to the guitar stand. You dropped your bag off along the way, it joined Han’s phone on the dirty sofa. The instrument felt heavy in your hands; heavier, for some reason, than you remembered, even after years of playing. Strange. Maybe it was your spirit that was weighing it down, the lack of motivation you usually only seldom felt before rehearsals.

“Don’t start with that again. Please.”

You threw the leather strap of your guitar over your shoulder, plugged in the aux, started tuning. Without a gaze to Han, but you heard the lack of notes from his own guitar. Maybe he was looking at you, maybe he wasn’t, maybe he was about to apologize. You didn’t really care; and yet you couldn’t possibly care more.

“Why?” His voice provoking, almost, and you weren’t in the mood to fight – but you would, if he wanted to. If his version of not being weird meant offence, you wouldn’t back away.

“How was it? Did you get Mr. Bahng…”, he spat the name, “…to cheat yet? Or is that still-“

“Shut up.” Your voice interrupted his, and it hadn’t needed much volume to. Despite his words, almost hateful, too hateful, unknown coming from him, there wasn’t much weight beneath them, no support. He didn’t mean what he was saying. Not a word of it. As though his mouth wasn’t part of him, saying the exact opposite of what he meant, only to bask in regret right after. He wasn’t able to control it, his mouth. He didn’t want to hurt you, not with a single word he uttered, but he did. Because maybe it was, after all, the only way to stop the tidal wave flooding him whole. Maybe it was the only way to forget that suddenly, he believed you to be beautiful. Why were you beautiful, so out of the blue? Had you always been?

“I don’t wanna talk about this. I fucking hate talking about Chris, it always leads to a fight.”

It was the use of Mr. Bahng’s first name which set Han off, which made his head cock in subtle disbelief. You called him by his first name – what had happened during your private lesson? And why did he care so much? You were grown, you could do whatever you desired to do – why was it bothering him so very much?

“Ohh, so it’s Chris already, huh.” Chris. The name tasted even sourer than the man’s surname. Han saw you roll your eyes at him, his words – he understood why. The comment was bitter, petty. It didn’t carry any meaning, anything. He would have rolled his eyes as well. He did, internally, at himself. But he couldn’t stop the pettiness. The fabric around his neck pulled on his skin, marring it red, and he saw that little strands of your hair tangled in your own leather band, the one around your neck. It was red, too, your skin, as you were tuning your instrument. It was pretty, your neck. The little hairs were, your eyes, though angry still, were too. You were pretty. Notes and unfinished melodies sounded against hurtful words, words not meant. Words not real.

“God, I’m fucking tired of you. What the fuck is this? You bash out yesterday fucking leaving me to worry about you, and you bash out now out of fucking nowhere? I haven’t even fucking mentioned Chris before you brought him up, because, guess what! I fucking notice how you become a fucking pussy every time I mention him, as if you’re fucking jealous.” Your voice loud, too loud. Your words real though now, so real you’re scared of them yourself.

“You’re not my fucking dad.”

A beat, a silence in which Han looked at you, disbelief crossing his features, shock, maybe. You had never screamed at him like this. Meaning everything you said. And being right, with every word, every letter spilling past your mouth in spit and wetness. Why did he think you to be beautiful, even now?

“Or my fucking boyfriend.”

Before Han could further dwell on those words, trying to make sense of the feeling they left within him, Changbin burst open the door, making his entrance known loud and clear. The other’s followed right behind him, Lino closing behind him with a heavy click. You and Han stayed silent, while the others greeted you, not yet picking up on the coldness icing the room, the storm brewing in the space between you and Han. Only Lino was curious, careful. He watched you both as he made his way behind his drum set, discarding his bag next to him – it was covered in small bits of cat fur. He watched you intently as both of you continued playing chords to warm up, not speaking a word – not even looking the same direction.

