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100vern · 10 months ago

Text

ex-conomics | csc

you supported seungcheol through years of being an aspiring athlete, and all you got to show for it was your undergraduate degree and an awkward, stuttered apology when he dumped you to go semi-pro. now he’s back after an injury derailed his career, and there’s only one problem: you’re the only one available to tutor him. you - 0; the universe - 1. talk about no return on investment.

⚽ pairing: choi seungcheol x f. reader ⚽ genre: exes to (lite) enemies to lovers; university au; angst, fluff ⚽ rating: while there is nothing explicit in this fic, there are two brief references to smut. while i can't stop anyone from reading this, i would prefer minors do not interact with this or any of my work. ⚽ warnings: cheol is some degree of famous, reader is a grad student/TA, mentions of an injury and coping with the aftermath of it, lots of economics talk that even i do not understand, swearing, one mention of alcohol, some misplaced jealousy, rom-com tropes, dino is kind of a loser but we love him anyway. probably a lot of other things i missed, but this is actually pretty tame for a fic of this length. ⚽ word count: 13.4k ⚽ thank you: a lot of people looked this over for me in the process and i'm sure i will forget some of them so if i do i'm sorry: @the-boy-meets-evil, @hot-soop, @highvern, and @haologram, who also gave me some wonderful ideas for the vlogs. thank you to MIT for opencourseware existing. i took microeconomics and dropped it, so i couldn't have done this without you. everyone in the discord server for helping me along the way and keeping me motivated. ⚽ author's note: i haven't posted a fic in nearly seven months, so i think it goes without saying that there are parts of this i like and a lot more i'm not 100% happy with. i'd love if this was more fleshed out and 10k longer, but i was able to write anything at all so it's good enough. this was written for the back to school with seventeen collab, hosted by @camandemstudios. thank you both for letting me participate! please make sure to check out the rest of the stories! everyone worked so hard and this collab was a ton of fun to participate in. <3

You look down at the paper. Back up at who handed it to you. Down at the paper again.

“You’ve got to be joking.”

The poor freshman kid laughs, all nerves, and even though the sound is grating, you remember what it’s like to be forced into work study. How far away graduate school seemed; how large your professors loomed over you with all their power and knowledge and credentials; how you constantly felt like the dumbest person in nearly every room you walked into for four straight years.

“Um—”

You sigh, just barely resisting the urge to slam your head onto your desk. “I—it’s fine, don’t worry about it.” Your words do little to ease Freshman’s nerves. He’s still hunched over in the doorway of your office, wringing his hands as he shifts his weight back and forth, in for a lifetime of body pain with the way he’s squaring his shoulders. “You’re sure about this, though? Like, I’m really not being set up?”

“I don’t think so?” he offers, slowly starting to turn green right before your eyes. “Dr. Lee ga-gave me the paperwork himself, I don’t think he would’ve messed it up? Oh no, did I mess it up? Should I go back to Student Services and conf—”

Good god, this kid’s anxiety is gonna stink up your office for weeks. “No need!” you interject. “I’ll just…” Sign it, you want to say, but the longer you stare at the sheet of paper the quicker you’re losing your resolve.

TUTORING REQUEST FORM Student Name: Choi Seungcheol Degree: Undergraduate Major: Business Course: ECON04101 Introduction to Microeconomics Instructor: Lee Yeonseok, PhD. Recommended Tutoring: High (3-4 hours per week)

You curse under your breath. Of the two names on the paper, Dr. Lee’s does not come as a surprise. He’s a notorious hard-ass with an infamous attrition rate—most students don’t last more than a week in any of his classes—but he’s also the sole reason you were able to pay for someof your grad school tuition out of pocket with all the tutoring money you made.

That, however, was two years ago.

“Does he know I don’t tutor anymore?” Stupid question. The kid stares blankly back at you, as if to say I don’t know any more than the people in Student Services, let alone Dr. Lee. It is literally my first year here. “I’m Dr. Ahn’s TA this year. I’ve got my hands full with her bullsh… stuff—”

Immediately, you know you’ve said something wrong, because the kid’s eyes light up, all that previous anxiety disappearing like smoke. “Wait, the same Dr. Ahn that teaches the crypto course?”

“No, that one died,” you say quickly. Kid deflates. “Anyway, I don’t really tutor anymore, especially for econ. As you can see”—you gesture vaguely around the cramped four walls of your office—“they’ve upgraded me. They even put my name on a little placard by the door! Go look! They spelled it wrong! If that doesn’t sum up this university I don’t know what does.”

You heave another sigh. Try to school your face and tone into something that exudes professionalism and finality. “Look, I’m sorry I can’t help you. I tutored Dr. Lee’s students for, like, three years in undergrad so I’m sure they just… forgot that wasn’t my actual job here. Who’s in charge of tutoring these days? I’ll shoot them an email and explain all this.”

Freshman gives you a name, and it takes less than a second to find them in the employee directory. You expect that to be the end of it, but he’s still taking up space in your doorway. You quirk an eyebrow. “Yes?”

The hand-wringing returns, along with an embarrassed flush that disappears beneath the neckline of his school-branded sweatshirt. “I just—um. Maybe you could, uh. Send that now? Before I get back there?”

You blink. “Don’t you have to go all the way back across campus? How slow do you think I type?” He shrugs, and you give up on the idea of getting rid of him. “Fine. What’s your name, anyway?”

“Lee Chan. I’m a sophomore. Do you know that guy?”

“Oh. I thought for sure you were a freshman, but you’re gonna need to be more specific, Lee Chan, Sophomore.”

“The guy they want you to tutor.” You freeze. The guy they want you to tutor is—“Choi Seungcheol,” Chan tacks on, and, yeah, you know—knew, you correct yourself—someone with that name, once upon a time.

But there are a lot of Chois and a lot of Seungcheols. It’s been years since you’ve spoken to the Seungcheol you knew, and that was when he’d broken up with you to—“I heard he’s a football player? Well, used to be, I guess. The girls in the office were freaking out so I guess he’s pretty famous, but I don’t know anything about sports, do you? They said they have photocards of him. I thought they only did that for idols.”

You think about being kids together in Daegu. Think about the exasperated looks you’d share when your parents would drag the two of you to festivals: Palgongsan in the autumn, Biseulsan in the spring; transformation and rebirth. Think about being eight years old and watching your father cram into the small space of the Chois’ living room, standing around the TV with Seungcheol’s dad, shouting at Park Jonghwan. Daegu FC made the FA Cup quarterfinals that year, and you think, of everything, that’s what you’ll remember for the rest of your life.

You think about falling in love slowly. Sixteen and clueless, the pair of you were. Didn’t really know any different, just that you’d look at him and feel butterflies. That you’d hold hands in secret. Text beneath the dinner table. That you’d watch him on the football pitch and be consumed by pride. That the future felt impossibly far away, that life would never catch up to the two of you.

You think about all the football jargon you didn’t understand—the academies, the teams, the implications. You think about, I’m thinking about trying out for the FC Seoul U-18, I just don’t think there’s much more I can do here in Daegu. You think about replying, Oh, I applied to university there.

You remember thinking it must’ve been fate, how easy that had worked out. How easy that first hurdle had been overcome.

You think about how fast everything happened. The try-out, the acceptance, the explosion. Remember being unable to go anywhere those first few months without seeing Seungcheol’s face, touted as the next big thing. Think about applying for scholarships when he was applying for international visas. Think about studying for midterms when Seungcheol was studying English for interviews.

You think about the last few weeks of your relationship, when it felt like you were desperately trying to cling to ghosts. Think about how Seoul had once felt endlessly big, both in opportunity and size, and how it now felt suffocating. You think about, So you’re just giving up? Is that what you’re saying? Think about, I don’t know what else to do. It doesn’t feel fair to you.

You think about all the places you’ve watched him. On countless football pitches; shy glances in school hallways; in the passenger seat, wracked with nerves on the drive to Seoul; poised above you in bed, hairline dotted with sweat as he rolled his hips, telling you how much he loved you.

You think about watching him walk out the door, and how you never watched him again.

So you fire off your email, concise and to the point about why you can’t tutor Choi Seungcheol in Introduction to Microeconomics, and turn to Lee Chan, Sophomore.

“No,” you finally answer. “Never heard of him.”

For all intents and purposes, your rejection should’ve been the end of it.

A few days go by. You hold office hours, attend lectures, work on your thesis when you have both the time and the energy. Try to ignore the feeling of bees beneath your skin, anxiety needling each time you check your email. You were well within your right to decline the tutoring request, but you can’t help but feel like you’ve done something wrong. That someone somehow knows who Seungcheol was to you and will pull you up on it. That those girls who’d gushed about him to Chan are somewhere laughing at your expense.

But you don’t hear anything at all about it… until you do.

Sunday evening. You haven’t moved from your couch in hours, some variety show playing in the background, barely audible over your keyboard clacking. Much to your detriment, you don’t write many papers these days, so you’re out of practice. Feels like you haven’t done anything besides formulas in years, all of your academic knowledge reduced to fucking math, so you’re about ready to toss your laptop out the window long before the email even comes through.

You see, From: Lee Yeonseok. You see, Subject: Choi Seungcheol - Tutoring.

Your stomach plummets to the floor.

You scan the body quickly. You see the words personal favor… friend of his father… urgent matter… and your hands start shaking. Whether it’s from the sheer audacity of this man or anxiety, you aren’t sure, but it’s not like it matters. There aren’t a whole lot of people on campus brave or dumb enough to go up against him twice.

“Motherfucker,” you spit, bitter the only taste in your mouth.

Where did you go wrong to wind up here? You’d followed the script: got the grades, passed the exams, received half of the required education for the Respectable Career, helped a few others along the way chase dreams that may or may not have been their own. You’d fallen in love. Only had a broken heart to show for it, but that’d been in the script, too: The First Love, followed by The First Heartbreak.

The split from Seungcheol was supposed to have been the end of that chapter. You’d planned on never seeing him again, and you never would have, had it been up to you. Apparently the universe has other plans, participation required.

“Did you spill onion dip on the rug again?” You startle, sending your laptop flying. Kaori, your roommate, is perched halfway in between the living room and the kitchen like a cryptid, clearly not expecting your reaction. “Oh. Were you watching porn?”

Face burning, you fetch your laptop from the floor. “In a common area? Kaori, please, I have far more decorum than that.”

She snorts, resuming her trek to the fridge. “See, that’s what I thought, but then I walked out here and you threw your laptop so fast it was like watching my ex get caught watching furry porn all over again.” She pries the lid off a large container of yogurt. “You think this is still good?”

“Dunno. What’s it smell like?”

She sniffs it and pulls it back to check the label. “Vanilla, I think, which is concerning because it’s supposed to be strawberry.”

You shrug. “What’s the worst that can happen, you get extra”—you pause, trying to remember the correct order of things, before giving up entirely—“...biotics?”

“Mm, so close. Care if I just eat this with a spoon?”

Nose scrunched, you wave her off. “Couldn’t pay me to eat yogurt on a good day, let alone if it’s expired. All yours, babe.”

Spoon in hand and a pleased smile on her face, Kaori collapses onto the couch beside you. You try to return your attention to your paper, try to find your momentum again, and it works for all of ten minutes before you’re groaning and slamming the top closed.

You don’t even need to look over to know Kaori’s staring. “What’s up with you?” she asks. Before she can answer: “Wait, is this serious? Because I can’t have a serious conversation in this t-shirt.” You steal a glance sideways. Ask Me About My Hemorrhoid! it says, and you exhale loudly. “Don’t breathe at me, I lost a bet.”

“And continued wearing it?”

She jokingly rolls her eyes. “God forbid a girl has hobbies.” Nudges you with her foot. “C’mon, spill.”

Kaori doesn’t know about you and Seungcheol. Most people don’t, aside from a few old classmates from Daegu who found you on social media and tried befriending you once he started making a name for himself in Seoul. After that, it was just easier to keep things private while you were together. New friends knew you were seeing someone but not their name or how long you’d been together. Any curiosity surrounding why the Choi Seungcheol was following you on Insta had been waved away easily. Our parents are friends, we grew up together. Then you broke up, and there wasn’t any evidence to delete, and he wasn’t following you on Instagram anymore, and it was easier that way.

So, yeah—even though you hadn’t met her until years later, Kaori knows you have an ex. She knows you’ve had a few flings and situationships in the time since, too, and it’s why she’s none the wiser when you ask, “It’s nothing, really. Just—do you follow football at all?”

“Nah, not really. The new guy’s pretty into it and keeps trying to get me to watch the games with him, but it’s so fucking boring? I dunno, I can’t get into it. Not in real life, anyway—I binged all of Captain Tsubasa in an embarrassingly short amount of time, though. Why?”

“Student Services asked me to tutor someone the other day and I had to turn it down. I just don’t have the time, you know? This semester’s already killer, and Dr. Ahn’s been riding my ass nonstop about grades. Turns out it’s some football player, so Dr. Lee emailed me asking me to do it as a personal favor, which means, on top of all the other shit I have to do, I’m now tutoring some football player four hours a week in Microeconomics.”

Her face distorts. “God, that guy’s such a prick. Like wow, you’re good at the economy! Good for you! Who cares! Why don’t you go balance the national debt or something instead of torturing university freshmen!”

You also wrongly assume that’s the last you’ll hear of it from Kaori.

Two days later, after Student Services replies to your email with the days and times you’ll be tutoring Seungcheol, she materializes in the living room to harass you.

“You didn’t tell me your football player was Choi Seungcheol.”

The panic is instant. You know how she means it, but it’s not how your body interprets it. All of a sudden it feels like an interrogation, an accusation, and a whopping serving of guilt takes up residence in the middle of your chest for not being entirely honest.

“Explains this weird text Ken sent me.”

She slides her phone over to you, open to her text thread with her current flavor of the week. Beneath an article about Seungcheol enrolling in classes at your school:

doesn’t ur roomie TA there Why are you calling her “ur roomie” like you don’t know her name?? Rude. Also yes. ask her to get me an autograph No babe pls he was my fav player before he got injured No 🙄 fine. can i come over later? Starting to think you’re using me for my roommate. Get your own job 🙄

You hand her phone back. “I didn’t think you’d know who Choi Seungcheol even is.” It’s the best you can do, even though it just digs you a deeper grave. “You said you’re not into football.”

“I’m not, but unfortunately I am into that stupid man.” She sighs, wistful and longing. “Babe, you have to understand. His dick is so big.”

You hadn’t wanted to stay in Seoul for your graduate degree, let alone the same university you’d gone to for undergrad.

You’d applied to schools all over—Japan, Europe, even a few in the States. Romanticized the hell out of NYU, went window shopping for an overpriced apartment, picked a favorite pizzeria based on nothing but vibes and online reviews. In those few months after graduation, there wasn’t a whole lot tying you to Seoul. Your and Seungcheol’s relationship had been old history by then, your parents split. Your dad stayed in your childhood home and your mother moved a few hours closer to her sister. They’d waited until your brother was old enough to be out of the house.

And it’d just been… a lot. Overwhelming. Some days you could barely shower or feed yourself, let alone move halfway across the world, so you’d stayed in the familiar and tried not to let it feel like failure.

But the good thing about familiarity is you learn its tricks, figure out the hiding spots. Early on, your first or second week of grad school, you laid claim to a study room on a floor of the library everyone else ignored. You write notes on the whiteboard with faded blue markers that are still there days later. The chair on the opposite side of the table is always exactly where you left it, the space between it and the table enough to only accommodate you. Sometimes you leave books—old paperbacks littered with notes in your writing—or papers, just to see if they move.

They never do.

And all of this is why it feels like a punch to the gut when that sanctity is tainted. When you’re halfway through a stack of Dr. Ahn’s exams and the doorknob rattles behind you. When you don’t even need to turn around to know who it is, because he still sounds the same, still has that overwhelming presence. You’ve always sensed him before you felt him.

“There you are,” Dr. Lee says, ambling into the room before you can protest. He, too, is overwhelming, just in different ways. Immaculate posture that anchors his slight frame that’s always dressed impeccably and expensively. Wears a watch that’s triple your tuition. Shoes polished so bright they’re nearly blinding. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

This time it is an accusation.

Well, you found me, you want to say, but just knowing Seungcheol is behind him, lingering in that half-study room, half-hallway space, is enough to keep you quiet. Like if you speak you’ll summon him closer and you’ll no longer be able to pretend this is nothing more than a nightmare.

You plaster on a polite smile. Say, “Ah, here I am, kyosu-nim,” and put all your energy into trying to glue Seungcheol to the floor with your mind.

Which is fruitless, because Dr. Lee moves further into the room. Gestures for Seungcheol to follow him with an impatient huff, and the study room is small, sure, and with three people it feels cramped, but that’s not the reason it feels like all the air’s been sucked out of the room.

Seungcheol looks… different. He looks as anxious as you feel, and he sticks close to the wall like he’s trying to disappear. Dr. Lee introduces him with grave importance, unaware of your history, and the forced smile he offers you almost looks embarrassed.

You know Dr. Lee is still hammering away, probably giving you a stern talking-to for rejecting his request the first time, but you can’t tear your eyes away from Seungcheol. Feels like the world around you has reduced to a pinhead, all hyperfocus; feels like your lungs are sucking in stale air one at a time.

“...his father is a very good friend of mine, so I expect…”

You expected to feel nothing. Seungcheol had left to chase his dream—one you’d always been so supportive of that it sometimes felt like your dream, too—and, perhaps naively, you thought the distance and the years would’ve been enough. You expected your heart to have hardened. You expected all those nights you spent crying to hit you at full force. You expected anger, hurt—indifference, at the very least.

“...as many hours per week as you both can manage…”

But you should’ve known better. Should’ve expected the butterflies, the way your palms grow clammy, the way your heart rate spikes. Should’ve expected everything to feel upside-down. You should’ve expected to look at Seungcheol and feel sixteen and in love all over again.

“...you are responsible for his academic progress…”

And that simply will not do. You’ve spent the last few years pulling yourself out of that hole, clawing your way back to something resembling normal. You’ve purged the thought of him from your mind—let his scent fade from your sheets, an old sweatshirt he’d left behind; forgot the way his lips felt against every inch of your skin; forgot the way his entire being lit up when he laughed; forgot the safety he encompassed, the way he whispered all those sweet nothings.

You cannot go there again.

So you roll your shoulders back, smile politely. Say, “Ah, kyosu-nim, Choi Seungcheol-ssi seems very intelligent, I’m sure he is capable of being responsible for his own academic standing, don’t you think?”

Dr. Lee cannot disagree without all but calling Seungcheol an idiot, so he hovers before you in shocked silence. Makes a show of huffing and checking his watch, like he’s all of a sudden remembered he’s late for something and being inconvenienced by this conversation he started, and then he’s halfway out of the library with a terse, “Discuss and figure this out amongst yourselves,” thrown over his shoulder.

You have an entire dramatic exit planned in your head. Gather your things, fake a phone call that makes you sound authoritative and important, and brush past Seungcheol wearing your nicest perfume as if all of this is so far beneath you you can’t even bring yourself to care about it.

Of course, you actually have to brush by him for any of that to happen, and since you’ve already decided you will not go there again, you quickly scribble your email address onto a piece of paper and slide it across the table at Seungcheol, who has steadfastly remained planted just outside the door. “Here’s my email. I don’t have time to discuss this right now.” Seungcheol cocks an eyebrow. You start throwing things into your bag haphazardly. You know you look frantic and affected, but there’s not much you can do about that. “What? Send me a copy of your syllabus and what you want to prioritize. It’ll be easier to get through this if we have a plan instead of winging it.”

He seems to catch on to your distaste because he mirrors it. Scoffs as he rolls his eyes and says, “Yeah, no use spending more time together than we have to,” and if you hadn’t gone years without speaking, you would’ve seen right through it.

But you did, so it stings all the same.

As it typically does, the planet keeps spinning after your run-in with Seungcheol.

You grade Dr. Ahn’s coursework. Try running off your anxiety at the gym, even though it’s pretty good at keeping pace with you these days. You meet Kaori’s maybe-boyfriend sneaking out of your apartment early in the morning and he has the good sense not to mention your ex, but you chalk that up to the mess of hickeys covering his neck and not any sense of social decorum.

Other people’s embarrassment saves you a ton of your own, you’ve come to learn.

Throughout all of this, Seungcheol only emails you once to send you his course syllabus. Doesn’t mention tutoring or provide you with his schedule or ask for yours, so when you’re sitting in a bar with your friends, three or four drinks deep and feeling a little petty, you forward him the original tutoring request and make sure to bold, underline, and highlight the “Recommended Tutoring: High” part for good measure.

He doesn’t take your bait—electronically, at least—but he does show up to your office hours the following Tuesday.

Bag tossed onto the floor, he flops unceremoniously into the chair across from you and says, in lieu of a greeting, “They spelled your name wrong. On the door thing.”

“I know,” you reply, your smile polite and terse. Incredible how he has the ability to raise your blood pressure in milliseconds. “What can I help you with?”

“Depends. How long do you have?”

“Well, considering you’ve shown up to my office hours on time, I’m assuming you already know I’m here every Tuesday and Thursday from four to six. So”—you glance at the clock above the door—“assuming no one comes by who needs my help more than you do, you have approximately one hour and fifty-eight minutes.”

Seungcheol is quiet for a moment as he takes you in. His stare is weighted; it makes you feel a little green around the edges. Clinical and sharp, so far removed from the way he used to look at you. You clear your throat. “I looked over your syllabus. The good news is there’s only a midterm and a final and the rest is problem sets. The bad news is there’s only a midterm and a final so they’re weighted quite heavily. You really need to know this stuff inside-out to have any hope of passing.”

“That’s why you’re here, right? Dr. Lee specifically requested you.”

You huff a breath through your nose. “I’m here as supplemental help. I can’t take your exams or do your readings for you. What else are you taking this semester?”

He sighs, sinking further into the chair, very much playing the part of the heir who has no interest in any of this. Which… is unlike him, you think, if you’re even allowed to. The Seungcheol you knew years ago took everything so seriously. Never clipped corners or took shortcuts. Anyone else would think him a spoiled, petulant child. “Business Accounting and International Trade.”

“Could be worse,” you note. “At least those three courses are tangentially related.”

Seungcheol rolls his eyes. “Easy for you to say. I haven’t taken a fucking math class in years.”

You return it. “You remember how to add and subtract, don’t you?”

“I ruptured my ACL, not my…” He trails off, looking a little embarrassed that he can’t name a part of the—“Brain.”

Whatever you were going to quip back with dies on your tongue. It's the first time Seungcheol has broached the topic of his injury—the first you’re hearing of it at all, actually—and he says it like it’s a joke, like it’s not a thing at all, but the pain is all over his face. The bitterness of the situation he’s found himself in. The unfairness of it all.

And there are so many questions you want to ask that aren’t your place: if it’s fixable, if he’ll ever play again, how he’s coping. But you don’t really need to—you can’t imagine how you’d feel if someone suddenly pulled the rug out from under you. If everything contained within the four walls of your office suddenly disappeared.

Not that the man sitting across from you hadn’t already done that, but.

“Right,” you continue, as if he hadn’t said anything at all. You know Seungcheol—know he wouldn’t want you prodding, sticking your fingers in that particular wound. “I want you to take a look at this,” you say, handing over a printout you have saved from your undergrad tutoring days. “Tell me what looks familiar, what doesn’t; what does and doesn’t make sense.”

He looks down at the paper. Back up at you. Down at the paper again. “What the fuck is this?”

“I—what? Cheol, it’s my old notes on recitation. Surely you’ve already covered this—the syllabus says this is week one stuff.” He looks down at the paper again, and it’s so familiar, watching the life drain entirely from someone’s eyes.

You barely resist the urge to slam your face onto your desk a second time.

You meet Seungcheol at the sports center for your next tutoring session.

He likes the humidity and the smell of the chlorine by the pool. He also likes that it’s not the football pitch, so the two of you sit in the bleachers there and go over his lecture notes. Much to your surprise, Seungcheol talks a mile a minute. Has stars in his eyes when he says he finally understands elastic demand curves, supply shock; tells you he spent a whole hour making flashcards.

It’s the first time you’ve seen him so excited since your tutoring began—the first glimmer of hope you’ve felt since Dr. Lee cornered you in your library hideaway. None of this surprises you. Seungcheol has always been smart, even when football was his primary (and sometimes only) focus. He has more determination and grit than anyone you’ve ever met, so you’re not surprised he’s doing well, excelling, but you are surprised—

“Can I ask you something?” Seungcheol shrugs, shoves half a protein bar in his mouth and swallows without chewing. “Why are you… uh. Here?”

“At this university?”

“Not exactly. I mean, I am wondering about that, but I guess… why business?”

Seungcheol hums. Tucks his good knee to his chest and stares down at the pool. No one’s using it, and truthfully the two of you probably aren’t even allowed to be here, but you understand why he likes it. It’s nowhere near as secluded as the library and definitely not as air conditioned, but it is peaceful. Calm. The water laps against the coping in quiet, small waves.

“Ah, I don’t know. You know how it goes.”

You quirk an eyebrow. Never, in all the years you’ve known him, has Seungcheol done anything he didn’t want to do. All that grit and determination. “What about your father, then? Dr. Lee mentioned this was a favor to him. He’s a pretty important person to have in your Rolodex of favors.”

Doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see what this is: Seungcheol’s father has new money; worked from the bottom up, made some smart investment decisions that finally panned out after Seungcheol left for Seoul. Started doing his own thing, made a name for himself. Last you’d heard from your mother, Seungcheol’s brother was second-in-command. Hell, even your own brother did an internship there.

So you know what this is: a father helping his son after his dream was shattered, life turned upside-down. You can’t blame him, even if you’ve heard the whispers from all the way across campus. That Seungcheol is washed up now, trying to nepo his way into his father’s company because of it; that all he knows is sports and he should’ve stuck to that, what does he know about business, why is he the one Dr. Lee went out of his way to help.

Doesn’t stop any of them from smiling at him, though; doesn’t stop them from asking for autographs or selfies.

But you also know this isn’t something Seungcheol seems willing to discuss, so you crack a joke—“I mean, business. God, who’d wanna go into that?”—and go back to what he was willing to talk about.

You’ve never hated elastic demand curves so much in your life.

Deep in the throes of tutoring—when you can’t tell if it’s week two or week twelve—you make it back to your apartment just before ten, head pounding.

The door flies open just as you’re about to punch in the code, and there stands Ken, looking far more put-off than you’ve ever seen him. Looks defeated, if you’re being honest, like someone mopped up all his emotions and wrung them out like dirty dishwater.

“Oh, hi,” you say hesitantly. The man in front of you seems too much like a caged animal to let your guard down. “Everything okay?”

He aborts a nod halfway. Mutters an apology as he brushes by you and stalks down the hall, disappearing around the corner to the elevators. Usually he’s a talker—you haven’t been able to avoid a Seungcheol-related conversation in weeks—so you’re a little stunned. Stand there stupidly for a while, and that’s where Kaori finds you a moment later.

“You gonna stand out here all night, or…?”

“Oh—yeah, right.”

You follow her inside. Toe off your shoes and put them in the rack. Focus on the sound of the kettle whistling instead of the overbearing tension in the room. Drop your bag off in your room, throw on a sweatshirt three sizes too big and a comfy pair of socks. Rummage through the fridge for leftovers, contemplate what mindless show you’ll watch as you eat, and you do not, under any circumstances, ask Kaori what happened.

You don’t have to. You knew what this was going to be the first time Ken spent the night—the way he looked mortified to be meeting you in the shared kitchen at seven a.m., wearing a look that begged you not to tell your roommate he was sneaking out.

I, uh, have an early class, he’d said. You know how it is.

Maybe you should’ve called him on it then. Issued a warning-but-not-really. She’ll get attached if you don’t tell her. She should know it’s different for you, if it is.

But you’d convinced yourself it wasn’t your place. Kaori wouldn’t want you in her business like that, so you stayed quiet, just nodded before watching him slip his shoes on and close the door behind him so quietly you wouldn’t have known he left at all if you hadn’t been looking. Gone, just like a ghost.

So, yeah, you know exactly why your roommate looks haunted.

“I’m a few episodes behind on this if you want to watch with me,” you offer, pointing at the television with the remote. It’s a lie—you’ve never watched this show a day in your life, which Kaori seems to know—but she contemplates it nonetheless. “Also, my mom mailed us some cookies. I think they’re in the fridge.”

“Why are there cookies in the fridge?”

You huff a laugh. “They were outside the door this morning before I left for campus. I don’t know—just saw who the package was from and was like, oh, this must go in the fridge.”

She nods. Grabs the container and joins you on the couch. Sticks her feet beneath your butt and doesn’t mention a thing.

The closest she comes is a few days later. Catches you right before you head out to campus and asks how tutoring is going.

“Not bad, actually.”

Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes when she says, “That’s good. I’m glad things are going well for you two.”

Lee Chan, Sophomore makes his unexpected return at your office hours on an unsuspecting Tuesday.

“Can I help you?”

He doesn’t answer right away, just helps himself to the seat across from you. “Maybe,” comes his cryptic retort. “I was thinking about signing up for that crypto course next semester.”

You narrow your eyes. “No, you weren’t.”

He sighs. Looks a little panicked, like he can’t believe that didn’t work. “You’re right, you’re right. I, um—I wanted to come say thank you.” He pauses. “You know, for that… email you sent.”

You blink. “No, you didn’t.”

Lee Chan, Sophomore cracks immediately. Thunks his head on your desk and lets loose a pained sound. It nearly sounds like he’s wailing when he says, “I’m sorry! They put me up to it!”

What you’re able to piece together is this: Lee Chan, Sophomore has become a bit of a celebrity in the Student Services department ever since he met you, Choi Seungcheol’s tutor. And, like any smart, previously unpopular university student would do, he took advantage of it. Might’ve stretched the truth a little to make it sound like he knew more than he did, so now here he is, angling for information the girls with the photocards may or may not have paid him to get.

“They want to know about his girlfriend.”

“His what?”

What you’re able to piece together is also this: the Photocard Girls are certain Seungcheol is dating someone, based on little more than vibes. You suspect these vibes are their three degrees of separation, considering there was an abnormal amount of Change of Major files formed after his enrollment, but you tell Lee Chan that you don’t know anything and, even if you did, you wouldn’t put his business out there like that.

But some part of you still has this inexplicable urge to protect Seungcheol, so you match their offer with interest and tell him to say there’s nothing to report—not that you didn’t know, not that he couldn’t get anything out of you. Seungcheol isn’t dating anyone.

You don’t know if it’s true, but you figure that if it isn’t, he still deserves privacy.

Which is a notion you have trouble explaining a few hours later, when Seungcheol strolls into your office with a grease-stained paper bag full of cheese coin bread, offering one to you with a proud smile that drops slowly when you just stare in return.

“What’s wrong?”

Your mouth opens, closes, opens again. Nothing comes out, even though it should be simple. Some sophomore kid was just in here angling for information or the Student Services department is taking bets on whether or not you have a girlfriend would both suffice, but you cannot bring yourself to say the words.

What you settle on is, “Sorry, I just… had an interesting meeting before you got here.”