The small studio erupted in sounds of various instruments. The room smelled of heavy smoke, of leather, of sun. It was stuffy and sweaty bodies only made it stuffier, meaningless conversations made it smaller, tighter. Changbin and Jeongin, talking about classes they missed, notes they needed to borrow for an upcoming exam. Chatting with Lino, who was still more concerned about the pair of you, not about whatever Changbin was nagging him about – and then the bassists’ eyes found you and Han. You could see the wheels in his head rear and turn, work their way to a coherent thought, to make sense of the silence he wasn’t used to. He squinted his eyes, furrowed his brows, lay a finger upon his chin – a caricature of a man thinking.

“Yo, what’s up with you two lovebirds. You hadn’t said a word since we came here.”

Both of you shot him a look, both glistening with impatience, with frustration and regret and worry. Both of your gazes made the bassist take a step back. Rehearsals had never felt so dreadful, and the hour has barely even started.

“We’re fine.”

We. Even in times of distance, when you couldn’t seem to stand each other, it was you against the others. A united front, against all odds – against, even, yourselves. The thought made you melancholic.

Changbin glanced over at Lino, who wasn’t paying any attention to him – his gaze was fixated on you, questioning, brows furrowed. Though not in innocent curiosity, like Changbin; the older man was worried. After the few years he grew to know yours and Han’s friendship, neither of you had ever acted like this, not towards each other, especially. There would always be giggling and laughter, bickering conversation and banter in your corner of the studio. Always exchanging looks, always aware of something none other picked up. A secret language, a secret code. You barely fought, and if you did it never carried weight, and was forgotten within the hour. Lino lived with the two of you sometimes, too – the two of you were a synergy. He was never able to explain the relationship you seemed to carry; it has always felt deeper than the one you would describe best friends to have, though you always denied of being together, of being in love. Lino wasn’t so sure about that. He wasn’t so sure love and feelings had never been object in any of your hearts – but he wasn’t one to push, or to dip his toes into business not meant for him.

But the two of you were different now, that everyone noticed. Why, no one knew – but Jeongin, being him, applied the same theory to everything he crossed. “They probably fucked.”

Two sets of eyes met him, angry, fuming. Though wordless. You and Han looked at the youngest, unsure if to throw him out of the band or kill him altogether. He looked at you both, questioning, as though analysing. “And it was probably bad, so now they’re awkward.”

It was said with a chuckle; he wasn’t at all serious, teasing, as always. Though neither of you caught the tone – both of you took the words as personal offence, not less after your previous fight hadn’t yet cooled off your nerves. Both of you agitated, both of you ready to jump at the next thing which flashed before your eyes, which made a wrong move – and both of you not looking at the other, because that would be the worst of all. You denied Jeongin’s accusations in a choir, a simultaneous ‘No, we didn’t’ sounding through the room – against your words instruments, tapping of feet, the sun, suddenly, loud too. Too loud. Everything was making noise, and it was too loud. You even heard the damn dust particles dancing before you, tickling in your nose.

“Well, then maybe you should. Wouldn’t be so worked up all the time.”

It had only been a murmur. Jeongin might have not even meant the words, just said them to say them. To wash over the uncomfortable atmosphere you and Han had created. But Han heard every of his word, and with each further one his blood dared to boil. The temperature almost hot enough to make it run out and over, and his face reddened as he tried his best to shut his mouth, to stay silent against the speech which wanted to spill. He looked at you as you pretended to not have heard Jeongin, adjusting your microphone stand, getting comfortable behind it; not looking his direction. Pretending like he didn’t exist. And he couldn’t even blame you – he had been an asshole today. And, as it seemed, he would continue being one – because before he could restrain from it, words were bashing past his lips and into the hot, stuffy room, tight and small and clammy with hate and regret and judgement already, and he made matters worse. He filled the room further though there was no room, filled it with more dust and anger, ignited it to burn.

“Well, that’s gonna be hard for me to arrange. Yn likes to fuck older men who happen to be her professor.”