“Oh. Are you okay?”

You sigh. Tilt your head back to stare up at the ceiling. “It was about you, actually.”

Seungcheol chokes, starts stuttering over words you can’t make sense of. Says, “Me? Why? I passed my last exam—I mean, barely, but I still passed. And that wasn’t your fault! I didn’t study enough! I’ve been losing my mind over my International Trade class, that shit sucks—”

“It wasn’t about your grades, Cheol.”

“Oh.” Then, slowly, a lopsided, pleased smile overtakes his face. “Haven’t heard you call me Cheol in a while.”

“Seungcheol,” you correct.

He seems to forget all about the meeting. Tries again to offer you a coin bread before he threatens to eat them all himself, so you acquiesce mostly to shut him up, say you’ll bring the extras to Kaori. For some reason, you tell him about how much she’d loved the cookies your mom sent, and the nostalgia sets him off, gets him talking again, asking if they were the yakgwa she used to make when you two were kids.

They were, but you can’t seem to tell him that, either.

Seungcheol: sorry it’s last minute - running late. can you meet me at my place instead?

Seungcheol shared a location with you

You’re halfway to replying—I don’t think that’s appropriate—before you sigh and delete it. Midterms are only a few days away and you don’t have time to argue over where your tutoring sessions will be, so if Seungcheol wants to meet at his apartment that’s where you’ll meet him.

You read over the midterm notes on the train. Once, twice, and then a hundred more times until they’re nearly memorized, all so you can ignore the voice in the back of your head saying what a bad idea this is. That you have no business being on your way to your ex’s swanky part of town or integrating yourself into his life beyond tutoring at all. You shouldn’t know where he lives. Maybe you shouldn’t even have his phone number or answer his texts.

Not that there’s much you can do about it now, two stops away.

Seungcheol greets you warmly, if not a little rushed. Apologizes for the mess once you step inside, although it’s less “mess” and more “haven’t finished unpacking,” but there’s enough clear space to study at the dining table, so that’s where you set up, determined to keep things professional.

“Sorry again about this,” Seungcheol says, placing a can of cola in front of you as he takes the seat across. “I had to meet with my father and lost track of time, I guess.”

“Oh. How’s he doing?”

Seungcheol sighs, leans further back in the chair as runs a hand through his hair. A light brown, now. “Same as he always was, I guess. Talked about the business, about my brother. Can’t get him to shut up about that stuff most of the time.”

“The business is doing good, though.” You cough, clear your throat. “My, uh. My brother interned there during undergrad. I don’t know if your father told you that.”

You don’t know why you say it, because it’s clear from the brief flicker of pain on Seungcheol’s face that he hadn’t known, that no one had told him. And it hurts you too that they felt the need to keep it a secret, to protect Seungcheol from you even in tangential ways.

“He didn’t,” he admits, “but I’m sure he was happy to see him. He was, uh—he was glad to hear you’re my tutor. Said you were always smarter than all of us boys combined.”

You laugh. Hope it sounds casual instead of strained. “Well, no need to prove him right. Come on,” you say, tossing a study guide in his direction, “let’s get to work.”

Everything is alright for a while—nearly an hour at least. He has the formulas memorized and attributed to the correct equations. He can explain supply and demand, preference and utility, but things start to fall apart around budget constraints and constrained choice.

The formulas get mixed up. He grows frustrated when he doesn’t know the answers to your questions right away. Rolls his eyes and gets a little snappy when you correct him, try to explain things differently in a way he understands. At first he’s able to temper it, collect himself before things truly start spiraling out of control, but the longer the two of you sit there the more it all unravels.

He snaps, you snap back, and you can’t figure out why. You’ve survived this long in Seungcheol’s orbit even though you never thought you’d be around him again, and perhaps it was bound to explode eventually, but…

It’s the familiarity, you realize.

You and Seungcheol aren’t friends, though you’ve been playing at it for weeks now: meeting outside of the library or your office, the personal conversations bordering on reminiscing, being in his personal space. You don’t belong here. You don’t want to be his friend—you can’t be, not for real or pretend.

“That’s not what I’m say—”

“Then explain it better,” Seungcheol fires at you, eyebrows creasing. “You’re the tutor here.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m trying, okay? All I meant was—your answer isn’t wrong, but I know Dr. Lee and he’s going to want more than that in a response.”

“Right—not good enough, like I said.”

“I’m just asking you to expand on your answer—”

“And I’m telling you that’s all I’ve got. I’m not like you, all right? I don’t have all this shit just floating around in my head all the time. I’m not smart, I barely have any idea what’s going on half the time, and you sitting here being condescending about it is doing fuck-all to help.”

You inhale sharply, taken aback at the hostility in his voice. Suggest calling it for the night, say neither of you will be productive if you keep going like this, and neither of you bother to apologize.

So much of your relationship with Seungcheol was marred by clichés.

The two of you passing notes back and forth during class. You in the bleachers of all his games, screaming along to the team chants, waving a sign around with his name on it. Not realizing you had a crush on him at all until he liked someone else and it made your stomach hurt. Childhood friends turned lovers.

Another cliché: that it’s starting to feel like that all over again.

Seungcheol sits across from you in the library, econ textbook cracked in half in front of him as he pays no attention. Keeps grabbing his phone each time it vibrates across the table. Can’t fight the smile that forces its way onto his face when he reads whatever’s there.

Stupid, you think—both to do this and to think it’d play out any other way. Seungcheol left years ago. Probably lived ten lifetimes while he was away while you were here in this exact spot doing this exact thing. Barely lived half a life, just stuck your nose in textbooks and forced your way through.

“Cheol,” you say, trying to drag his attention back to the study guide. No use. He’s typing away, presses his tongue into the fat of his cheek as he responds. “Seungcheol,” you try again.

Also fruitless.

You have no claim here, you remind yourself—not to his time, not to him. He’s only here because someone else mandated it. You’re only here because someone else mandated it, but it stings all the same. Another reminder of what used to be, of what ended regardless of what you wanted. Another reminder that the role you used to play in his life is not the role you play now. That the space you used to take up created a vacancy, and eventually it was going to be filled.

And if this was anyone other than Seungcheol, if you were more emotionally evolved when it came to him, it wouldn’t gnaw at you as much. All of this would roll off your shoulders.

But it isn’t, and you’re not.

“If you’re not going to listen, then—”

“I am listening,” he interjects, but he’s not looking at you. Not looking at his textbook or his study guide. Keeps laughing and smiling at his phone, and it’s sick how bothered you are by it. That it feels like your stomach’s been turned inside-out with jealousy; with annoyance, because you don’t want to be here anyway, don’t want to do this anymore, and you’re wasting your time on someone who doesn’t appreciate it.

Perhaps he never did.

“What are we discussing, then?”

Still not looking up: “Consumer theory.”

You laugh—more a huff of air than anything, grin sardonically out of one corner of your mouth. Seungcheol sees none of it. “Wrong,” you answer, already expecting the way he shrugs it off. “I’m gonna skip ahead a few chapters, though. Consider it a freebie for your business class.”

It must be your tone that finally grabs his attention. Cutting, precise, purposeful. Seungcheol lowers his phone, quirks an eyebrow, wonders where this is going to go. It’s clear he’s pissed you off, that you’re itching for a fight. It’s clear the years of silence are finally coming to a head.

“Let’s talk about ROI. You know what that is?” You barely give him a second. “Return on investment. A performance measure used to evaluate the efficiency of an investment or compare the efficiency of several investments. So, let’s say I make one-hundred-thousand won on a ten-thousand won investment: my ROI is 90%. Are you following?”

He nods.

“Great, now let’s try something a bit more hypothetical.” You suck in a breath. “Let’s say I invest years of my adolescence into someone. A friend at first and then something more. Let’s say I played cheerleader, supported every hope and dream he had—went to every game, cheered him on, helped him practice his English. Held his hand and talked him down when the pressure felt overwhelming, when the only thing that felt inevitable was failure. Now, let’s say all I got in return was a stuttered, awkward apology as he dumped me and walked out the door. Let’s say that guy showed up again after years of silence just to once again waste my fucking time.”

The thing about pain is it’s not linear. What hurt five, ten years ago might not hurt today, but it might tomorrow; what hurt yesterday may never hurt again. The thing about pain is it lets you stick your head in the sand until it can’t anymore, and that’s where you are now: that window of time between Seungcheol walking out the door on the assumption you’d never see him again before he bulldozed his way back into your life has been slammed closed, locked up tight.

So you don’t even notice you’re crying until the room goes deathly silent and you can hear the drip drip drip of tears on paper. Until you watch Seungcheol’s hands flex and unflex in mid-air, stuck in that liminal space, wanting to reach out but knowing he has no right to. Until your chest aches so bad you’re sure you’re either about to break into stardust or cease to exist.

Until you say, “What, Choi Seungcheol, would you say my fucking return on investment was?” and he has nothing to say at all.

Kaori invites you to a party.

Just something small to celebrate the end of midterms and a classmate’s birthday. Nothing out of control or raucous, not even the kind of thing that’d earn a second glance from campus security. I won’t even make fun of you if you leave before eleven, is how she sold it to you, in addition to a small amount of begging and bargaining and a powerful set of puppy-dog eyes.

After everything the two of you have been through, you find it hard to say no.

So here you are, nearly eleven o’clock on a Friday, a cup of cheap beer in hand. A friend of a friend of a friend is wailing into a karaoke machine and although your ears are bleeding, it does feel nice for that to be your greatest worry. You aren’t thinking about your classes or how you’ve been prioritizing everyone else’s academic success. You aren’t thinking about whatever’s going on between Kaori and Ken. You aren’t thinking about Seungcheol.

At least you aren’t, until he walks through the door.

You’re going to continue not thinking about him at all—not about the fact he’s alone or how good he looks in a simple black T-shirt that’s a little taut in the shoulders. You’re not going to think about the way the air shifts, like the universe knows he’s important and is willing to accommodate. You’re not going to think about how Kaori catches your eye across the room, recognizes him from all her internet searches, and the way she mouths oh my god he’s so beefy at you.

You’re not going to think about how guilty you feel that she doesn’t know, because if you do you’re certain it’ll take over.

You watch Seungcheol work the room; watch as he floats between conversations, as strangers fall over themselves at the sight of him. How eager everyone is to give him something and how reluctant he is to take them. You watch as he winds up in the same circle as Kaori and how she must mention you, oh, your tutor is my roommate, because there’s a question in return before he turns and meets your gaze.

You wonder why the distance between you feels more insurmountable now than ever before.

Seungcheol finds you in your office.

It’s not a Tuesday or a Thursday, far later than four to six in the evening, but he doesn’t even bother knocking before he’s barreling in, stifling your space with his bad energy.

You haven’t seen him in nearly two weeks. Not since the party, if that even counts. Hasn’t bothered to reply to any of your texts or emails, and that was just fine by you, if that’s how he wanted to act, but it isn’t until he’s brooding on the other side of your desk that you realize you’re still aggrieved, too. Feels a little too familiar, him leaving you behind and in the dark.

So you don’t mean to—typically have much more professionalism than this—but when he tosses a stapled stack of papers with a barely-passing grade on your desk and says, “This is your fault,” the words come automatically and without forethought.

“Fuck off, Seungcheol.” It’s not your words that take him by surprise; more so the roll of your eyes, the accompanying huff. The impression that all of this is beneath you and nothing more than a mere annoyance. That however affected you were two weeks ago is not how affected you are anymore. “That’s what happens when you blow off your tutoring for two weeks because you’re a coward.”

He laughs, incredulous; unable to help the sound the tumbles out of his mouth. “I’m a—I’m a coward?”

“Yes,” you reply, tone giving away nothing. All he sees is feigned nonchalance despite the hurricane you feel brewing beneath the surface. “This,” you continue, pinching the corner of the paper between your fingertips and disposing of it in the trashcan beneath your desk, “is all on you, but do please let me know if there’s anything else you’d like to blame me for. I’m all ears.”

You don’t miss it: the way Seungcheol’s eyes grow wide at your ‘I’m all.’ The way he thinks you’re going to punctuate that sentence with yours, and it nearly has bile rising in your throat. Makes you want to scream, rip at your hair. If the last few months have taught you anything, it’s that you are still hopelessly in love with the man across from you—the man that continues to leave before he’s left, always at your expense.

So, yeah—Seungcheol is a coward, but only when it comes to you.

But he doesn’t look much like one now, gripping so hard at the edge of your desk that his knuckles have gone white, baseball cap pulled down low enough his eyes are barely visible. He’s always been overwhelming, always carried himself with an exaggerated arrogance even when it wasn’t warranted, always took everything so seriously, and maybe that’s why you’d thought he’d treat you the same way. Take you seriously. Wouldn’t just throw it all away on a maybe thing, and that’s why it's been years and you still aren’t over it.

Maybe Seungcheol is a coward, and maybe so are you.

Because not once since he’s been back have you been able to say what you mean. Can’t seem to tell him about the anger, the hurt, the heartbreak. Played it all off as petty nonchalance because you foolishly thought that would hurt him, that you’ve been reduced to simmering ash, no hope left for a fire.

“I could never blame you for a goddamn thing,” he says, voice so deep you could drown in it.

You so desperately want to know. You don’t want to know anything at all. You want Seungcheol to explain everything to you in detail and spoil the ending, but only if it’s guaranteed to be happy. Enduring another loss like the first time—you’re not sure you can take it. Not after you two have crossed paths like this, because you’ve never quite believed in fate but you think that has to mean something. That so much time and life had transpired and you two came back together.

Today, though, it doesn’t look like you’re going to get any answers.

Seungcheol straightens, looms at full height. Digs into the pocket of his sweatpants and pulls out a thumb drive. Wordlessly, he hands it over, and then he’s gone just as abruptly as he’d arrived.

Again.

Kaori wants to spend the weekend moping, and you can’t come up with a good reason not to join her.

She doesn’t mention Ken once. Not when she’s sobbing over A Silent Voice and Toradora! after that. Not when she keeps glancing at her phone every couple minutes to see if she has any texts. Not when you—only halfway paying attention between grading and your own assignments—suggest ordering something for delivery, maybe that new burger place down the street you heard was good, and Kaori shuts it down so vehemently you can only assume it was Ken’s favorite place.

Kaori just cries over the man with the big dick she never expected to take so seriously, and not even your stonewalling makes her feel ashamed of it.

And there’s respectability in that kind of openness and vulnerability. At least whatever she’s feeling is honest; at least she can admit she’s sad. You think watching Kaori process her breakup might help you process yours too, years too late, so you suck in a breath and ask, “Can I tell you something or is now not a good time?”

Kaori looks over at you. Dabs a soggy tissue at her eyes. “Well, I guess it depends,” is her answer, and she doesn’t shy away from how waterlogged her voice sounds. “If you’re going to tell me you’re a Takasu and Kawashima shipper, maybe, but if it’s anything worse I’m not sure I could take it.”

“I—what? Who even are they?” She gives you a half-hearted thumbs up. You sigh in response, sink further into the couch. “It’s, uh.” Clear your throat. “Do you remember when we met sophomore year? At that party? And I told you I wasn’t looking for anything and you said, and I quote, why not, I have a sixth sense for this kind of thing and I know that guy will have a huge—”

She hides her face behind her hands. “Ew, god, yes I remember that. My dick whisperer era. How embarrassing.”

“Right. And I told you I wasn’t looking for anything because I’d just gotten out of something.”

“Not really by choice, if I remember correctly. I told you if it was quiet it should’ve been loud, and then you never talked about it again.”

You nod. “I—yeah, that sounds like something I would’ve said.” You suck in a deep breath. “Listen, this is probably gonna sound bad considering I did never talk about it again, but—”

“Hey,” Kaori says, nudging you with her foot. Meant to be comforting, somehow. “It’s okay. There’s a lot you don’t know about me, too… most of which I’m not sure you should, actually.”

A laugh forces its way out, gives you a nice reprieve from the anxiety of the conversation you’re about to have. The need to explain it all, the need for advice. Maybe it’s not her—or anyone else’s—business, but you think you’ve kept this to yourself long enough. You and Seungcheol loved each other, once, and it seems foolish that no one knows.

Maybe Kaori had been right. Maybe love should be shouted from the rooftops; exist out in the open. Maybe something hidden in the shadows can never thrive in the light, and you knew it back then, deep down, but now it seems so obvious.

You think back to a few days before the library. Think about how things didn’t feel good but they felt okay. Think about the frustrated crease between Seungcheol’s eyebrows as he stared down at his textbook and how all you’d wanted to do was smooth it. Think about how you’d rolled your lips and tried not to laugh; how you thought it’d take a miracle to help Seungcheol pass this class.

Think about: What is the difference between the short-run and the long-run from the perspective of production theory?

Think about the short-run of your and Seungcheol’s relationship—that you’d burned bright and fast, even though it’d felt like a million years. Hadn’t dared to consider the long-run because anything beyond that bubble felt impossible.

Think about: Which of the following is not a property of isoquants?

Think about the way Seungcheol’s eyes lit up when he knew the answer. That they’re always linear, he said, and you smiled at his enthusiasm, raised your hand to high-five him and dropped it when he hadn’t noticed.

You think about the explanation—isoquants can be linear when inputs are perfectly substitutable—and what those graphs look like. Downward sloping, left to right. Think about how the graphs change when the isoquants are perfect complements.

L-shaped. Less straight as the inputs become poorer substitutes.

You know what your and Seungcheol’s graph would’ve looked like back then.

So it’s easy, almost, to tell Kaori everything. You tell her about growing up in Daegu, about the smell of the azaleas at Biseulsan in the spring. You tell her about how your parents had befriended the neighbors, how they had a kid your age, that that kid was Seungcheol—yes, that Seungcheol.

She’s able to anticipate the rest from there, but you fill in the blanks of what she can’t: being sixteen and falling in love, holding hands, the clandestine notes. All those football matches and how your throat would be hoarse from cheering. How nauseous you’d felt applying to university in Seoul, how excited you were when Seungcheol said he was coming with you. That, after you arrived, it felt like you were living in fast-forward. Barely any time to breathe or adjust; no time to just be you and Seungcheol. You had to be a student, someone responsible; Seungcheol had to be a phenom.

“Could you feel it was going to happen?” Kaori asks, now sat ramrod straight, all her attention on you. “Like, did you know?”

“I don’t know,” you admit. “Maybe I did? It’s hard to say now, all this time later. I know things definitely felt different, like life was pulling us in opposite directions.” You laugh, bitterness coloring the edges. “You couldn’t go two blocks without seeing him on some billboard, and I was just… normal, you know? I wasn’t some rising star athlete like he was, I just went to my classes. How was I supposed to compete with something like that?”

Your roommate hums, leans back into the pillows as she stares up at the ceiling. “I don’t think you were. Maybe that’s why Seungcheol was worried—maybe he felt like you were losing your own identity feeling like you had to keep up.”

You want to push back, argue that you weren’t, that you didn’t, but the truth is that it’s possible. That the shadows created by Seungcheol’s dreams were so massive you wouldn’t be surprised if they unintentionally swallowed you up. “It still wasn’t his choice to make,” you say, voice barely above a whisper.

And Kaori already knows all about your hurt, listened as you explained it all and laid everything bare. So when she says, “Sometimes that’s just how it goes, though, babe,” it doesn’t feel condescending. “We do the best we can with what we’ve got at the time. You can say now it wasn’t Seungcheol’s choice to make, because it’s been almost five years and you’ve made a life for yourself separate from him. But the—god, this is gonna sound so patronizing, I am so sorry—but you guys were so young. No one has it all figured out at that age.”

She snorts, runs a hand through her messy hair. “Shit, I’m nearly halfway to thirty and I still don’t know anything.” Adopts a frown. “What do you want now? Do you want closure? Want to try to fix things and become friends?”

“I don’t know,” you admit, biting at a hangnail. “He actually, um. The other day when he stopped by my office, he left me a USB drive? And before you ask, no I did not already look at it.”

“A USB drive? Who does this guy think he is, James Bond?” A pause. “Are you gonna look at it, though?”

You do.

Not until the silver, midnight light creeps in through your bedroom curtains and you’ve stared at the ceiling long enough; waited long enough for texts that never came, for divine intervention to, well, intervene. It never did—fair enough—so you decide to take fate by the reins. Grab your laptop, instant headache from the screen, stick the drive into the port.

It takes a second for it to load, but when it does: dozens of videos, organized by date. Vlogs, by the look of them—some from before your breakup but the majority of them from after.

You’re not sure what you expected, but it wasn’t this.

You click on the first one: a month and a half before both of you moved to Seoul. A fresh-faced Seungcheol appears on your screen, cheeks still round with adolescence. He’s in his room back in Daegu, can’t get the camera angle right. Nostalgia hits you like a ton of bricks as it pans to the side, to the wall behind his bed, and you see all his old posters. Mostly football players you couldn’t name, some girl group he used to love, a few movies. Just below them are some of the notes you’d written him in school, and they’re all you can focus on as he talks about how excited he is for the move.

The next: a few weeks after you’d started classes. By then, Seungcheol was well into the swing of things with Seoul FC. Already a big fish in a small pond, tryout offers from European teams starting to roll in. You can hear yourself in the background stressing over your first exam, wishing a generational curse upon your calculus professor. In the video, Seungcheol laughs, whispers like he’s telling the camera a secret as he talks about how nervous he is for his future. I don’t know why, he says, but it just feels like everything is about to change.

There’s a long pause between that one and the next. You understand why when you look at the date: three months after your breakup. Your hands hover uselessly above your keyboard. Whatever answers you’ve been looking for the last few years are probably in this video, but you can’t bring yourself to open it. Not right away, at least.

You click on a different one at random. Seungcheol’s somewhere in Europe, judging from the language on the signs behind him. Snow falls quietly—whenever he filmed this, it must’ve been early. No one else is around, and he cracks a joke that it’s a good thing, people would probably think he was crazy if they saw him. He doesn’t tell you where he’s going but he narrates the entire walk: points out a cafe he’s grown to love. The way to get to his practice stadium from where he’s standing. Pauses near a restaurant and laughs ruefully, shakes his head, says, I don’t know why I’m telling you this, but one of my teammates set me up on a blind date here and I got stood up. You’d probably think that was funny.

(You do. It also makes your chest ache.)

One from two years ago: Seungcheol in a hotel room, clearly nervous. He raises his hand to wave at the camera and you can see the corners of his nails bitten raw. Dark circles beneath his eyes; cheekbones more pronounced than you’ve ever seen them. On the screen, Seungcheol sighs, rakes a hand through freshly-bleached hair. Sucks in a deep breath as he says, I’m so nervous. I’m so—so fucking nervous and I don’t. Fuck, I don’t know what to do. I want to call you because you always knew what to say but that’s so fucking selfish. God, we haven’t spoken in years, and it’s my—that’s my fault, I know, so I brought this all on myself. I just want to hear your voice.

Another from a week after that: the color’s returned to his face, and he’s recording from what looks like a penthouse apartment. Sleek, modern; a small white dog napping on the bed beside him. He smiles, looks like he got his teeth fixed, looks like he’s no longer carrying around the weight of the world. Talks endlessly and excitedly about some tournament. Talks so fast you can barely keep up. Talks around words tinged with languages you don’t understand.

Seungcheol wins a championship. Records a drunk vlog from the same night, hair soaked through with god-knows-what—water, champagne, you don’t know. But he looks radiant. Looks like the culmination of two decades of dreaming. He looks happy, free, at peace. He looks like the reason he let you go, why he had to go away.

You scroll to the bottom of the files. Pause at the last video, dated seven months before the term started.

“Hi,” he says, and you can immediately tell everything is all wrong. Seungcheol’s in the dark, face only visible enough to see the tears tracking on his cheeks. “This is going to be the last one of these I make. I don’t know if you, uh—I’m sure you aren’t paying attention to me—my career—anymore, but. I, um. I got hurt. Ruptured my ACL. They’re not sure I’ll…” A sob escapes him. Has you wanting to climb through the screen to hold him, thumb away his tears, tell him everything is going to be okay. “They don’t know if I’ll ever play again.”

Seungcheol no longer looks happy, free, at peace. “Maybe you’ll be happy to hear that,” he continues. “Maybe it’ll help you to know I threw away our relationship for nothing.”

Cut to black.

The sudden silence is deafening. Has you desperately clicking back to the video you’d skipped, the one from just after your breakup. Seungcheol looks the same in that one, too, like the life has been drained out of him.

I don’t know why I’m doing this. It’s not like I’ll ever show these to you now, since I…

I’m sure I owe you an explanation. To be honest, I don’t know what I’m doing, I just—things have been so hard, and I’m still trying to make sense of it all. I feel like my life went from zero to a hundred before I could even blink and now I’m scrambling. I didn’t think it was fair to—to drag you through that. Me being away, moving to an entirely different continent. I have faith we could do it, I just. I don’t know, baby, I don’t…

You deserve to have your own life. Be your own person. I’m so scared that the world will never see you for who you are—so beautiful and intelligent and kind. You don’t deserve to be reduced to my partner. And if you ever see this, I know you’re gonna roll your eyes. Probably call me a mean name because I took the choice away from you, because you think I’m trying to be selfless and heroic, and you’d be right. It’s not fair, and I wish I could tell you I’m sorry.

I wish I could just… pluck out my brain and give it to you, because even if it killed me to do it, at least it makes sense to me. And I don’t—I don’t want you to think I’m not hurting. I’ve been sick to my stomach since I left. I know I’m making a mistake, I know I am, I just—how do I do what I think is right in the long-run when it’s not what I want right now, or ever?

I don’t want to get over you. I don’t want you to get over me, and that’s how you know I’m not acting selflessly, because you should. I want you to always be happy, I just… wish it was with me.

So, I’m going to keep making these. I’m going to take you along for the ride, wherever it takes us, because you should be here but I can only hope you can one day understand why you’re not. I’m so—I’m so sorry, I don’t…

I’m sorry.

I love you.

You fall asleep and dream that you were the one meant to meet him at that restaurant.

The first thing you do is make a call to your mother.

“Could you send another container of yakgwa?”

On the other end of the line, your mother tuts, motherly intuition audibly kicking into overdrive. Is probably wearing that all-knowing, sly grin she always does when you try to be coy and evasive. “What happened to the last container I sent?”

“Ah, you know Kaori loves those. They barely lasted an hour after I told her what was in there.”

She hums an acknowledgement. Sounds like she takes a sip of tea. “I remember someone else being quite fond of those cookies, too.”

“Well, they are the most popular cookies in the country, so.”

After haranguing you into admitting they’re for Seungcheol and not your roommate, your mother promises to send them quickly. A few days at most, which buys you enough time to figure out how you’re going to approach the man in question.

The vlogs have turned your entire world upside-down. Answered questions you hadn’t even known you had. Took all that anger and resentment you’d been holding onto and set it free, and now you’re just left with… a void. Want to mend things, and it makes you wonder if such a thing is even possible, if it’s too late, but you don’t let those thoughts get very far.

Instead, you let them spur you into action. Have you sitting in front of your laptop at your desk, office hours long since over, silence creeping in the more the department empties. The thrum of the airconditioning and the tick-tick-tick of the clock are all the only company you have.

You worry if it’ll show on camera, how out of sorts you feel: sweating from the nerves, dabbing at your hairline; cheeks warm to the touch. But you suck in a breath anyway, steel yourself. Look at your webcam and the daunting red circle…

And start recording.

He hadn’t gotten it at first. Not really.

There’d been a container of yakgwa outside his door with his USB drive taped to the top of it. No note—not that he needed one to know who it was from, but he wasn’t sure what it was. A goodbye? A please fuck off forever and never contact me again?

He’d just taken them inside. Ate too many of the cookies while feeling sorry for himself. Maybe had a glass or two of wine to compound the issue, and never, ever considered contacting you. Didn’t think he could bear it if you never wanted to see him again, but he just…

Well, he was drunk and alone and he missed you, and he’d rewatched all those videos he recorded a million times before when he was like this, so what was a million and one?

It’d been the same as every time before: he smiled at the happy parts, cried at all his old wounds. Wanted to reach through the screen and strangle his past self for including that part about the blind date, because he never wanted to date anyone who wasn’t you, why would he say that, felt mortified at the thought of you watching that—

And then there it was.

All the way at the bottom. A new video. One that hadn’t been recorded by him—

Hi, Cheol, you say, and that’s all it takes to reduce him to a sobbing, yearning mess. I’m not sure what to say here. I don’t really record much—sometimes for lectures when the professors are too busy, but never anything personal like this, but I watched every single one you made for me and I thought I should return the favor.

I wanted to tell you everything I’ve been up to since you left, but it hasn’t been much. I got my degree. Tutored a lot in undergrad—the same thing I’m tutoring you in now, actually. I was good at it and it felt good to have something that was mine, you know? I almost moved for grad school. Thought for a while I was going to wind up in New York, but then my parents divorced and it felt like too much, too scary, so I stayed. Kaori also stayed, so we got an apartment together. It’s not much, definitely not as nice as your place, but it’s good enough.

I don’t think I ever told you, but she was seeing a guy for a bit and he was… obsessed with you, to say the least. Thought you were the coolest person in the world. They aren’t seeing each other anymore. Ended pretty badly, but—speaking of which, maybe steer clear of Student Services for a while, too.

Sometimes it felt like failure that I wound up staying here. That I had scholarships from all these far-away, prestigious places and didn’t take advantage of them. That I gave into my fear. And now… I don’t know. Maybe there’s a reason I stayed behind. Maybe there’s a reason you ended up back here, too.

Whatever happens—I don’t want you to think I still blame you. Kaori says we do the best we can with what we’ve got at the time, and I understand now that’s what you did. Even though it hurt me, you were trying to protect me. I get it now. And I’m sorry you had to go through all of that alone. I can’t imagine how hard it must’ve been to go to all these places you didn’t know. To have to deal with your injury, the loss of a dream.

You said in one of your videos that you just want me to be happy, and that’s all I want for you, too, whatever that looks like.

Here’s my address if you ever want to come by to talk.

I love you, too.

—and then he’d been up and out the door, feeling stone cold sober, running to the front of his building to wait for his ride.

Felt like the drive took hours. Must’ve hit every red light between his apartment and yours. Took the steps two at a time just to get to your door faster.

There’s a man already standing outside your door when he gets there. One that looks shocked to see him, stars in his eyes, and when Seungcheol says, “Oh, you must be Kaori’s ex,” he looks more like he wants the earth to swallow him whole. Embarrassed in front of his idol.

He knocks on your door and gets no response. Knocks again, harder this time, and he has to try really hard to stifle his laughter when your voice yells from the inside, “Fuck off, Kenji, I already told you she’s not here!”

“It’s me,” Seungcheol yells back.

There’s quiet again. Just enough time for it to feel like his heart is going to beat right out of his chest and follow Kaori’s ex down the hall.

Then you’re yanking the door open—slowly, so slowly, like you’re scared it’s not actually him. Your eyes are brimming with tears when they meet his own, and he doesn’t let himself think, just goes on instinct, when he grabs for you, hands on your cheeks, and presses his lips to yours.

Somehow you taste the same.

Somehow you taste like redemption.

You taste like home.