The room, having erupted in a variation of sounds before, fell silent now – entirely silent. You don’t think you’ve ever heard this studio so very quiet; but then again, within you, within your head, thoughts were screaming and roaring so you took into account only little of said silence. You looked at Han, and it was the only thing you noticed. Him, his eyes of regret. He didn’t mean it, you knew. Though it didn’t make it better. It didn’t mend the fact he had broken your trust; you were aware he wasn’t in peace with your crush on Chris, but you would have never believed him to blurt it out to the others. It had been a secret, never told as one and yet known to be a secret. No matter how angry he was, no matter if he meant it or not, the sight of him now, already begging for forgiveness, silently, only with his eyes, repulsed you. You didn’t know him. You didn’t know the man that stood before you. It surely wasn’t Han, not the best friend you knew and held so dearly.

Only out of your peripheral did you see the others faces – shock lacing it, and a fear of moving, of speaking. Everyone stayed silent; no one said a word. Changbin and Jeongin exchanged gazes, Lino’s was ever fixated on you and Han; trying to understand, trying to make sense of a situation so absurd it didn’t feel quite real.

And then the situation dissolved itself. As though unreal, after all. After moments of stagnation in which you held Han’s eyes with your own, hurt, laced with disbelief and drowned in betrayal, you took a step back, and when you looked away Han felt everything he was crumble. You got rid of the guitar around your neck, placed it onto the standee, fled to grab your bag.

“I’m not in the mood for practice today.”

Your voice quiet, but a whisper, though everyone heard you in the silence of the room.

Han, in his confusion, in his frustration, in his chaos of thoughts, knew only two things: he had hurt you deeply. So deep, he wasn’t sure he could repair it. Your friendship had survived worse, deeper bruises – but this one he had claffed open again and again, not having let it rest. And he wasn’t sure either of you were capable of mending the wound, deep and bloody and tearing you apart.

He only knew he hurt you; and he knew, now, that you were beautiful. Still, after storming out the studio, having left open the door – a stray cat found its’ way inside, and Lino pet it absentmindedly. The revelation yet felt surreal; you were beautiful, enticing, and he had written a song for you – a song he feared to never hear now. Because he had hurt you.

taglist: @es-kay-zee @jeyelleohe @angelwonie @yvniek4ng @ppiri-bahng @bintificreads @svintsandghosts @llunapastell @sensitiveandhungry @minniesvenus @junebug032 @noellllslut @wolfennracha @unexceptional-h @like-a-diamondinthesky @katsukis1wife @binniesbang @astraystayyh @chrizzztopherbang @qtieskz @rylea08 @miss-fallon @sikebishes @h0n3yj4y @lashaemorow

[bbutterflies]

alyanette kiss for drabble prompts 👀

hi kayla!!! sorry this took me a million years but I hope it’s worth the wait!! 🩷🤍🧡

Marinette’s life is complicated. Balancing being a teenage girl and a superhero and a student and the guardian and a daughter is hard. But even then, she knows what she likes.

Marinette likes designing, the sound of pencil on the page and the thrill of her ideas coming to life. Marinette likes baking, following recipes she’s had memorized for years and the easy way she can hold piping bags in her hands. Marinette likes sewing, the familiar whir of her machine soothing on even her worst days. Marinette likes Alya’s lip gloss.

But that one is new, so she’s not sure why she likes it so much.

Marinette likes boys – she knows that, has always known that. But she’s not with a boy today. She’s with Alya, alone. Having a picnic.

And Alya is wearing a really pretty lip gloss.

Marinette’s not quite sure why she’s so drawn to it. It’s subtle, a little pink, just a bit of shimmer, but she notices. She knows Alya doesn’t usually wear it. Alya doesn’t usually wear the floral spring dress she’s wearing, either, but Marinette quite likes it too. Well, of course she does – she designed it, a birthday present for Alya. But she really likes it when Alya wears it.