Seungcheol kisses you until the tears slow. Kisses you until the universe realigns, until he could map your mouth in the dark. Kisses you until all you’re all he knows again.

When he pulls away, you’re gripping at his sweatshirt, don’t want to let him go. He presses his forehead to yours, offers up a million more apologies, starts talking nonsense. Says he’s going to drop microeconomics, what the hell does he know, he barely has a passing grade anyway, what does it matter, he’s such an idiot—

And then you say, “You came back,” and nothing else matters.

“I always will.”

(Later on, as you’re trying to steady your breathing, slick with sweat, your thigh thrown over Seungcheol’s hip as he stares down at you, dopey smile on his face, you say, “Choi Seungcheol, don’t you dare drop that class. I have worked my ass off to get you to barely-passing.”)

if you’ve made it this far thank you so much for reading! i am still very new at writing for seventeen, so i hope this was acceptable. i'm now going to throw myself into the warped tour vernon fic and will hopefully not go another 7+ months without posting anything. 😭

i would love to hear your thoughts! <3

#seungcheol x reader #scoups x reader #seungcheol angst #seungcheol au #scoups angst #seungcheol imagines #scoups imagines #seventeen fanfic #seventeen imagines #seventeen x reader #jewel writes

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omniseurs-blog · 4 months ago

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I am a stealth trans man, the privilege I have is being treated like a man as soon as they see me

If I'm applying for a job, I am treated like a woman trying to be perceived as a man, because they still see my legal name and gender marker on my ID.

If I'm trying to date, I'm perceived as a predator by straight women, a confused lesbian by bi/lesbian women (these demographics I rarely, if never go after), a tomboy by straight/bisexual men, and a gay fetishizer by gay men. At best with trans women, I become the therapist, and with trans men, it becomes an argument of passing better or worse and jealousy. That's not to say out of every demographic there are people who handle the relationship properly, but that the majority don't.

In friendships, things can go great for months and months, sometimes even years before they find out I'm trans and they start acting weird about it.

Suddenly they recommend more "feminine" music, hobbies, activities to do with me, they suddenly view me as their therapist to vent about difficulties with women, and that's all the BEST case scenario, that's the BEST thing that could happen from them finding out, this one's also the easiest to handle, "I thought you might like to see my grandmas garden.... My grandpa also likes it... Haha" - "no, nah, I wanna get back to playing eve online with you though, I mean, I do have some fake plants, heard they help with depression, think real ones would last a month at most".

An unfortunate amount of people react to things they don't understand with anger and attacks, whether that be verbal or physical.

I used to be nearly best friends with a girl named Kat. Unknown to me at the time, she had a crush on me. She invited me over, we got to her bedroom (in my mind, to hang out), she pushed me on the bed (I thought it was playful, like wrestling), and she pulled my shirt up and saw my binder, jumped away, and started apologizing. I went home straight after that. After that, she avoided me, and called me a faggot, rapist, molester, and creep after that. I wasn't interested in her at all before or after that, and I wasn't the one who initiated or caused that situation to happen.

Another incident was while I was at the mental ward, in which they usually refused to put my chosen name on the cards, and I would turn it around and write my chosen name every time I saw it. Unfortunately, I usually wasn't fast enough and someone saw my dead name on the card. He started asking me inappropriate questions, calling me a tranny, and eventually lead to him punching me in the face, the police being called, and the police did nothing besides give me a court date in an entire state over, which I had no way to get to, meaning nothing happened and the case was dropped.

A lot of people react to things they don't understand with suddenly disappearing from your life too.

You join a hobby discord server, talk, people think you're cool, they add and DM you, you get along fine talking to each other, you mention as relevant to the conversation that you're trans, the conversation magically fizzles out and becomes dry, and then they stop responding all together, usually intermitten with one or 2 inappropriate questions about your genitals or body or kids or hormones or surgery.

#trans man #trans male #transgender #transandrophobia #transphobes dni #stealth

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jayparked · 3 months ago

Text

miscommunication - jay's version

PAIRING: best friend jay x female reader WORD COUNT: 3.9k GENRE: crack, smut ; mdni AU: best friends to lovers(finally) WARNINGS: punishment and pain kink, spanking, fingering, rough sex, begging, bondage, brat/brat tamer dynamics, edging, dacryphilia, dirty talk, pet names, strong language SNAIL TRAIL: here are jay's texts AND his written part! thank you to @sungbeams for looking over this last minute and thank you to all my tickets in the jayparked's garage discord server💛 to get updates and previews on my work before they get posted, join here(18+)

♡ ot7 texts part one ; part two ; part three ; part four ; part five ; part six ; part seven; part eight ♡ ♡heeseung ; jay ; jake ; sunghoon ; sunoo ; jungwon ; riki♡

It all happened so fast.

One moment you were boldly texting your best friend something you never thought you’d have the courage to say. Thoughts and feelings you’ve been harboring for years finally spilling out, unable to keep any and all doubts about potentially ruining the greatest friendship you’ve ever had at bay. Harboring these feelings for so many years was driving you crazy and you just couldn’t help but test the waters a little bit to see if maybe, just maybe, there was a possibility that he could feel the same way about you.

And now? Said best friend has you bent over his lap, his strong hand massaging and rubbing the swell of your bare ass cheeks before smacking his palm against it.

Another strong smack with his fingers spread apart has you whimpering louder than before, squirming on his lap while your pussy drips with neglected attention. “Jay…need you to touch me.”

“I don’t think you’re in any sort of position to be making demands,” he says coldly with another harsh hit. Your body lurches forward, eyes stinging with tears, but it’s the way Jay gently rubs at the flesh he just hit that has your heart fluttering in your chest. “You thought it was funny to play with my emotions? Hmm? Think you can just get away with whatever you want to me without any consequences?”

As soon as you open your mouth to answer him he lands another harsh hit to your ass, instantly squeezing your flesh so hard you can feel his nails breaking your skin. A loud gasp forces its way from your mouth along with an embarrassing droplet of drool. Your thighs are shaking, ass stinging from the repeated contact from Jay’s palms and the tears are finally starting to streak down your cheeks. Even still, your clit is pulsating, desperately awaiting some form of contact.

“I’m sorry!” You finally give in. “Just…Jay please. I need something.”

“Something,” he mocks with a low chuckle, still massaging your bruised flesh, “You were so careless with your words before, why so shy now?”

Brain whirling in a desperate attempt to find some sort of comprehensible words, you glance over your shoulder to Jay’s lap. His black jeans are strained by his hard cock, a prominent tent beautifully on display right before your eyes. You always thought that actions spoke louder than words. So, you do the only sensible thing that comes to mind and pivot your body slightly and put both hands on his belt.

“What do you think you’re-” Jay groans, cutting himself off when he feels your hands bump against his erection. You’re failing miserably to even get the leather out from his pant loops, let alone even begin to try to undo the stiff button and zipper. Huffing in frustration, you’re about to make some progress when Jay’s fingers curl around your wrist, stopping you completely.

You gulp loudly, braving a quick look up at him only to find his cold gaze already upon you. His jaw is stiff, the muscles flexing with each exhale he lets out through his flared nostrils.

Jay exhales deeper, biting his tongue between the side of his teeth before speaking. “What do you think you’re doing?” Through gritted teeth the words send chills down your spine. For a moment, you brace yourself for another brutal spanking montage, but it doesn’t come. Instead, Jay patiently awaits your answer, his grip on your wrist only tightening.

“I-...I just-” you stammer pathetically. Jay raises an eyebrow at you and continues to wait. “I need you.”

Even though his dark eyes are narrowing, you see something shift, something so subtle you think you might be making it up – then his free hand is cupping the side of your cheek, gently moving along your cheekbone with his thumb, and it’s undeniably there: endearment.

All too quickly, the moment is gone.

Jay releases your wrist to undo his belt himself, fully removing it from the waist of his jeans. You excitedly lick your lips, watching and waiting for him to free himself so you can finally get a look at what he’s been hiding. But instead of tossing the belt and moving forward, Jay folds the belt in half, giving his palm a testing slap. It isn’t until his devilish smirk appears that you realize what he’s about to do.

“Jay! No! I’m sorry! I-”

Smack!

Warm pain blooms against your ass where the belt landed perfectly across both cheeks. Sharply inhaling, you try your best to keep your body calm, but your thighs are already shaking again, fresh tears threatening to spill as the sting continues to get worse. You’re about to speak, to make another attempt to protest against this harsh treament, but Jay is cruel and times his next hit perfectly. All that comes out of your mouth is a haggard sob, yet you can’t help the way your eyes roll back slightly, your clit still throbbing while you clench around nothing. It’s becoming too much. If you don’t feel any sort of contact soon you might just pass out.

“You’re such a brat,” he growls, leaning down to bite on your right ass cheek while he gropes the other. You cry out again, wondering if you’ll even be able to sit properly after this. Jay moans as you squirm, loving the way you’re whining and knowing you’re feeling so overstimulated and neglected at the same time.

Suddenly, Jay’s moving you off his lap and onto your back at the head of his bed. Body looming over yours, Jay grabs both of your wrists and thrusts them above your head, his face now inches from yours. Chest still moving rapidly with each haggard breath, Jay looks down at you with that focused stare of his, licking his lips slowly. “Hmm…I have an idea.” The belt comes back into your line of sight and for a moment, you’re slightly scared that he might use it on your clit or chest. You wonder what it would feel like, but also shiver with the thought of the continued torture.

Instead, Jay loops the belt strategically around your wrists and the headboard, completely trapping you in place.

“What?” You tug at your restraints, barely getting any slack.

“Since you can’t keep your hands to yourself and you love playing games, I figured this would be a good punishment for you.” Jay’s hands roam about your naked body freely now, savoring every bump and every curve of you. Wiggling your hips, you try to get free, but he has you fully trapped with both his legs on either side of yours.

“But I want to touch you!” You growl out in frustration, bucking your hips up again and forcing Jay to grab you by your hips to keep you steady.

“Who knew you’d be like this? God…” Jay’s hands begin to roam again now that you’ve calmed down slightly, still huffing at him nonetheless. “Has no one properly put you in your place before?” He laughs at your scowl, “I take that as a no…well it’s an honor to be the one to do it. Act like a brat, get punished like a brat. It’s that simple. Next time you can learn how to communicate like a big girl and just tell me you want me like a normal person instead of purposefully trying to get me riled up so I’ll make the first move.” He flicks a finger playfully against your perked nipple, chuckling again when you wince.

Settling between your legs, Jay places both palms on your angled knees, rubbing them absentmindedly while pushing your legs apart – putting you on display. Just one look at your glistening folds has his head falling back with a groan, “Oh my god, look at you…damn.” Taking two of his fingers, Jay swipes them against your arousal. A long string connects from his fingers to your core, the sight completely lewd and has you shivering. Jay only groans again, moving his fingers up to his mouth before taking a deep inhale, eyes fluttering shut. Then, he opens his eyes and holds eye contact with you before slowly inserting his digits into his mouth, moaning as the sweet taste of you hits his tongue.

“Jay,” you whimper softly, “you’re making me go crazy.”

He scoffs out a laugh, licking his lips generously now that his fingers are back to your knees. Resuming his soft massages, Jay looks at you with dark clouded eyes. “I’m making you crazy? You have no idea what you’ve been doing to me these past few weeks.” He chuckles again, shaking his head before leaning closer, his face now inches from yours, “You’re going crazy? I’ve been going insane.”

A choked moan forces its way out of your throat because at the exact time he says ‘insane’ he ruts his clothed cock right over your core; the pressure sends an electric shock of pleasure throughout your body, finally feeling contact on your bundle of nerves after being neglected for so long. You desperately want to reach out and cling to his biceps, to dig your fingernails into his skin and finally tear those clothes off of him, but his belt still digs into your wrists. After a moment, you realize something that has you biting down on your bottom lip to suppress your smirk: your fists have been clenched this whole time.

While Jay is distracted with rutting himself against you, you manage to slip your hands out of your restraints. Before Jay can even notice, your hands are pushing against his chest, knocking him onto his back with your legs now straddling on either side of his hips. You can’t stop the smirk from growing on your face, knowing it’ll only agitate Jay more.

You watch as his confused expression turns aghast. Jay lets out a warning chuckle, closely resembling a scoff as he’s shaking his head back and forth in disbelief. Misleadingly gentle, his hands come up to grab your hips, thumbs tracing over your curves. He takes a moment, eyes roaming unabashedly over your bare body. Adoration is clear in his gaze, but there’s a dark mix of something more, something hungry hiding behind his deep brown eyes.

It feels like you can finally relax, letting your hands roam over his toned chest without worrying about keeping him in place.

But as soon as you lower your hips and attempt to grind on him, something shifts.

The grip Jay has on your hips tightens and soon enough, you’re laying on your back gasping for breath while he stares down at you. It’s his turn to smirk, proud at how easily he tricked you into thinking you had any sort of control.

“Cute,” he murmurs, dipping his head low to kiss along your jawline, “but not gonna happen.”

With a quick nip at your neck, Jay sits back and rolls you onto your stomach. Your heart is beating so loudly in your ears that you miss his instructions, resulting in another harsh smack against your ass.

“There’s no way a few spankings has you this out of it,” Jay murmurs, “I said put your hands behind your back.” When you don’t immediately do as you're told, Jay grunts and moves your hands to your back on his own. A cold, thick material presses around your wrists that you can only assume is the belt again.

“Maybe this will teach you to keep your hands to yourself,” he grumbles, cinching the belt so tight around your wrists that you let out a muffled whimper.

Satisfied with his work, Jay leans back, his hands wandering over the expanse of your back down to the swell of your bruised ass before traveling back up again. It’s a simple touch, almost like a massage, yet the action has your breathing quickening, heart racing, and limbs restless as he, yet again, pushes your senses to their limit. Feeling his hands on your bare skin everywhere except where you need him most is torturous, your mind buzzing with the urge to throw a fit until you finally get what you want.

But that’s exactly what he’s hoping for.

You close your eyes and inhale slowly through your nose, exhaling only when you start to feel dizzy. Trying to keep your composure in this situation is one of the hardest things you’ve ever had to do, but your pride is on the line, knowing that if you beg for Jay too eagerly you’ll never hear the end of it.

Lucky for you, Jay isn’t feeling very patient anymore.

Excitement bubbles too quickly in your chest when you hear the sound of his zipper. Craning your neck to try to get a look at him, you’re met with Jay’s growing smirk, hands now moving slower knowing you’re watching him. A low whimper escapes your lips, Jay’s eyes softening with weak fondness.

“Just be patient. I’m not trying to rush this,” Jay murmurs, his smile soft and genuine. It makes your heart flutter, seeing him like this especially after he just spent so long punishing you for teasing him for so long.

Finally, finally, you feel two of his fingers sliding between your folds. An embarrassingly loud moan leaves your lips, making you bite down on your lip hard to try to control yourself. But Jay just chuckles behind you, loving the way your body twitches from no longer being ignored. He sighs longingly, collecting your slick slowly between his fingers, teasing around your clit as he does so. All you can do is keep whimpering, still holding onto what little sanity you have left. You refuse to beg, refuse to apologize for what you’ve done to get yourself in this position.

Much to your surprise (and gratitude), it seems Jay has also forgotten about his plan to make you beg and plead for forgiveness with the way his fingers slowly push into your hole. Curling his fingers slowly, Jay groans quietly. You almost missed it, too distracted with the relief he’s coaxing out of you.

It doesn’t take long for the squelching sounds to fill the room, your arousal quickly coating Jay’s fingers while he diligently curls inside you. His pace is slow but consistent, easily keeping you in a state of bliss while still eager for more.

“Fuck,” Jay groans, “you’re shaking, baby. You need me this bad?”