Marinette knows she doesn’t have it all figured out, of course, but… she’s more confused than usual right now.

Alya is sitting next to her, legs tucked against her side. Her hair is down, caught in the gentle breeze, and she keeps tucking it behind her ear. Marinette could watch her do that all day, she thinks. She’d be quite content.

Alya is peeling an orange, and she offers Marinette a slice. Marinette takes it, of course.

“I’m glad you could make it,” Alya says with a smile, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear.

“Me, too,” Marinette says. “This is really nice.” She looks around at the blanket Alya has brought for them, baby pink and soft, and the wicker picnic basket sitting on top filled with snacks and drinks. She takes a bite of the orange in her hands.

Alya returns to peeling, carefully digging her nails into the skin of the orange and exposing the fruit. “I, um, I really like spending time with you,” she says.

Marinette watches her, mouth agape. She’s not quite sure how to respond.

“You’re incredible, Mari,” Alya continues as she pulls off the last piece of orange skin. “I’ve always thought that. I knew it from the day we met.”

“Oh,” Marinette breathes. Alya has complimented her before, but this… it’s different in a way she can’t put her finger on.

The wind picks up and pulls Alya’s hair loose. Marinette’s hand is there to fix it before Alya’s.

Marinette isn’t sure why she does it, but it’s happening before she even realizes it. She gently tucks the hair back in place, her fingers lingering near Alya’s cheek. She likes being close to Alya.

Alya smiles.

They don’t talk. The moment stretches into eternity. Marinette keeps her hand where it is, an offer, though she’s not sure what she’s asking for. She just knows she likes it, and it seems like Alya likes it, too.

But Alya doesn’t move, so Marinette lowers her hand. Her aim is to bring it back to her lap, but Alya catches it first. Gently, carefully, Alya holds her hand.

Marinette notices Alya’s nail polish. Warm pink, soft orange, the sunset encapsulated. Alya’s hand is soft and warm. Marinette already knows this, has felt Alya’s hands before when they paint each other’s nails or Alya holds her back from a wayward plan going awry.

But this is different. Alya holds gently, carefully. She’s making her own offer, Marinette realizes.

Marinette seizes it. She moves slowly, in case Alya wants to change her mind and pull away. But Alya doesn’t. They intertwine their fingers and hold each other tight.

Maybe… maybe Marinette likes Alya. Likes her as more than her best friend. Because she loves the way their hands fit together, and she’s still drawn to Alya’s lip gloss and maybe it’s less about the gloss and more about who’s wearing it.

“I really like you,” Alya whispers. She meets Marinette eyes and smiles, confident. Her voice is louder. “I really like you,” she repeats. “And if you just want to stay friends, that’s okay, too. But I wanted to tell you anyway.”

Oh.

The pieces fall into place like dominos to spell out a beautiful pattern, and Marinette realizes it all at once.

She likes girls. She likes Alya, actually. Of course she does.

Marinette scoots a little closer on the blanket. Alya responds with a breath let loose and a glowing smile. She’s never been good with words, always trips over her feet on her way to the point, but Marinette doesn’t think she needs to say anything right now to express herself quite clearly to Alya.

She leans closer. Alya meets her halfway.

Alya’s lips are soft. She tastes like cherry and oranges and pure bliss. She feels like home, familiar and safe and always pulling Marinette right back in. Marinette knows instantly she’s stuck in Alya’s orbit, and she’ll never need to be anywhere else.

Alya pulls back with a giddy smile, her heart bared between her teeth, and Marinette knows she’s a mirror image.

Marinette likes this. Loves it, even. And she’s quite sure about it.

[triplemystery]

blue and you - n.kento

summary; you ask nanami a silly question and he takes it 'seriously'

tags; gender neutral reader, nanami x reader, drabble, not edited

inspo; blue and you - mad honey

word count; 686

“If the entire world turned blue, do you think you would be able to pick me out of the crowd?”

Nanami paused his writing to look at you, and despite your thoughts, he seemed to take your question into consideration. He always did that and you wondered how he managed to keep it up and consider your questions so genuinely when you only ever spewed insanity.

“What do you mean if the world turned blue?” He had abandoned his writing to face you completely, an action that would likely put him behind, though he didn’t seem to care much.

“Say you were like sitting down and all of a sudden the world turned the exact same shade of blue” The answer didn’t make much sense, you hadn’t thought this out much. You suspected Nanami already knew that as you watched his eyes squint slightly in thought.

“So it would be like everything was covered in a blanket of blue?” You watched him drum his fingers along the surface of his desk as you nodded, getting slightly distracted by the quiet melody he was making with the taps of his fingers “So would everything lose all defining features?”

“Well..” You fell silent as you tried to think of the answer that would make it most difficult for him to answer “Not exactly! It would be like if everything started to wear those weird green screen suits that actors wear” You turned your head to meet his piercing gaze, his eyebrows furrowing in disbelief

“How would that even make sense?”

“Well it would be like everyone was wearing a fitted blanket of blue” You watched how his eyebrows pinched together as he squinted at you, though you couldn’t quite tell if it was in confusion or annoyance “Don’t be so judgemental Nanami!”

You watched his features relax for a split second before his lips started to slightly form a smile, like he was trying not to laugh “If you can give me an explanation as to how that works, I’ll consider answering your question”

You look at him in disbelief, not entirely believing that someone so intelligent would be unable to grasp such a simple concept “C’mon! It would be like everyone lost all their colour and just became… blue!” He raised an eyebrow in your direction as he picked his pencil back up “If you for example turned blue, then I wouldn’t be able to distinctly make out your eyes, but I would be easily able to make out your nose and lips and your hair would be all slicked down”

The corners of his lips lifted slightly as if he was about to tell you a joke “So it would be like everything was wearing a VFX suit” Your jaw dropped as you soaked in his look of amusement “That’s exactly what I said!”

“Really? I recall you saying ‘weird green screen suits that actors wear’” He swiftly dodged the pillow that you hurled in his direction “They’re the same thing!!” He smiles slightly before speaking again “I think I would still remember you” You look up at him confused “If the entire world theoretically went blue I would still remember you”

“Remember?” 

“Well it would be easy to forget everything wouldn’t it? Everything would just blend into blueness”

You laughed slightly at his words “Then I think I would remember you too” You fidgeted slightly with your fingers as you looked him in the eyes.

“How so?” He asked, it was funny how much it seemed like a challenge to you.

“Like if there was a line of things and you I would be able to pick you out” You felt high on the moment, giggling for no apparent reason “It would be like blue, blue, blue, then you”

“You think so?” His pencil rolled over the top of his long forgotten work, his gaze fixed wholly on you.

���I know so” You hummed quietly, allowing silence to blanket the room, feet dangling from the edge of your chair as you listened to the quiet ticks of the clock behind you.

note; literally the first time i've posted on this site ever and its a drabble I wrote at 1am... anyway enjoy! sorry if he's a bit out of character i was literally battling sleep as i wrote this :(!

[melodrangea]

I loved your nicknames headcanons so much 🥺Could I please have a Death the Kid in an enemies to lovers scenario where the reader is really laidback and chill. Kid hates how they never appear to take anything seriously on the surface, and the reader thinks he’s too uptight. The two eventually reach a mutual understanding that develops into a relationship

Tysm if you’re reading this!!