All you can muster is a pathetic whimper, trying to sneakily move your hips to fuck yourself more on his fingers. You should have known better, though. Nothing gets past Jay, afterall.

With his free hand, Jay brings it down on your left asscheek, kneading your flesh after the abrupt hit. “So impatient. You could have had me all this time if you had only asked.”

“I didn’t want to ruin our friendship,” you whimper again, sighing contently when Jay’s finger brushes against your clit.

“And look where that got you; all pent up and being punished for your childish decisions. But don’t worry, my baby, I’m a patient man and will show you how to behave.” He kisses the spot between your shoulder blades, chills erupting throughout your skin while somehow leaving a burning feeling in his absence.

You try to move your head to the side so you can see him – needing eye contact before saying what you want to say. “Jay–,” Hair falls in your face, cutting off your train of thought. You groan before trying to blow it away with no luck. Chuckling fondly, Jay removes his fingers from your cunt and leans forward, taking his untainted hand to move the disarray strands from your face. Time slows for a moment when you finally see him and it feels like the universe has finally aligned in your favor. You forget all about the fact that your hands are restrained behind your back and your ass is throbbing with pain, but none of it matters because you’re here with him after all this time.

“I really like you, Jay.”

He playfully rolls his eyes, blinking rapidly while biting his lip. The laugh he lets out is nervously joyful, his eyes softening despite his attempts to appear nonchalant. It feels so good to finally say the words out loud, confessing what’s been weighing on your heart for so long now.

“Well,” Jay says slowly, leaning closer to your face, “if it isn’t obvious…I really like you too, Y/n.” He leans in more, connecting your lips together despite the awkward angle. And it feels like the best kiss you could possibly have in a moment like this. Jay’s lips fit against yours perfectly, so soft, so comforting, so right.

When you finally pull apart, you watch as Jay’s gaze goes from warm and soft, to shadowed and devious. Your heart rate quickens, but before you have a chance to form a coherent thought, Jay sits up and is removing his shirt, barely within your peripheral view.

“I can’t wait any longer.” Jay’s words send a wave of excitement down to your core. You hear his clothes drop to the floor and you desperately want a view of him in all his naked glory. The feeling of something prodding at your hole jolts your system, completely unprepared for the intrusion. Jay’s hands grab your waist gently, repositioning your body to the angle he needs you in.

Nothing could have prepared you for the feeling of Jay’s cock inside of you. Every curve, every vein is everything you need and more.

“Oh my god,” Jay swears, bottoming out in you, “you feel so perfect. This pussy was made for me.” A sharp smack on your ass has you yelping, completely caught off guard. “Why would you keep this from me for so long?”

“I told you-”

Smack. The skin on your butt feels bruisingly hot, the sting so deep in your skin unlike anything you've ever felt before. And it feels so fucking good.

“Don’t talk back to me. Apologize. Tell me how sorry you are for keeping this pussy from me.” Him not moving and just sitting inside you is driving you crazy and you’ve had enough; no more holding onto your pride or sanity. You’re ready to lose it all and give anything you have as long as Jay asks for it.

“I’m sorry! Jay, please I’m sorry. I should have told you how I felt sooner.”

“Good fucking girl,” Jay growls and starts pistoning himself in and out of you, his grip tightening on your hips as he guides you into a perfect rhythm with his thrusts. You become a moaning mess, Jay’s pace unrelenting as he finally lets go of his control. The way his cock feels inside of you is a type of ecstacy you would never be able to conjure up in your wildest dreams.

“Oh, fuck!” You scream out when you feel the tip of Jay’s cock hitting the perfect spot. Even though he just started moving, it almost feels overstimulating. All the build up and teasing from before crashes over you in a drowning wave and all you can think about is how good he feels inside of you. He continues to set a steady pace, not faltering for even a moment when he leans down to tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear and out of your face. Your stomach flips at the small act of intimacy during such lewd and aggressive acts of sex.

It doesn’t take long before the knot in your stomach tightens to an unbearable depth. No one has ever made you get even close to an orgasm this quickly, let alone make you a blubbering mess underneath them. The way Jay handles your body…it’s like he’s known all along how you’ve needed to be handled. Maybe it’s the years of friendship coming into play, but the way your bodies connect and respond to one another feels natural, like it was meant to happen. There’s moments where you even catch yourself forgetting that this is the first time you’re having sex with him instead of the hundredth. But that will surely come in the future.

“That’s it, baby. Just like that.” Jay coaxes you through your high, still languidly thrusting into you while you gasp beneath him, body shuddering and quivering from how hard your orgasm hit.

Once you regain some sort of composure, Jay flips you onto your back, your restrained hands digging into your spine. Tears are streaming down your face from everything: the overstimulation, the foreplay, the buildup, the orgasm. When Jay sees your tear stained face, his body stutters. He was just about to insert himself back into you when he sees what a mess he’s made of you. Before he can even insert the tip of his cock back inside you, hand still grasping his own base, he’s coming undone. Spurts of white cum hit all over your body from your chest to your stomach and down to your thighs. Jay’s groan has your heart beating even faster than before as you watch him lose himself at the sight of you, a sense of pride blooming in your chest at the fact that he came so hard just from looking at you.

“Fuck…that’s never happened to me before,” he’s breathing hard, trying to regain his calm demeanor to no avail, “just seeing you like that…I don’t know what came over me.”

“I know what came over me…” you mutter. Jay looks at you for a moment before bursting out in a fit of laughter, you following closely behind. Falling beside you, Jay tucks his head into the crook of your neck, molding his body against yours as your mutual laughter dies down.

“Let me get you cleaned up,” he murmurs, leaving a featherlight kiss to your neck before sitting up and freeing your wrists from the constraints of his belt. He tosses the belt aside and goes back to massage your wrists gently, looking into your eyes to make sure you’re feeling okay. You nod your head, whispering a quiet “thank you” before he stands up. Stretching, you get a chance to admire the muscles of his back and the way he stands so tall and steady. Something about it is reassuring and you can’t quite place your finger on it, but you know it’s a sight you’ll never get used to.

Disappearing into your bathroom, you hear the sound of running water and cabinet doors being opened and closed. Before long, Jay is in front of you again. Instead of handing you a bundled up wad of toilet paper like other guys have done in the past, Jay presses a warm washcloth against your skin, cleaning up the mess he left behind on your body. The warmth feels soothing, making you sigh and close your eyes as you let him take care of you.

“Don’t fall asleep yet.”

You groan and roll onto your side facing him with your eyes still closed, “Why? You fucked me so hard I nearly passed out.”

“Because…” the sultry low tone of his voice has your eyes snapping open. Right in front of your face is Jay’s cock, fully erect with new beads of precum dribbling from his slit. Giving a light smack to your cheek with the tip of his dick, Jay chuckles seeing your widened eyes, “we’ve got a lot of lost time to make up for. And we’re just getting started.”

♡ pls like, comment, and reblog if you enjoyed! ♡ masterlist ♡ all rights reserved jayparked 04/11/25 do not copy, repost, or translate. if you're inspired to create something similar to my work, please credit me

#enhypen fake texts #jay smut #enhypen jay smut #jay x reader #jay x you #jay x y/n #jay hard hours #jay hard thoughts #jongseong smut #jay oneshot #enhypen smut #enhypen x reader #enhypen x you #enhypen x y/n #jay fic #enhypen fic #enhypen hard thoughts #enhypen hard hours

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chow0w · 19 days ago

Note

Could I add pineapple to the rainwing request roster?? Jambu needs his boyfriend <3

also omg your work is absolutely stunning- have you thought about doing artfight?

Ofc! Thank you so much - your question actually reminded me to do an artfight post so everyone has my link!

Here's my take on pineapple! This was definitely one of the more difficult redesigns and I'm not really sure why, but I think it might have been because I was really struggling to put the pineapple zigzag pattern in. I ended up ignoring a little bit of Pineapple's canon color scheme (the pinks and oranges) in favor of full fruit representation, mostly because I took the name and ran with it while sketching this out. The wiki describes him as bigger and heavier than Luna, which would be more helpful if Luna were not described as 'smaller and lighter than Pineapple.' Thanks guys. (I ended up going for something I think would be in the middle, where he has bigger muscles but a relatively small and long body.)

I don't have much else to say on this redesign, outside of noting the pineapple leaf-shaped frills and tail frill, as well as the blue/pink eyes meant to mimic Jambu's color scheme. Pineapple is such a cutie pie and I love him!! I enjoy their couple dynamic a lot, but I will say Pinebu isn't really my favorite queer ship. I think it might be a tie between Snowlynx, moonjou or qwinter.

Thank you all for following along with this series! If you'd like to add your favorite WoF character to the waitlist, head to my inbox or check my pinned post and see if I already have them! And I know everyone has heard this already, but I am hosting an art contest until the end of June! The challenge is to draw a scene from any WoF book/Gn, and the prizes include cash and/or free comms! You can join and submit here, in my discord server!

later (/▿＼ )

#wings of fire #wof #art #character design #wof redesign #rainwing #wof rainwing #rainwing wof #pineapple wof #wof pineapple

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woogilicious · 3 months ago

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offline messages ꒰ yunho ꒱

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ pairing: streamer!yunho x gn!reader. ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ word count: 1039 words. ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ genre: angst + fluff. ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ warnings: mild angst, emotional neglect (unintentional), feelings of being left behind, fluff at the end.

You were there before the follower goals, and fancy mic setup. Back when Yunho streamed from a wobbly IKEA desk and his only viewers were you and that one random bot that kept posting shady links.

Back then, his face would light up when he saw your name in chat.

"Yo!" he'd grin, headset slightly tilted. "You're here!"

Of course you were. You always were.

You modded his streams before he even asked. Built his discord server from scratch. Stayed up past midnight helping him troubleshoot lag while playing Valorant. You even tolerated the scream fest during Lethal Company session with San, Mingi, and Wooyoung―all chaos, max volume, all the time.

And when things took off―when Twitch clipped him into the algorithm and the chat exploded with new fans, you celebrated with him. You were proud. You really were.

But you also started feeling... invisible.

It started small. A joke you made in chat went ignored. Then another. Then another.

You chalked it up, at first. That's what growing meant―more people, more chaos. But then he stopped replying to your DMs. Took hours to answer simple messages. And one day, you noticed your mod label was gone. No explanation. No "thanks for everything." Nothing at all.

You watched one of his streams that night, lurking, your name is grey in a sea of neon usernames. Someone made a crude joke. You called it out. Yunho didn't even notice, until a stranger timed you out.

That was the last stream you watched live.

You muted the server. Turned off notifications. Closed the tab. He never reaches out. Not once.

Months passed.

One night, you're scrolling through your phone, brain on autopilot, when you see his name. Yunho is live: Unpacking + chatting. You shouldn't care. You don't.

But you click.

He's streaming Unpacking, of all things. Soft music, quiet atmosphere, just him and the sound of cardboard boxes being emptied on screen. There's no Wooyoung yelling in the background, no San whining about being scared―just Yunho. Focused. A little tired. His laugh softer tonight.

You shouldn't message him.

But your fingers move anyway, finding his name in your message app.

Are you okay?

You send it. Regret it instantly. Consider deleting it, but then―

yunho: wait yunho: wait wait wait yunho: is this real?? yunho: y/n... i thought u blocked me or smth

You stare at the screen, looking at his stream while his attention turns to his phone.

you: figured you wouldn't notice either way yunho: ... yunho: okay. i deserve that. yunho: i miss you. a lot.

You don't reply right away, and you close the Twitch app.

The next day, he sends you a message privately in discord.

yunho: can we talk?

You call. It's weird, at first. The silence between you used to be comfortable, easy. Now it's cautious. Hesitant.

But he tries.

"I don't know when I started messing it up," he says, voice quiet. "I think... I just got caught up in everything. I didn't mean to shut you out."

You shrug, even though he can't see you. "You kind of did, though."

"I know. I just... didn't want you to feel like you had to carry my stuff forever. You helped me so much and I kept thinking, maybe you deserved to just... live your life. Not babysit my stream."

You snort. "You took away my mod role without saying a word. The least you can do is tell me."

He winces. "Yeah. That was stupid."

"You think?"

He laughs. It's small, and it is obvious that he is nervous.

"Let me fix it," he says. "Please."

It's not instant. It's not perfect.

But you start showing up again. Not as a mod, but just as his friend.

He messages you in the middle of the night about weird games you'd both like. Sends you dumb voices notes of Mingi farting on call. You hop into discord during late-night gaming, and he still screams in panic when he gets chased in scary games, but now, he screams your name too.

And one night, he messages:

yunho: do you want to do a stream together soon? you: what would we even play? yunho: idc. minecraft? stardew? anything. i just want to hang out with you on stream.

You agree, and the next night, it's Minecraft night.

The stream starts slow, chill lo-fi music playing in the background. Yunho decides to do a member only stream, which means the chat is smaller, cozier. The mods keep it clean. No chaos whatsoever.

"Special guest tonight, their name is Y/N" Yunho says, grinning. "My oldest friend. Like actual old. We've known each other since middle school."

You laugh. "You're few months older than me."

Chat, on the other hand, explodes with excitement:

xXxgamerraccoon12: brooo you can see yunho smiling like an idiot fluffyhorsie: their voice sounds so soothing!! i love them already!! bananapie481: we need more cozy game with y/n!!

You two fish, farm, fight monsters, collect materials. It's easy.

Halfway through the stream, you forget the camera's even on.

"You're different when it's just us," you say quietly.

Yunho hums. "Different how?"

"Less loud, less performative. More... you."

He doesn't say anything right away, just smiling while mining some woods for their house. Then, softly. "That's because you bring out the parts of me I actually like."

Your chest tightens.

"You know I was really scared," he adds. "That you'd never message me again. That I lost you for good."

You exhale. "You almost did."

"I know."

Silence.

Then, your character walks over and gifts his character a flower.

It's just pixels, but Yunho makes a sound that's a little too real.

"What?"

"What do you mean what? Maybe I just like giving you flowers."

His voice is barely a whisper. "God, I missed you so much."

The stream ends with your character standing next to his inside your finish small cozy wooden house.

Chat's spamming hearts. Fan edit already being posted. People are begging for another duo stream.

Once he turns off his stream, he says, "Don't log off yet."

You stay.

His voice is warm through your headset.

"Let's play another day?"

You smile. "Sure, Yunho. I'll be here."

This time, you know he believes it.

And this time, you do too.

#yunho #jeong yunho #ateez yunho #ateez jeong yunho #ateez #yunho imagine #ateez fluff #ateez imagine #yunho x reader #kpop x reader #ateez x reader #kpop fluff #kpop angst #ateez angst #angst #fluff #ateez fic #ateez fanfic

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annabelle--cane · 1 year ago

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"the magnus protocol had a whole ARG beforehand? what?"

yes! it did!

"oh so I need to have participated in this whole big thing to actually understand the podcast?"

not at all! from the official post-mortem put out by RQ, "while the ARG was not something that was necessary to participate in to understand the magnus protocol, it was designed to contain a wealth of background story and context that would enrich any player's listening experience."

"a wealth of background context that would enrich my listening experience 👀👀👀 how can I learn about this?"

SO glad you asked. sadly, many of the materials made for the arg have been taken down since the game ended 😔 (ex., the official OIAR, magnus institute, and bonzoland websites. (edit ii: I found partial wayback machine captures! see below) though @strangehauntsuk is still up!), so we're a bit low on primary sources, but in terms of learning about what happened:

for a starting point, I would really recommend this video by @pinkelotjeart

youtube

it's super accessible, it was made in real time as the game progressed and follows the solving and revelation of clues as they happened, it hits all the major points of the mystery and moments of community insanity while eliding some of the nitty gritty puzzle grinding, 10/10 would recommend.

here's the official summary put out by RQ, and I'd recommend reading through this once you've already gotten a basic handle on the flow of the story and the basic connections between major clues and events. it's got some fun behind-the-scenes info and lays out the thought process behind the puzzles in simple terms

here's the full masterdoc of all puzzles and resolutions put together in the statement remains discord server. masterdoc my absolute BELOVED, masterdoc my bethrothed, masterdoc my soul mate. I'd recommend this as a second port of call after the above video as it either contains all details about the puzzles or links to other expanded docs that do.

here's the narrative summary doc that lays out all the plot and lore discovered in three pages of plain prose. if you just want to get to the good bits as fast as you can and get blasted directly in the face by contextless lore bombs, this is the doc for you. if you don't want to start with the video, I'd say this is another good entry point.

once you've got the lay of the land, some of the game materials that I found particularly interesting include:

the in-universe east germany expat usenet forum, with all content translated into english. most of it is irrelevant space filler with occasional extremely sus lore, but I still found it fun to read through. love to soak in some fictional forum drama.

chdb.xlsx, the spreadsheet of the names of all the children the protocol 'verse magnus institute was studying/experimenting on. EDIT: here is a version of the sheet without any annotations and with all of the names in their original order, kudos to @theboombutton for catching that the commonly shared copy had the order swapped around.

klaus.xls, a (very corrupted) spreadsheet with what looks like the classifications of a bunch of old OIAR cases.

EDIT: have a few more saved materials from the game that I forgot to include.

an in-universe audio ad to apply to the OIAR that ran before archives episodes and kicked off the whole game.

an in-universe video ad to apply to the OIAR, this one is an official upload that's still up from the game itself. you can subscribe to the OIAR's official youtube channel today, if you so chose.

the robo-voicemail greeting from the OIAR's phone line.

EDIT II:

here is a wayback machine capture of the OIAR's official website.

here is a wayback machine capture of the bonzoland website.

(pretty sure both of the above captures just archived the home pages, though I haven't tried clicking all of the links. I'd say they're still worth looking at, the home pages give a good window into the vibes.)

once you start poking around in these documents, you'll find a bunch of links to others with further information, the materials I've included here just contain what I feel to be the most relevant details to getting a broad feel for the whole game. once again, huge shout out to the statement remains server, I was barely in there as the ARG was in progress and only ducked my head in every so often to find links like these. true mvps of the fandom.

#gonna pin this for a bit because every day I get 2-5 asks saying 'there was an arg? how do I learn about it?'#tmagp #video #marina marvels at life

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monstatron · 14 days ago

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SUNILA ARKANS / LEADER OF THE AZURE

Sunila is the last of a lineage of famous hunting cetacean animans. She's one of the few remaining of her family that abandoned fame and hunting for a life of her own. She can often be found engaging with others through street fighting, a fun pass time and a good source of income for her. If you encounter be on edge… Well, not too on edge. She's one of the most hospitable animans out there! Even if she has a sharp, sassy attitude, she makes good company. In addition, she’s a trusted ally of Obasi. For the most part she’s here to keep the peace.

She's a well known street fighter among the smaller communities in Haderia. She even landed a fight against Noctis, the Iron Brusier. Of course, she came out on top. She currently lives in the Kyssaro district in Haderia, settling into her new life, and making a name for herself as a Haderian street legend. The Azure are a more violent vigilante group that's allied with the Phantoms (led by Obasi), and suffice to say, Sunila and Obasi don't always see eye to eye. Though, it can't be denied that together, Obasi and Sunila make for a tactical, effective, and powerful team of mind meets muscle. Overall, Sunila is a very boisterous, loud, and close-minded animan that likes to do things her way. One way or another she'll get the hang of teamwork…

i finished this a few days ago but i've been busy haha. been working hard on references for artfight, and i finally got another done! i think this leaves me at four more that i'm gonna hopefully have done before july... whew! this time, sunila makes a well-deserved comeback with both a new design and updated lore! i mention some settings and worldbuilding here that i haven't yet posted on tumblr, but if you're in my discord server then you may recognize some of the settings and groups mentioned.

i hope to draw and write more of sunila, as she's actually become quite an important secondary character in my book, "blade in the city"! sunila is such a fun character to write.

while i haven't shared any work featuring her yet aside from my book (which, i don't even know when that'll be done lol), i hope to change that with a drabble or two. she and obasi butt heads a lot mostly because sunila is a jerk that doesn't like to listen to others or take them seriously. she's got some personal growth to go through, but i still love her :P

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tavukwings · 1 month ago

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DISCORD USER KÖNIG Part 2 𝒸𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝑜𝒻 𝒹𝓊𝓉𝓎

(König x Reader — Discord Friends, Slow Burn, Soft, Eventual Smut)

Taglist:

@poltergeist404 @laduenadelswing @dillybuggg @illonvk(i can’t tag you??😭) @whore4romance

4 Days Earlier – Discord, 1:13 AM

You:

“König? You alive?”

“You didn’t rage-quit life, right?”

“Don’t make me send memes. I’m armed.”

Silence.

No online status. No “typing…” No pings.

You sat there staring at his name in the server list—dark grey. Offline. Like a light had been switched off.

He’d gone dark before. Missions, spotty signal, sleep. But never this long. Four days with no update, not even a vague emoji or one of his weird, dry messages.

Your chest had that familiar ache. The one that crept in when you worried too much about someone who hadn’t promised you anything. He wasn’t yours.

But God, you missed him.

⸻

Tonight – 11:37 PM | Ping

König is online.

Your hand shot out like it moved on instinct. Mouse click. Open chat.

König has joined the VC.

No message. No warning.

Just his name lighting up the voice channel.

You scrambled for your headset, heart thudding.

You:

“König?!”

A pause. Crackle. Mic fuzz.

Then—his voice.

König (quiet, hoarse):

“…Hallo.”

One word.

But it hit you in the chest like a punch. Low, deep, exhausted. And something else. Like all the energy had been drained from him, leaving only that voice and the breath it rode in on.

You (softly):

“Where have you been?”

Silence.

You heard a sigh. Long, tired.

König:

“Mission. Remote. No contact. Sorry.”

He never said sorry.

Not unless he meant it.

You:

“Could’ve left a dramatic goodbye. A ‘if I die, delete my search history’ kind of thing.”

A dry chuckle through the mic.

But it didn’t reach his voice fully.

König:

“I didn’t want to leave.”

Something in you froze.

It wasn’t a flirt. Not a tease.

Just honesty.

You (quiet):

“You okay?”

A longer pause.

König:

“…No.”

Your breath caught.

There were layers to that word. Fatigue. Pain. Guilt. You waited, giving him space to speak. He always came to things on his own time.

König (muffled, low):

“Two men. Squadmates. Dead.”

You:

“König…”

You didn’t know what else to say. What could you? “I’m sorry” felt cheap. And he’d already heard that enough.

He exhaled hard, like he was trying to push something out that wouldn’t move.

König:

“I hesitated. I… was too slow.”

You:

“That’s not your fault.”

König (strained):

“It is. I froze. I’ve done this job for ten years. That doesn’t happen.”

You could hear the anger in him now—not at you. At himself. His voice trembled, a low, hot undercurrent of shame.

König:

“I was thinking of you.”

Your breath hitched.

You (carefully):

“Me?”

König:

“I was pinned. Behind a crate. Shot ringing past my head. And all I could think was—”

He cut himself off.

Static filled the silence.

Then:

König (quietly):

“All I could think was, if I die now… I’ll never hear you laugh in person.”

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t.

Your throat was tight. Fingers frozen over your keyboard.

König (softer):

“I’ll never get to… see you. Not through a screen. Not in pieces. You’d never even know.”

You swallowed hard.

You:

“I’d know.”

A pause. Heavy.

You (softer):

“I would’ve noticed. I would’ve waited. And waited. And known something was wrong.”

Another long silence.

König:

“I didn’t think this would happen. You. Us. This… feeling.”

He sounded raw. Stripped bare. No mask. No walls.

König (almost ashamed):

“I think about you too much.”

You closed your eyes. Your chest ached from how real it all felt.

You:

“I think about you too.”

A quiet, shaky breath from his mic.

König:

“You make me slow. Careful. Soft. I can’t afford to be soft.”

You:

“Maybe you can.”

He let that hang in the air for a while. Then:

König:

“Come to Austria.”

Your eyebrows shot up.

You:

“What?!”

König:

“Not now. Not yet. But one day.”

You (smiling faintly):

“You sure you’re ready for my chaotic energy in real life?”

König (warmly):

“I’ve fought wars. I can survive you.”

A laugh finally slipped from your lips.

König (low, softer now):

“I just… I needed to hear your voice.”

You held your mug of cold tea and let the warmth in your chest fill in the rest.

You:

“Play a match with me?”

König:

“Even if I lose on purpose to impress you?”

You:

“Especially if you do.”

⸻

VC — Late Night

Your voice was soft through the headset, almost whispering now. You’d both been gaming for hours, long after your teammates logged off, until it was just the two of you — König, still wearing his mask, slouched on his bed at base, and you, curled under a blanket in your room with only the monitor lighting your face.

He had gone quiet for a while. Just the sounds of you sipping tea and the game lobby music.

You glanced over at his username.

Still connected.

Still breathing.

“Hey,” you said softly. “You good?”

A pause. A long one.

Then, finally, König’s voice came through. Rougher than usual. Tired. Small.

“Ja… just thinking.”

You waited. Didn’t push. You’d learned to be gentle with his silences.

After a minute, he spoke again.

“Do you know how long it’s been since someone touched me?”

Your heart stuttered.

You opened your mouth to say something, but nothing came out. He filled the space instead.

“I don’t mean like… sex or whatever,” he mumbled, embarrassed. “I mean like—hug. A hand on the shoulder. Even a pat on the back. I don’t think anyone’s hugged me in… over two years.”

That hit you like a punch to the chest.

You sat up straighter. “Konig…”

“It’s fine,” he said too quickly, like he regretted saying it. “Sorry. Forget it. I don’t want to be weird.”

“No. No, hey.” Your voice softened. “That’s not weird. That’s… awful.”

“I think I forgot what it feels like,” he said quietly. “Warmth. Pressure. Another heartbeat. Everything I touch is tactical. Weapon. Trigger. Door. Steel.”

You bit your lip, feeling something sharp and tender bloom behind your ribs.

“Well,” you said, trying to keep your voice light but honest, “if we ever meet, I’m hugging you so long you’ll beg me to let go.”

Silence.

Then:

“…Really?”

“Really.”

A beat.

“I’d hold you for hours,” he said, voice raw, chest deep. “And I’d never ask you to let go.”

⸻

The Next Day – Discord Messages

König is Online.

He’s quiet today, but present. You’re in another Discord voice chat, casually chatting with a couple people you game with now and then. One of them, a guy from another server, keeps jokingly flirting with you during the match.

You laugh him off — as usual — but König’s gone dead silent.

After the match, you check your DMs.

König [Typing…]

Then he sends:

König:

That guy from the match. He does that often?

You blink.

You:

Who, Levi? He’s just messing around. He flirts with everyone, lol.

König:

Still.

Didn’t like it.

You:

Oh? You jealous, big guy?

The typing bubble appears.

Then disappears.

Then reappears.

König:

Do you want me to take care of it?

Your brows lifted.

You:

Wait—what??

König:

Not like that.

Just… let him know to back off.

You:

König… you’re being protective.

König:

Maybe I am.

Is that bad?

You felt your chest tighten. He wasn’t teasing. He meant it. You could practically see his furrowed brows through the screen, his knuckles tight where they rested near his mouse, his jaw clenched behind that mask.

You typed slower this time.

You:

No.

I like it.

But only if you’re protective of me… and not just anyone else.

A pause.

Then:

König:

Only you.

⸻

Three Weeks Without König

The Discord call had gone silent three weeks ago.

He left one last message.

König:

Mission time. I’ll be back soon, ja?

Stay safe, meine Süße.

And then nothing.

He’d told you once, offhandedly during a sleepy 2 a.m. VC, that missions could stretch long. That there were places he couldn’t bring his phone. That when he was deployed, he shut the world out to survive.

You tried to wait patiently.

You really did.

But three weeks felt like a lifetime when the one person who made you feel seen—safe—was just gone.

You found yourself staring at your phone. Re-reading old messages. That awkward selfie he sent once from the gym—his shirt clinging to his body, face cropped out, only his sweaty jawline and chest visible. You remembered teasing him for it, and how he stammered so much in the VC afterward he accidentally muted himself.

Your chest ached.

And that ache turned into something restless. Something reckless.

So, you did the only thing your heart screamed at you to do.

You booked a flight.

⸻

Austria – König’s Apartment

The city was colder than you expected. Brisk wind, gray skies, but beautiful—stone buildings with old wooden shutters and narrow streets that echoed when you wheeled your small suitcase down them.

You had the address. You’d sent him that limited-edition energy drink once, the one you both joked was probably radioactive. He never forgot it. Called you “his supplier” like it was a spy mission.

He once joked about hiding his key under the mat.

“Classic, I know,” he’d laughed over voice. “But no one ever checks, eh?”

Except you did.

And there it was.

A plain silver key under a faded old mat that read “Möge das WLAN stark sein” (“May the Wi-Fi be strong”).

You stepped inside.

His apartment was quiet. Still. Like him.

Big, but sparse. Clean. A little too clean. Just essentials.

Military-precise.

His mask hung on a hook by the door. His boots, muddy and massive, rested nearby. You walked around slowly, taking it all in — the way his couch had an indent shaped exactly like his body, the small pile of books in German and English, the little Post-It note stuck to his fridge with a scribbled reminder in his messy handwriting:

Call her when you’re back.

Your heart clenched.

You dragged your suitcase into his room.

Then curled up on his bed to wait.

⸻

Hours Later – The Front Door Opens

You heard the jingle of keys.

Then heavy boots. A grunt. A sigh.

The soft clink of his gear being dropped by the door.

Your heart pounded in your ears. You pressed your hand to your chest to steady it.

You heard his footsteps come down the hall.

He paused outside his bedroom door.

A beat.

Then—

Click.

The door opened.

You leapt.

He barely had time to react.

“Was zur—?!”

You threw yourself at him, arms around his neck, legs wrapping around his waist as you tackled him back a step. He staggered under your weight—though not much—and instinctively caught you, huge hands gripping your thighs.

“Hallo?!” he barked. “Who—?!”

Then he saw your face.

“…Schatz?”

You grinned. “Surprise, soldier.”

König just… stared.

You saw his expression shift through five stages of confusion before settling on stunned disbelief. His blue eyes wide under messy hair, fresh stubble shadowing his jaw, lips parted slightly.

“You—bist du verrückt?!” he whispered hoarsely. “You flew to Austria?!”

You nodded, still holding him tightly. “Yep.”

“And broke into my home?!”

“Technically, I used the key you hid under the mat.”

König blinked, mouth open.

Then he dropped his bag.

And crushed you into his chest.

He didn’t speak for a moment. Just held you. Arms like steel. Like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

You could feel his heart pounding against yours.

“…I thought I was dreaming,” he finally muttered. “This feels like a dream.”

You leaned back to look into his face, your hands cupping his jaw. “It’s real, König.”

He just stared at you like he couldn’t believe it. Then, softly:

“…I missed you.”

⸻

You were curled up on the couch, his oversized hoodie swallowing your small frame. König sat beside you, unusually quiet, rubbing the back of his neck while avoiding your eyes. The air between you felt heavy — but not uncomfortable. More like… electric.

“So,” you said softly, nudging him with your foot, “how does it feel having me here, crashing your place like a wrecking ball?”