Of course my dear, and thank you so much!! 🫶🫶🫶

You didn’t specify a one shot or just headcannons so I hope headcannons are alright!!! :D

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Death the Kid w/ a Laidback S/O

-Kid would not BE ABLE TO STAND YOU at first

-he just can’t comprehend how you never take anything seriously, never study, always forget your homework etc

-AND YET YOU’RE STILL REALLY FREAKIN SMART

-you have the ability to just lay back and let most things roll do your shoulder while he just can’t

-and you aren’t exactly a huge fan of him either

-thinking he’s wayyy too uptight (which he is tbf)

-he’s always lecturing someone, everything needs to be perfect around him which you found to be a headache

-so safe to say you two don’t get along

-until the day you knocked over a painting in the hall

-Kid ofc is inconsolable as he stayed after school for several hours trying to fix and reposition the painting

-when he saw you coming out of the library, hair pulled back, jacket unbuttoned with a decently high stack of books in your arms, backpack swaying back and forth on your shoulder

You chuckled, tilting your head towards Kid and the painting. “Still fixing that painting? I’m surprised you didn’t use your Grim Reaper crap to fix it”

Kid rolled his eyes.“And I’m surprised you know where the library is, seeing as you never study”

You scoffed, “Atleast I work for it behind the scenes, school doesn’t come easy for people that aren’t golden-child pricks like you.”

“Being a grim reaper doesn’t give me enhanced intelligence, I do my fair share of studying like you.”

You paused, “you mean it isn’t easy for you either?”

“It’s easier sometimes but sometimes I don’t understand everything right away.”

“Huh, who knew?”

-From then on there was a change between you two, small at first

- like you not taking every opportunity to make some unsymmetrical, and him sometimes slipping you an answer you don’t know

-you two grew to have a very sarcastic academic rivalry, both pushing eachother to make the other better

-you didn’t know when you had developed a crush on Kid but it was hard not to, he was determined, driven, and handsome. And not as much of a snob as you previously thought

-then you ran into eachother at the library again, you were sat where Kid usually sits

He paused, noticing that his spot was taken

You saw him and start to stand up “sorry, you usually sit here don’t you?”

Kid shrugged, setting his books down across from you, “it’s fine, it’s just a chair. Is this one open?”

You cracked a small smile and gestured to the seat, “all yours.”

Kid sat down across from you, peering at the worksheet ahead of you. “Is that Professors Steins lab?”

“Yeah, I was just about to start it, is it hard?”

“I’m not quite sure, I haven’t started it yet.”

Your small smile turned into an evil grin, “you wanna race and see who finishes first?”

Kid looked at you, curiously. “And what do I get if I win.”

You shrugged, “whatever you want.” You pause, “within reason of course!”

“Seems acceptable, what would look like if you by some miracle beat me.” Kid said sarcastically.

You laughed, “hm, if I win. How about…you maybe take me out to lunch sometime?”

Kids eyes widened, his checks turning a bright pink in contrast to his fair monochromatic outfit.

You panicked, going to grab your paper to leave, “I’m sorry that was way to forward, I’m such an idiot, I’ll just go.”

Kid grabs your wrist, “no, it’s fine. And who said I didn’t agree to the terms anyways?”

It was your turn to blush. You nodded sitting back down. Kid grinned at you and picked up his pencil, starting his worksheet

You did the same, brain turned to mush, you frantically scratched at the paper

Mere ten minutes later Kid placed his pencil down, you had three questions left

You look down at his paper then at him, you frowned, tears of embarrassment working their way to your eyes. “You won Kid, what do you want?”

“Well If the offer still stands for lunch that would be what I want.”

Your heart skipped a beat, face turning bright red.

-from then on it only got better, the academic rivalry was still there but even more lighthearted then before

-Kid motivated you to work harder, and you pushed him to let loose sometimes, creating a healthy equilibrium for the both of you

-most of your dates are either study dates or out to small cafes

-he will refuse to take you back to the manor as long as he can (in fear of Liz and Patty mostly)

-but regardless of when you meet his weapons you’re just glad that Kid is your boyfriend and not another smart asshole

-It saves a lot of paintings from being destroyed

<3

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that’s all folks!

thank you anon for the request! I hope you enjoyed and if anyone else has requests or questions feel free to get in touch or submit an inbox!

-Melodrangea <3