His gaze finally flicked to you, and you caught the faintest blush coloring his cheeks. He cleared his throat, trying to act casual but failing spectacularly.

“I—I wasn’t prepared for this.” His voice cracked just a little. “You… surprised me.”

You smiled, reaching out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind his ear. His eyes widened for a moment at the gentle touch.

“Yeah? You look like you’re about to combust.”

He rubbed the back of his neck again, eyes darting down to your hand then back up. “Maybe I am. You—uh—you’re not just crashing the place. You’re… you’re crashing my defenses.”

You laughed softly, heart fluttering.

“Are you saying I’m making you shy?”

König’s lips twitched into a small, embarrassed smile. “Maybe.”

You scooted closer, your knee brushing his thigh. “Good. You’re adorable when you’re like this.”

He swallowed hard, face still pink. “Adorable? I’m a soldier.”

“And yet here you are, blushing like a schoolboy.” You winked.

His eyes flicked to the floor, voice low. “You’re dangerous, you know that?”

“Only to you,” you teased.

He let out a short, breathy laugh, still shy but somehow more relaxed now. You both sat like that for a while, the quiet between you filled with something warm — a new kind of closeness neither of you had quite dared to explore before.

You stayed close to König, the warmth from his body still lingering after your surprise hug. The quiet between you felt charged, the kind of silence that buzzes softly with things left unsaid.

You swallowed nervously, then looked up at him with a small smile.

“Hey, König…” you began, your voice softer than usual. “Can I… share your bed tonight?”

He blinked, eyes flickering away for a moment, cheeks tinting just the faintest shade of red beneath his mask.

“Äh… I—uh… sure,” he stammered, rubbing the back of his neck like a shy teenager caught off guard. “If you want.”

His voice was low, hesitant, almost shy—so unlike the confident soldier you knew. You found it endearing.

You reached out, lightly brushing a hand over his massive forearm. “Thanks,” you whispered.

He gave you a small, shy smile that made your heart skip.

⸻

“Let’s go then. What are you waiting for?” you said with a teasing smile.

König stood up, a bit stiff and awkward, clearly shy but trying to keep his composure. His tall frame moved quietly behind you as you led the way to his bedroom.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind you, you began changing out of your clothes without a word. König’s eyes widened immediately, and he quickly turned his gaze away, a faint blush creeping across his cheeks. You caught the shy flush and chuckled softly, amused by his obvious embarrassment.

You slipped into something comfortable—soft pajamas that contrasted with his military precision—and then crawled onto the bed, pulling the blankets up around you. König didn’t say much but carefully started changing too. He peeled off his shirt, revealing the hard, defined muscles beneath. His sweatpants hung low on his hips, the fabric stretched tight over powerful thighs.

You couldn’t help but glance at him. Your breath hitched at the sight—his broad chest, carved pecs shadowed by faint scars; the washboard abs you’d only seen in pictures, now right in front of you; thick, veined biceps and triceps that spoke of strength and endless discipline. His skin had that rugged, worn look from years in the field, but there was softness in his shy eyes that completely contradicted his tough exterior.

Caught staring, König’s gaze flicked to you, eyes wide and vulnerable. Without thinking, your fingers traced lightly over the ridges of his abs. The moment your skin touched his, he gasped softly, a sharp intake of breath that sent a thrill straight through you.

He remained unusually silent, cheeks flushed a deep pink, and you could tell your touch caught him off guard. Encouraged, you continued to explore slowly, letting your hand drift lower, tracing the line where his sweatpants met his hips.

A soft, unexpected moan slipped from his mouth, making both of you freeze instantly. König’s blue eyes locked onto yours, wide and unguarded.

You smirked gently, your voice teasing but warm. “Looks like someone’s a little more sensitive than he lets on.”

König swallowed hard, clearly flustered, but there was a spark in his eyes—something tender, something hungry—and you both knew this was just the beginning.

Your hand lingered on his hip, tracing delicate circles as König’s breath hitched again. You felt the heat radiating from his skin, his body tense beneath your touch. His usual calm, controlled demeanor was slipping away, replaced by something raw and vulnerable.

Then, you noticed it—the unmistakable bulge pressing against his sweatpants. Your eyes widened slightly, and you bit your lip to hide the smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.

König’s cheeks deepened into a rich crimson, and he quickly shifted his hips away, as if trying to hide what was obvious to both of you now.

“Uh—” he stammered, voice thick, eyes darting anywhere but yours. “This is… unexpected.”

You chuckled softly, the teasing warmth in your tone impossible to hide. “Sensitive, huh? Didn’t think the mighty König would be this easy to rattle.”

He swallowed hard, jaw working as he fought the flush spreading down his neck. “You’re… dangerous.”

You reached out again, fingers brushing over the top of his abs, tracing down to his hip, your touch slow and deliberate. “I could say the same about you.”

The tension between you thickened—the room shrinking until it was just the two of you, breaths mingling, hearts pounding in sync.

König’s lips parted, eyes searching yours, vulnerability flickering with something else—desire.

You smiled softly, leaning in just a fraction closer, letting your hand rest lightly on his thigh, the promise of more hanging in the air between you.

Your fingers hesitated just a moment before drifting lower, brushing along the edge of the bulge pressing against his sweatpants. König’s breath hitched sharply, eyes wide but unable to pull away.

You smiled softly, the thrill of his reaction sending a warmth straight to your core. Slowly, carefully, you began to rub the length of his hardness through the fabric—light, teasing circles that made him shift under your touch.

A low, involuntary groan escaped his lips, and you felt the vibration beneath your palm.

He was so tense, so sensitive—like every nerve ending was awake and aching.

König’s eyes flickered between yours, filled with a mixture of surprise and raw want. His usual composed mask was gone, replaced by a shy vulnerability that made your heart pound harder.

“D-Don’t stop,” he murmured, voice rough and breathless.

You chuckled, your touch lingering as you rubbed more boldly now, feeling him grow even harder beneath your palm.

His hips shifted closer, seeking more contact, but you held back just enough to keep him on edge.

The room felt electric—charged with anticipation, with unspoken promises, with the weight of everything you both wanted but hadn’t yet dared to say.

Your fingers traced slow circles, and König’s breath came faster, his muscles tensing and relaxing with each stroke.

“Sensitive,” you teased again, voice low and sultry. “You’re so damn sensitive.”

He groaned softly, the sound vibrating through your skin.

You both froze for a heartbeat—his reaction undeniable, your own desire flaring in response.

König’s breath hitched again, his hips shifting instinctively toward your hand, desperate for more contact. You let your fingers glide slowly, teasing him with just enough touch to make his pulse race without fully satisfying him.

His eyes darkened with need, flickering between wanting and holding back—just like you.

Without thinking, you leaned in, your lips brushing lightly against the shell of his ear. Your breath was warm, your voice low and husky.

“Do you want more, König?”

He swallowed hard, a soft groan escaping before he nodded almost imperceptibly.

Slowly, deliberately, you pulled your hand away—just enough to build the tension even higher. Your fingers trailed down his chest, feeling every ridge of muscle under your palm.

Then your gaze locked with his.

“Come here.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

König crawled toward you on the bed, each movement careful, almost shy—like he wasn’t used to letting someone see this side of him.

Your hands found his face, tracing the sharp lines of his jaw, the rough stubble that made you want to kiss every inch.

He leaned into your touch, eyes closing briefly as if savoring the moment.

Then, slowly, your lips met—soft at first, exploring, tasting.

His hands found your waist, pulling you closer, and the heat between you exploded.

His kisses deepened, urgent and hungry now, his body pressing into yours.

Every nerve ending was alive, every inch of skin craving connection.

König’s hands tightened on your waist, pulling you flush against him. His breath was ragged, warm against your skin as his lips traced a slow path down your neck. You felt the fire ignite beneath his touch—soft, deliberate, full of promise.

You tilted your head back, giving him better access, feeling the heat pool low in your belly. His fingers trailed lightly down your sides, exploring curves he’d only ever seen from afar. Every touch was electric, sending shivers down your spine.

He paused, eyes searching yours, asking without words if this was okay. You nodded, heart pounding with anticipation.

Slowly, he eased his hands under your tank top, skin meeting skin. His touch was gentle but hungry, memorizing every inch, every delicate curve. You gasped softly as he traced the swell of your breasts, fingers light but knowing.

König’s lips found yours again, this time more demanding, more urgent. You melted into the kiss, your hands threading through his hair, pulling him closer, needing to feel him even more.

Every sensation heightened—the rough scrape of his stubble, the warmth of his breath, the press of his body against yours. Time slowed down, the world shrinking until it was only the two of you tangled together, exploring, learning, savoring.

His hands roamed lower, sliding beneath your sweatpants, fingers teasing, coaxing.

There was a tenderness beneath the urgency, a careful worship of each other’s bodies that made everything feel sacred.

⸻

König’s fingers drifted lower, slipping beneath the waistband of your sweatpants, his touch light but deliberate. You caught the slight smirk playing on his lips—the kind of confident, knowing smile that sent a thrill straight through your core.

He pressed gently, just enough to make you shiver. The warmth beneath his hand was undeniable, his arousal growing despite the barrier of fabric. His breath hitched slightly, betraying how much he wanted you even now.

You couldn’t help it—a soft, unexpected moan escaped you. The sound was new, raw, and it seemed to surprise both of you.

König froze for a moment, eyes wide as if realizing for the first time just how much your reaction affected him. Then his smirk deepened, amused and captivated all at once.

“So… that’s your sound,” he murmured low and husky, his fingers never stopping their teasing dance. “I like it.”

Your cheeks flushed hotter, heart pounding wildly, but the heat pooling between your legs only grew stronger. The quiet room filled with your mingled breaths, the tension thick and delicious.

He leaned closer, voice a breath against your skin. He teased you just how you did earlier, “You’re so sensitive, aren’t you?”

⸻

König’s teasing fingers continued their slow, deliberate movements, his touch light but purposeful beneath the fabric. Suddenly, he paused, a subtle change in his expression—his eyes flickered down, sharp and curious.

His fingertips pressed a little more firmly, and then he stiffened.

“Hmm…” he murmured, voice low and thick with surprise. “You’re… wet.”

The word hung in the air, charged with meaning.

Your breath hitched at his touch, the warmth between you already burning, and now his knowing had set your skin alight. You felt exposed, vulnerable in the best way, caught under his gaze as he traced the slickness through the thin sweatpants.

He leaned in closer, his lips brushing your ear as he whispered, “I can feel how much you want me.”

You shivered, heart pounding hard. König’s fingers didn’t stop; if anything, they moved more boldly, stroking you through the fabric, making your breath catch again and again.

“Does that feel good?” he teased, his voice rough and playful.

You could only nod, lost in the heat of the moment, your moans growing softer but more urgent.

König’s blue eyes locked with yours, shining with something darker, hungrier, as the quiet room pulsed with the promise of what was to come.

Without breaking eye contact, König’s hand slid lower, fingers tracing the waistband of your sweatpants. Then, with a swift, confident motion, he shoved the fabric aside, exposing your wet skin to his touch.

His fingers pressed gently at first, then more boldly, moving with slow precision that sent shivers racing through your body. You gasped softly, clutching his arm as he explored you, every touch igniting sparks beneath your skin.

König’s breath was warm against your neck as he whispered, “So soft. So perfect.”

He teased you expertly, his fingers stroking and circling, eliciting soft moans and trembling gasps. The heat between you thickened, the room growing smaller until it felt like it existed only for this moment—just you and him, tangled together.

His other hand found your jaw, tilting your face up as his lips brushed yours, slow and teasing, the promise of more burning in his eyes.

König’s fingers moved with growing confidence, the pad of one finger tracing over your wetness, teasing you lightly. Then, with a deliberate, slow motion, he pressed one finger inside you.

You gasped, your breath catching in your throat as the new sensation overwhelmed your senses. His touch was careful but sure, moving just enough to make you shiver.

He watched your reactions closely, his blue eyes darkening with desire and concern all at once. “Sag mir, wenn es zu viel ist,” he murmured softly. (“Tell me if it’s too much.”)

You shook your head, unable to speak, too caught up in the way he made you feel — delicate, wanted, and achingly alive.

His finger moved gently, coaxing, teasing, and you felt the heat in your body deepen, every nerve ending alert.

König’s finger moved slowly, carefully exploring, his touch light but deliberate. You bit your lip to hold back a soft moan as the sensation rolled through you, every nerve waking up with delicious heat.

His breathing hitched just a little, his blue eyes locked on your face, reading every flicker of pleasure and hesitation. “Du bist so schön,” he whispered low, the German rough and tender in the same breath. (“You’re so beautiful.”)

You reached out instinctively, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him a bit closer. His other hand found your hip, steadying you as his finger deepened just slightly, coaxing more of that breathless feeling.

Your heart hammered, and your voice was barely a whisper, “König…”

He paused, looking up, searching your eyes. “Ja?”

“I want more,” you said, voice trembling.

He smiled softly, that shy, strong man torn between wanting to go slow and the raw pull of desire.

His finger moved with careful, teasing precision, making you shiver beneath his touch. The warmth spreading through you was dizzying, every nerve ending alive with sensation. You tangled your fingers deeper into his hair, pulling him closer as your breath hitched again.

König’s other hand slid from your hip to cup your face gently, thumb brushing your cheek as he watched your reactions with intense, almost reverent focus.

“You feel so good,” he murmured, his voice thick with something between admiration and desire.

You whimpered softly, desperate for more but knowing this slow dance was building something electric — a tension that promised fire.

His finger pressed just a little deeper, circling slowly, sending sparks of pleasure rolling through you like gentle waves. You arched into him, your hips moving slightly, craving more contact.

König’s eyes darkened, lips parting as he swallowed hard. His hand on your face tightened just a touch, anchoring you as if afraid you might float away in the storm of feeling he was stirring inside you.

“Please,” you breathed, voice trembling with want.

He hesitated for only a moment longer, then leaned down to brush his lips softly over yours — a promise of more, of everything waiting just beneath the surface.

You tug gently at the waistband of his sweatpants, your fingers curling into the soft fabric, sending a clear, silent message. König’s breath hitched, his eyes flickering to yours with a mix of surprise and something deeper—desire, hesitation, excitement all swirling at once.

Slowly, almost reverently, he slides his hands down to the waistband, gripping the fabric. You hold your breath, heart pounding as he peels the sweatpants down just enough, revealing the hard length you’d been imagining, now fully visible and more real than you’d dared hope.

His cheeks flush a deeper shade of red, but his eyes don’t leave yours, as if searching for permission—or maybe daring you to take the lead.

You reach out again, fingertips tracing the hard line, feeling the heat radiate against your skin, your own breath catching in your throat. The room is thick with tension and unspoken promises as you lean in closer, every inch of you craving more-

König jolted awake, chest heaving, a thin layer of sweat clinging to his skin.

His eyes were wide, confused—disoriented.

It was still dark outside.

For a second, he blinked at the ceiling, heart pounding, trying to remember where he was.

A dream. It was just a dream.

A very… detailed dream.

He groaned and slammed his big hand down to the side of the bed in frustration—

SMACK.

You yelped.

He froze.

“…Was that—?”

You stirred, voice thick with sleep, “König… did you just slap my ass?”

König’s entire soul left his body.

“I—I didn’t mean—I thought you weren’t there—I mean, I thought the bed was empty—”

You rolled over slowly, raising an eyebrow in the dim light. “So, what, you randomly smack the mattress when I’m not here?”

“…No?”

You burst out laughing, burying your face in the pillow. “Unbelievable.”

König groaned and flopped back against the bed, mortified. “Please just let me die now.”

You patted his chest, still giggling. “Next time just ask nicely.”

He groaned louder.

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